The Player

by K. Bromberg

  His patience is admirable. His determination to stretch me bit by bit, escalate our desire inch by inch, is frustrating and erotic and leaves me vibrating with need.

  And then finally, with one final thrust he bottoms out, fully sheathed, root to tip, within me. Our mutual groans fill the room as we each allow the other to savor the moment, the feeling, our first time coming together like this.

  Seconds pass. Anticipation steals our breaths. And then he reaches out, puts his hand on my shoulder, and holds me in place so he can grind his hips against mine, seating his cock even further into me.

  And holy fuck does he feel incredible.

  We both gasp, caught up in the slow circle he makes with his pelvis and the absolute eroticism of the moment.

  And then he begins to really move.

  Our foreheads are pressed against each other’s. Our lips kiss and then pant and praise. Our hips move, grinding and bucking in that first-time dance as we find the friction we both need to drive us to the edge. Our hands tense and grasp and grip as Easton picks up the pace.

  We crash together in a torrent of lust and lips and tongues, where wants now become needs. Where greed becomes the game, and satisfying it becomes a by-all- means-necessary type of strategy. Where bodies mesh and meet and tease and pleasure.

  The room fills with sounds.

  Fuck, that feels good.

  Right there.

  Scout.

  Yes. You’re incredible.

  Oh god.

  I can’t hold back much longer.

  Harder.

  Good?

  Faster.

  Scout.

  His hands grip tighter.

  “Scout.”

  His hips buck harder.

  “Scout.”

  A second warning. His restraint is gone.

  “I’m coming.” I can barely get the words out. The second orgasm that hits is ten times more intense than the first. My body, my breath, my thoughts, my sensibility is all lost as I buck and writhe and take and claim every single ounce of what he gives me while he races to claim his own.

  I’m barely coherent, lost in an unforgiving sea of bliss, but when Easton’s fingers dig into my thighs, I’m pulled back just in time to watch his climax slam through him. His groan is guttural. His head is thrown back. My name is on his lips. His hips grind violently against mine.

  It’s sexy as hell to watch him come undone. To know I did this to him. To see his muscles, taut from release, slowly relax, one by one. And when his fingers loosen their grip on me, murmurs of praise are on his lips until he leans over and fuses them to mine for one last kiss.

  And then we collapse onto his downy soft bed, his weight on top of me, his dick slipping out of me, and his head resting on my chest.

  Seconds turn to minutes as we catch our breath and let our heartbeats calm.

  “Well, it wasn’t the private field downstairs, but I guess it’ll do,” I tease as I lazily run my finger up and down the line of his spine.

  His laughter rumbles through his chest into mine. “It’ll do?” he asks in mock disbelief; and that alone—the scrape of his scruff and the heat of his breath from speaking—causes chills to chase over my already sated body. “I played your field all right and slid perfectly into home.”

  “If you say so.” My voice is coy and playful as I shrug and fight the smile on my lips. “This field is pretty impressive.”

  “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time to outrank it then.”

  “I’m a hard girl to please.”

  He props himself up on his elbows and just stares at me. But there’s something different about the look, the kind of different that suddenly makes me panic and feel fluttery and like I need to go but want to stay.

  So I do the only thing I can think of to quiet the chaotic thoughts and prevent them from ruining the moment—I lean up and brush my lips ever so gently against his.

  “A demanding woman indeed,” he murmurs before giving me that tender type of kiss that reverberates to your toes and then all the way back up until it slams into your belly. Or heart. “Good thing I’ve got a big bat and know how to use it.”

  The sun is blinding. It takes me a minute to adjust to its brightness, and when I’m able to fully open my eyes, Easton’s face is inches from mine, dark features half hidden in a sea of light blue pillowcase.

  My first reaction is to run my fingers along the scruff on his jaw. To touch him again. To make sure he’s real. And to validate every single thing I felt last night as we came together, again and again and again.

  My second reaction is oh shit.

  The buzz I had long into the early morning hours vanishes, gone with the rising of the sun. But with its disappearance comes that groggy awareness of what I allowed—what I wanted to happen—but know can’t happen.

  Realization hits.

  Oh. My. God.

  I slept with Easton Wylder.

  Hot, delectable, just-as-talented-in-the-sack-as-on-the-ball-field Easton Wylder. The one lying naked beside me in bed, his tanned, sculpted body nestled beneath these pristine sheets.

  The player.

  A client.

  My ticket to getting the Austin Aces’ long-term contract. The last wish left on my dad’s bucket list, to put the cherry on top of his incredible career.

  The wish I just risked by breaking the rules of my ironclad contract.

  My head dizzies with the possible consequences if someone were to find out.

  My stomach flip-flops over the sight of him sound asleep, so peaceful, so mouthwateringly gorgeous.

  Then the panic returns. Not over breeching my contract, like it should be, but rather over how last night made me feel. And man, how I did feel. But now that the sheets have cooled and the haze of lust is gone, I’m not sure what to make of these newfound feelings. Or what do to with them now that they still linger.

  Oh crap.

  What am I thinking?

  There can’t be feelings.

  There can’t be anything.

  There wasn’t even supposed to be sex.

  There was supposed to be rehab.

  There was supposed to be me getting Easton back up to par, athletically, so he could play again and I could tell my dad I did it. Make him proud of me. Give him something more to live for.

  Staring at Easton only makes my emotions riot that much louder, but I know what I need to do.

  With guilt eating at me like acid, I slide out of the bed slowly so as not to disturb him. How could I be so selfish? So reckless? I search for my clothes, all the while desperate to push these feelings away and crawl back into bed with him. Let him wrap his arms around me and kiss me again just like he did last night when we finally decided we were too exhausted to go another round.

  Conflicted in heart and head, I pull on my jeans as quietly as possible and pad out into the condo to find my bra and T-shirt. They’re lying on the floor, a scarlet letter of shame to slide on as a reminder of what I’m about to do: leave as silently as possible.

  The elevator ride down feels like it takes forever.

  It gives me too much time to think. To regret. To realize Easton lifted me up last night. And I let him do it, when I definitely weigh more than he should lift with his shoulder. Did he hurt it? Did he reinjure anything?

  No. He’s fine. It’s my panic talking.

  Because there was no pain in that moment. There was only want and greed and need and selfishness and selflessness. Definitely not pain. That sexy growl of his fills my head and begs me to stop the elevator right now and press penthouse instead of lobby.

  Go back.

  I can’t.

  Go back.

  I press my hand to the row of buttons illuminating five random floors. The elevator stops abruptly at the next floor, its doors open to an empty hallway lined with expensive carpet and doors to other condos.

  I stare at the emptiness as my heart fights against my mind.

  Duty wars against desire.

&nbs
p; Promises made battle against personal wants.

  Responsibility clashes against recklessness.

  Selflessness is pitted against selfishness.

  The doors slide shut, and I close my eyes then press L for lobby.

  When the doors open, my composure is held together by a thread. I need to get out of here, need time and space to think. Blinded by emotions I can’t process just yet, I accidentally run straight into a young coed, knocking her binder to the ground. I scramble to help her pick up the papers that have fallen out, focusing on the words on the pages—teaching credential requirements and adult development something or other—because it’s so much easier than meeting her eyes. Embarrassed, frazzled, and moments away from crying, I mumble an apology to the polka-dotted sorority letters printed on the front of her sweatshirt.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound sympathetic when all I feel is responsibility heavier than the weight of my world.

  To my dad.

  To the Aces.

  To Easton.

  And as I push open the doors to the street and suck in a huge breath of morning air, the first tear slips down my cheek.

  I hate myself for it.

  But I hate myself more when my phone vibrates in my purse. The panic I felt upstairs pales in comparison to how I feel when I look at the screen of my phone.

  And in an instant, every reason I had for sneaking out and leaving Easton upstairs becomes validated.

  The ring through my Bluetooth swallows the silence of my car. I startle at its sound, then cringe, because without even looking at it, I know who’s calling.

  I ignore it.

  He calls back.

  I ignore it again.

  He calls back again.

  After three more rounds of ring, ignore, repeat, I’m more aware than ever that sneaking out was total chickenshit. And as much as I’d like to push ignore again, I can’t. I have to face him, I have to try and smooth this over without damaging our working relationship, so I bite the bullet and answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Easton’s voice fills the line. Its confusion laced with disbelief mixed with anger and a touch of rejection.

  “Good morning.” Keep it professional, Scout.

  “It would have been an even better morning if you were still here. But you’re not. And I’m a little confused as to why.”

  “Easton.” His name is a sigh. An olive branch. It’s anything to explain what verbally I can’t.

  “Don’t ‘Easton’ me, Scout. Where are you? Because you sure as hell aren’t in my bed.”

  My dad’s sick. Sally texted five times while I was lying in your bed, trying to tell me he was having a hard time breathing. Asking me if I could come home and visit with him, not only to brighten his mood, but to remind him why he needs to fight harder to get over the funk he’s in.

  “I had some errands to run,” I lie.

  I’d rather be with you, too. I’d rather have met you under different circumstances. That would have made all of this ten times easier.

  “Errands? Wow. That’s a way to make a guy feel confident in his abilities. ‘Hey Easton, it was so great last night, but I’d rather go to the store to pick up some toilet paper than have sleepy morning sex with you,’” he says, but his attempt to sound like me does nothing to hide the irritation lacing its edges.

  I glance over my shoulder then change lanes as I work up the courage to say the words I need to say but don’t really want to say. “Last night was a mistake,” I whisper as if I don’t want him to hear. Because I don’t.

  It’s a lie.

  “Come again?”

  “We can’t do this.”

  “Well, we did do this, and it was fucking incredible, so tell me something I’m actually going to believe.”

  I’m afraid of what I’m going to find when I see my dad for the first time in a month.

  I clear my throat but lose the battle against tears for the second time this morning, and it takes everything to sound unaffected when I speak. “If Cory were to find out, he’d fire me.”

  “Bullshit.” He says the word, but we both know it’s true—the silence hanging on the line tells me, so I take advantage of the moment to try and reason with him.

  “I’m contracted by your employers, Easton. I have to remain unbiased . . . and I sure as hell don’t look unbiased if I’m sleeping with you one minute and telling them to reinstate you the next. Call me crazy, but they’d second-guess every opinion I have when it comes to you. My credibility would be shot to hell when it’s a vital, necessary part of my job.”

  “Credibility is one thing, Scout. Sleeping with me is another. Now find another way to spin this so you can avoid having to explain why you tip-toed out like you were some one-night stand. I’ll wait.”

  I hate that his words make every part of me sag in relief and in sadness. But they do, because he didn’t consider me a one-night stand and because I know it can’t happen again.

  “I just can’t right now. If someone found out, then . . .”

  “No one’s going to find out. Are you going to tell someone? Because I’m not. Who else knows about last night and is going to say something?”

  My mind scrambles for an explanation, a validation. “What if someone recognizes me leaving your place? Another player? The media? The damn girl in the lobby? And they go and tell the press?”

  “Girl in the lobby? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. No one.” I shake my head and grip the steering wheel harder, knowing I sound schizophrenic but unable to stop. “Just never mind.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “No.” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “There’s nothing. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s just? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “This discussion isn’t over, Scout.”

  Yes, it is.

  I hang up the phone just before the sob breaks free. I know I’m being overly emotional. I know that everything with my dad is making me sensitive. But I also know that there’s something about Easton that I can’t let go of just yet, but I have to.

  Is he the type who’d leave?

  Of course he would. All men leave, Scout. All people leave. That’s what they do.

  But what about last night? What about how he made me feel? And not just the sex—because that was pretty damn incredible—but all of the other feelings I went to bed high on and woke up still swimming in. Do they mean anything? And more importantly, do I want to let them mean something?

  I fight the urge to call him back. To ask him if we could table this for another place and time. Tell him that my dad’s sick, explain why this contract is so important, and let him know I’m scared, because if I feel this much after spending only one night with him, how would I feel if we were to spend more together?

  But I can’t call him back.

  Because it all comes back to my dad.

  To the promise I made him.

  To the fact that anyone I’ve ever truly loved in my life has left me.

  And the one I’ve loved most will be gone soon, too.

  “He’s going to be pissed that you took the time to drive all the way out here, Scout.”

  The lines of worry etched on Sally’s face warm my heart. “I know he will, but two hours isn’t that long of a drive. Besides, I’m sick of him being the one to dictate the visitation terms. And don’t worry, I won’t tell him you called.” I pull her into me for a hug and then chuckle. “Why, I just needed to take a drive to clear my head, Sally, and lo and behold I ended up here.” I bat my lashes and smile to reinforce the lie.

  She smiles, but it does nothing to ease the weariness in her eyes. “He doesn’t want you to see him like this,” she whispers. “He’s got a lot of pride, and it’s hard for him to know you see him as weak.”

  I sigh. “He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known. Even now. How can he—
”

  “Who are you talking to Sally?” My dad’s voice booms through into the kitchen where we stand.

  My smile is as automatic as the drop of my heart into my stomach as I prepare myself for the unknown. What will he look like? Weaker? Bedridden? Gaunt? Has he gone downhill quicker than expected so that I’ll be shocked at the sight of him?

  With a fortifying breath I walk into the living room where his hospital bed has been set up to make it easier for him to get around, for Sally to tend to him, and because it allows him to stare at one of his favorite places in the world, the endless fields of tall grass that stretch to the horizon.

  Relief overwhelms me when I see him out of his bed, sitting in his favorite chair by the window. “She’s talking to me.”

  “Scouty?” Love floods into his voice as he turns and sees me standing there, but it’s quickly replaced with upset. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I needed to see you.” I’ve never spoken truer words. And while he doesn’t look any feebler than the last time I saw him, I know from Sally that he is. The cold he can’t shake has knocked him on his ass and taken its toll on his already weakened immune system.

  “Nonsense.” Irritation litters the edges of his voice. “I told you that you could come to see me once you’ve won the Aces’ contract.”

  I grit my teeth and bite back the hurt his disregard causes. “Well, you may want to shut me out, Dad, but you don’t get to control me.” My tone is no-nonsense while my heart aches. He must know that Sally called me, updated me on his rough week, but I refuse to let her take the blame. “I wanted to take a drive today. Clear my head, think about some things. So I ended up here. What are you going to do, kick me out?”

  I hold his glare and tempt him to do just that, and I hate that for a minute I wonder if he actually will. He’s been so stubborn and difficult in the past six months that a part of me wouldn’t put it past him.

  “You’re not going to prevent me from seeing you. If you try, I’ll let the player figure out his recovery on his own and take up residence here in my old room.”

  “Your old room’s full of stuff.”

  “I’m a big girl, I know how to throw stuff out.” And I know that will get him, break through his obstinacy—the fear that I’ll sneak in here with black trash bags and clean out his clutter of memories stacked in boxes in my old room. Newspaper clippings on giants of the sport he helped rehab. Articles highlighting Ford’s pitching stats and my softball career. Trophies and jerseys for the teams he’s worked for. It’s a treasure trove of memorabilia any baseball collector would die for.