The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  Content, I let my eyes flutter closed and the world turns black.

  Later that evening I’m in the ER, sitting on the edge of a bed waiting for the doctor to examine me.

  The hit was the hardest I’ve ever taken. A sledgehammer to the head so powerful I felt my brain knock against my skull. The pounding of it hurts my eyes so I close them. It doesn’t dilute the pain. I shift on the bed and grunt. The sound magnifies by a thousand and the pounding flares anew.

  The curtain rattles and the clip of someone’s shoes announces a visitor. I squint an eye open and curse under my breath. My father has arrived. Dressed in a tuxedo, his hair is immaculate and expression aggravated.

  My name comes out clipped. “Brody.”

  I grit my teeth. “Dad.”

  “You want to explain why I’ve been pulled out of my party’s political fundraiser tonight to be here?”

  My coach must have summoned him. “I took a hit on the field tonight.”

  “And?” he prompts.

  “And it was pretty bad.”

  His nostrils flare and he turns his head, so furious he can’t even look at me. I might not have called him here, but it hurts that he doesn’t care. The victory from tonight fades, leaving me silent and hollow. I should be amazed at how quickly he can suck the life right out of me with just his presence alone, but I’m not.

  Coach Carson flicks the curtain aside and steps in the room, drawing both our attention. Seeing my father, he offers a grim smile and a hand. “Mr. Madden.”

  Dad takes it, giving his usual firm squeeze before letting go. “Liam, please.”

  “Liam,” Coach concedes and nods his head my way, concern furrowed deep in his brow. “Your boy took quite a knock out there tonight. Thought it best to give you a call.”

  “So I hear.” His smile is faint and amused, reducing my injury to a minor triviality. “It’s the way of these things with football, isn’t it? If my son wants to play, he needs to get used to the brutality of the sport. He can’t come running to the hospital for every little bump on the head now, can he?”

  Coach Carson’s mouth drops a little. When he closes it, a hard edge lights his eyes. It’s one I know well and usually follows a set of drills that runs us into the ground. There’s a little more steel laced in his words when he speaks next. “Your son is likely suffering a severe concussion. He’ll need someone to take care of him.”

  “I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth, even though it’s clear I’m not.

  “Of course you are.” Dad slaps a hand to the back of my shoulder before squeezing it. His fingers dig in painfully. My head throbs and bitterness swims in my mouth. “Did you win?”

  “They won,” Coach interjects, his chest puffing with pride. “Brody played the best I’ve ever seen.”

  My father turns his head toward my coach, still gripping me tight. “Can you give us a minute?”

  Before he can leave, Eddie steps in the room, my phone outstretched in his hand. He hasn’t showered. Dirt and sweat covers his face and hair sticks to his forehead. My father wrinkles his nose. Letting go of my shoulder, he takes a step back as if grime is contagious. Eddie doesn’t even acknowledge him. “Jordan’s on the phone.”

  The heavy weight on my shoulders lightens. Whatever my father has to say can wait. “Thanks, Eddie.” I take the phone and put it to my ear. “Jordan?”

  “Brody. I watched the game.” Her voice is panicked. Jordan’s away game was Friday and their flight due in at midnight tonight. I was going to surprise her. Take her home, light candles, and see if she’d let me massage all her sore spots. “Are you okay?”

  My throat constricts. I swallow and find my voice. “I’m fine.”

  “Brody.” Her voice is now a whisper, thick and hoarse. My fingers tighten on the phone. “You were brilliant. Like a comet streaking across the sky. And then you hit the ground and you didn’t move.”

  “I promise you I’m fine. A minor concussion.”

  Jordan exhales harshly, the weight of her relief in the sound. “I’m on my way.”

  I close my eyes and the pain recedes. When the dial tone hits my ears, I open them. Coach Carson and Eddie have gone. My father remains. I set the phone on the bed and meet his eyes, bracing for whatever comes next.

  “Don’t ever waste my time like this again.” His voice is a whip. My skin should be toughened from it, but it’s not. One day, I promise myself. One day I won’t give a flying fuck. “If you do, I’ll give you a concussion you’ll never forget.” His eyes flare from my lack of response. “You hear me?”

  Do I hear? The next words escape me, clear and terse and too quick to restrain. “Fuck. You.”

  My father’s reaction is swift. He grabs a fistful of my jersey in each hand. My stomach dips with agony when I’m jerked solidly to my feet. The room spins and a groan rips from my chest.

  “You ungrateful little shit,” he spits in my face. “Have you forgotten how much I do for you?”

  How could I? You’re always there reminding me.

  “Have you forgotten what happens if you don’t finish senior year and graduate college?”

  My teeth clench until I fear they’ll crack.

  “What happens, Brody, if you don’t graduate?”

  They’ll keep me from seeing Annabelle. My parents will break my sweet little sister, and I can’t let that happen. She needs me.

  I meet my father’s eyes. I hate you.

  “I’ll graduate,” I vow.

  He lets me go. I grip the bed behind me with shaky hands. “See that you do.”

  Jordan

  The heat at my back is a furnace, waking me. Rolling over, I open my eyes and see Brody stretched out beside me. It’s still dark out, but I forgot to close the blinds. Moonlight plays across his bare chest. It rises and falls, deep and even. A light sheen of sweat covers the smooth skin. His body takes up most of my bed. I’m wedged on the side between him and the wall so I don’t fall out. My own body is damp with sweat in the cramped, suffocating spot, but I don’t want to move.

  Two nights ago I sat in the airport, surrounded by teammates, Brody’s game streaming live from my phone.

  He was a blur on the field, his talent extraordinary. You knew you were watching something special. When the ball landed in his hands, the crowd’s roar raised the hair on my neck and goose bumps on my skin. The tackle came swift, from nowhere, crushing him into the ground. When the player got to his feet, Brody remained, his body limp and broken on the field like a trampled butterfly. My throat constricted, fear stealing my breath in the eerie silence that followed.

  The cameras cut to the commentator seconds later, leaving me hanging. I rang Brody the moment our plane disembarked. He was awake and talking, but he lied when he said he was fine. His voice was tight, like a rubber band ready to snap. After telling him I was on my way, his exhale was long and weighty, revealing the depth of his relief. Brody Madden, the football star who doesn’t need anyone, needed me.

  The very thought squeezes me, making me ache as I lie in the dark watching him breathe. How quickly I’ve come to need him too. Brody won’t leave me intact. He’ll take pieces of me I’m not sure I’ll ever get back, but I can’t deny myself. He grounds me. The pressure I place on myself is crazy. When it overtakes me, he makes me laugh and forces me to take a step back and breathe. We’re both working toward our own separate goal, but his joy on the field reminds me the journey getting there is just as important. It’s not one we’ll take together. Our lives will untangle after college, and we’ll both move in different directions.

  We’re not meant to be.

  The thought makes me heartsick, but it doesn’t stop the craving that claws at me, unappeased for too long. I want him.

  Brody shifts in the bed as if feeling my stare. My eyes flick to his face. His are open, watching me silently. The pale moonlight darkens their rich brown color to obsidian, so dark and hungry I shiver.

  My pulse thumps in time with the heat building quickly be
tween us. It sets off an ache between my thighs that screams for relief. I can’t speak. My hand moves to his chest instead. I trace lazy circles over the inked skin with my finger. He sucks in a breath. It holds in his lungs when my palm slides down to his lower abdomen, trailing over warm skin and rippled muscle. His body trembles from the featherlike touch.

  I swallow, hesitating, my fingers frozen above the band of his shorts. We’ve been on a knife’s edge for weeks, the effort of restraint leaving me dizzy. With only two days until midterms, we can’t afford this distraction.

  “Jordan.”

  Dragging my eyes from the path of my hand, I glance up, searching his face.

  Brody’s lips are parted, lids lowered as he watches me touch him. He lifts his head off the pillow, eyes bursting with heat and impatience.

  “Please,” he rasps, his voice like sandpaper across my skin.

  The solitary word breaks the last of my restraint. I slip a hand beneath the band of Brody’s shorts. Muscles tense when my palm covers him. His cock is already hard, like silken steel beneath the straining cotton of his boxer briefs.

  A strangled groan escapes his throat and the sound sets me on fire. My grip on him tightens.

  Brody turns on his side, forcing my hand to slip free from inside his shorts. He scoops me up, sweeping me beneath him with little effort. My head hits the pillow, air rushing from my lungs with a gasp.

  “Let me have you.”

  He holds the upper half of his body above me, biceps straining as he looks down at me, eyes searching for an answer. His lower half presses me into the bed, making me hyperaware of the thin barrier between his pulsing erection and the throbbing of my clit.

  “Have me.” My hips push up against him. An affirmation. “I’m not stopping you.”

  I can’t.

  Brody hesitates for a brief moment. He’s biding his time for my words to sink in. When they do, he scoots off me and tugs me into a seated position. His gaze shoots down, and I follow it. The hem of my tank top is scrunched in his fingers. His eyes find mine from beneath his lashes. Can I? he asks me silently.

  Please. Yes.

  Brody inches the cotton upwards, slowly baring skin to the cool night air. I raise my arms, my heart pounding. At my invitation he slides it up and over my head. With a swivel, he tosses it to the floor. Turning back, his eyes drop to my chest and he exhales shakily. The heat of his stare hardens my nipples beneath the thin cotton of my bra.

  The clasp rests between my breasts. Brody holds his breath when I reach up and flick it open. I slide the straps off my shoulders with both hands and let it drop to the bed behind me. The move is bold, but I feel anything but. I’m not sweet and curvaceous. My body is boyish. Firm and athletic, it’s honed for sport, not pleasure.

  Brody lets out a deep puff of air. Oblivious to my insecurities, his hands bracket my hips, gliding up my ribs until he reaches my breasts. His fingers are whisper light, his caress reverent as if I’m going to break. After long, agonizing moments, his thumbs scrape along the small undersides. Back and forth he goes, a slow steady rhythm designed to drive me mad.

  Each breath comes harder when his hands move inwards. My back arches instinctively, thrusting sensitized nipples into his big palms. Brody’s fingers graze the taut peaks and a breathless moan escapes me.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, pinching them gently.

  It shoots hot sparks straight between my legs. My eyes fly open. He’s watching my nipples glide through his fingers. Ducking his head, Brody takes one in his mouth. He rolls it over his tongue, flicking gently. My head falls back, a sharp cry leaving my throat when he sucks it deep and hard. It hurts so good I can’t stand it. My body sways and I grasp his shoulders to steady me.

  Brody unlatches my nipple with a final flick of his tongue. It’s only a minor reprieve because he moves to the other, giving it the same torturous attention.

  My hands slide into his soft strands of hair, mussing it. I tug gently, urging him upwards. I want his mouth. Brody complies. Lifting his head, he cups my face in his palms and covers my lips with his. The glide of his tongue is hot and wet. It rubs with mine, moving harder and more insistent. He groans into my mouth, harsh and urgent. I feel its vibration when my breasts press flush against his chest.

  The kiss becomes incredibly endless. Brody pulls back when I shove at his shoulders, desperate for air. My first breath is a gasp. So is his, ragged and audible in the quiet. I don’t know what time it is but the world outside is asleep. There’s only us.

  “On your back, Jordan.”

  Pillows are shoved aside and I’m pushed down. Brody leans over me, dragging his bottom lip inside his mouth with his teeth. The waistband of my pretty pink sleep shorts are seized and wrenched down. I hear them hit the floor. His hands return for my panties.

  My heart climbs to my throat when Brody hooks them in his fingers. Pausing, he looks at me, lust in his eyes. They watch me as he tugs at them, his pace slowing. They ease down my legs, over my feet and off, discarded to the floor to join my shorts. Calloused palms circle my calves. Skating upwards, they edge apart my thighs. Brody relinquishes his hold on my eyes and drops them.

  “Oh fuck … Jordan.” His chest expands with air. “I want my mouth on you so fucking bad.”

  I’m exposed to his scrutiny and I don’t care. I need relief. “Please.”

  “So hot.” His voice is low and rough. Pushing his way between my legs, Brody sinks down. With unbearable slowness, he trails his tongue down my thigh. My hips jerk. Long, wet kisses travel my legs, and I want to scream my frustration.

  Finally he finds his way between my thighs. The rough pads of his fingertips dig into my hips, holding me where he wants me. His breath is harsh and erratic. It puffs against the wet heat of me, making me squirm.

  “Brody!” His name tears from my lips when his tongue comes out and licks me in one long stroke. My body heats up, deepening to a fever when his mouth finds my clit and latches on. My fingers rake his skin, clutching for purchase. “Oh god.”

  Brody’s hands tremble on my hips, but he doesn’t let go. Wet sucking sounds fill the air. My eyes squeeze closed and I whimper. Pleasure untethers my hold on the world. It drops out beneath me, leaving me scrambling for solid ground. I don’t find it. With every hot stroke of his tongue, my grip loosens and when his finger thrusts up and inside me, I plummet into a free fall, coming hard. White lights burst bright and hot behind my eyes.

  “Jordan,” he growls, lapping at me one last time. “Fuck.”

  My eyes slide open when Brody draws back and off the bed, staggering to his feet as if drunk. He holds a hand to his head, wincing. I sit up and scoot to the edge, ignoring the throb still pulsing between my legs. “Brody, are you—”

  “I’m fine.” He cuts me off as he scrambles on the floor, reaching for his overnight bag. I’m positive Brody’s going for the bottle of Percocet when instead he plucks out a square, foil packet.

  My breath hitches audibly at the thought of him inside me. “Are you sure?”

  Brody ignores my question as if it’s not even worth an answer. Tossing the condom on top of the mussed sheets, his hands go to the waistband of his shorts. He shoves them down, revealing boxer briefs in tropical blue—a color that sets off the rich golden hue of his skin. Brody yanks those off next, his hard cock slapping against his taut stomach with a lewd sound as he kicks them away.

  He straightens his shoulders and for a brief moment I’m afforded a glimpse of Brody entirely bare. His body is large and powerful, every muscle worked hard to distinction, strong and defined.

  My awestruck stare breaks when he snatches up the packet off the bed, tearing it open with his teeth. He spits out the torn corner and grabs for the condom, his movements frantic. My pulse climbs with the need to have him filling me. While Brody rolls it down, I lean back on my elbows, letting my legs fall open shamelessly.

  He looks up from his task and groans, nostrils flaring. Feverish now, he bites down on his lip, a fru
strated grunt escaping when his fingers fumble.

  When Brody gets it on he comes for me. His calloused palms slide underneath, scraping my skin as he grabs the round cheeks of my ass. I’m lifted and shoved back. It’s a display of strength he doesn’t think twice about, but it leaves me scrambling. I’m being dominated without a second thought, and I love it.

  With one hand Brody lifts my left leg, pressing it toward me. The other he grabs the base of his cock and guides it between my legs. I tilt my hips and he pushes in, inch by yielding inch.

  My lips part and my head falls back with a deep, loud moan. When Brody fills me, hard and throbbing, he takes advantage and swoops down, covering my mouth with his own. His hot, wet tongue plunges inside, and it feels so much dirtier when I taste myself on his lips.

  I kiss him back, desperate for friction. Brody answers by drawing back his hips. He plunges forward with a breathless grunt.

  “Yes,” I pant, hooking my left leg around his firm ass cheeks. “More.”

  Brody gives me more. Over and over. Slow and forceful. I wrap my other leg around him and grind my hips, drawing ragged groans from his throat. Both his palms slam down on either side of my head, bracketing me. He looks down, his eyes boring into me with each thrust.

  “Christ,” he grounds out, his words harsh and disjointed. “It’s never going to be enough, is it?”

  It conveys my own fear when pleasure begins building again. We haven’t scratched the itch. We’ve set it on fire. And when he reaches a hand between us, pressing his thumb hard on my clit, I lose my breath and come hard. It shudders through me, sharp and excruciatingly bright.

  His hips are frenzied now, drilling hard inside me with no control. Muscles gleam, tight and slick with sweat.

  “Jordan,” he rasps, grinding once, twice, and he stills above me, a hoarse cry ripping from his throat. His body weakens and slumps against me.

  I’m boneless beneath him, trapped by his heavy weight, hair sticking to my neck and sweat dampening my skin.