Oh my god. My eyes drop to the mountain of lingerie. “I don’t have time to try all this on. I have a flight to catch.”
“A flight.” Hands flutter and his next words sound winded. “How fucking romantic.” Johnny grabs everything back from my arms, leaving one solitary bra and panty set. “That one it is.”
He divests me of my bag and directs me to the fitting room. “Let me know when you have it on so I can check the sizing.”
I put the bra on. It’s sheer, edged in black piping with cups that barely cover my nipples, and decorated with embroidered red roses. The matching thong is a tiny mesh triangle, a strategic rose, and three black straps that go around each hip. It’s romantic, a little exotic, and says ‘I love you and want to fuck you,’ all at the same time.
“How are you doing?” Johnny sing-songs through the door.
“It’s perfect.”
“Of course it is.”
“Can I wear it now?”
“Of course you can. I’ll go get the scissors and we can snip the tags off for you, sweets.”
It’s midnight when I place my bag on the floor by the hotel room door and knock. I’m in Tennessee. Brody’s Houston team is facing the Titans in two days for the first exhibition match of the season. I’ll be watching the televised game. It’s highly probable Brody won’t get any field time—he’s second string wide receiver now—yet his nerves are at fever pitch. It’s clear in the way he clenches and unclenches his fists when he talks about it.
With no answer, I knock again. Harder. My arrival is a surprise, so I send up a quick prayer that he’s in. After a few moments the door swings open. Brody’s hair is mussed, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a sleepy, irritated scowl. It disappears quickly and he breathes my name, taking me in like I’m an apparition.
Darkened eyes lower over the black knit dress I chose to wear. It has a high button neckline and a short skirt—perfect for the occasion. When they rise, his gaze lands on my chest, caught by the action of my hand. It’s attending to the task of undoing the first three buttons, revealing the suggestion of cleavage, sexy lingerie, and a clear message. “Did someone call for their room to be serviced?”
“That would be me,” Brody says to my boobs. “But I think they made a mistake.”
I slowly unfasten another button. His lungs expand. And hold.
“Oh?” I prompt.
“It’s not my room that needs servicing.” Licking his lips, Brody’s gaze flicks up. My heart hammers at the lust in his expression. “It’s me.”
The next button goes with a slightly shaky hand. “Then we have a problem.”
“We do?” he asks.
I cock my head. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
A grin splits Brody’s face, and he gives a husky laugh. Grabbing my wrist, he hauls me inside his room, bringing my bag with me. “Yes you are.”
But the laughter dies out when the door shuts and I’m slammed up against it, face first. The move is wired with sexual aggression. His arms come around me, his body pushing me into the door. The last of the buttons are ripped away in his impatience. Torn from the dress, they bounce to the floor unnoticed. His breath harsh and hot against my neck, Brody yanks the top half of the knit down, freeing my upper body.
“Jordan,” he rasps, his hands everywhere, pulling at the cup of my bra, pinching a nipple, the other yanking up the hem of my dress, shoving it to my waist with no finesse.
My panties are pushed aside and thick fingers probe, finding me swollen and wet, which I have been from the moment I boarded the plane. A growl leaves his throat and before I take my next breath, the blunt head of his cock pushes inside. Pulling back, Brody drives forward until he’s all the way in.
My hands splay flat against the door as we both pause, panting, reveling in being joined after so long. He draws out again, pushing back in with a grunt. We don’t make love. We fuck. Hard. When it’s over my legs give out and we sink to the floor, Brody’s arms still holding me from behind, his cock still inside me.
He nips at my earlobe, taking it between his teeth. “Again.”
“Again? Now?”
Brody grinds his hips, and every exhausted nerve ending in my body reignites. “Yes now.”
Brody
Jackson Reynard is one of our starting receivers, and he’s so good I never see field time. Until now. He’s blown out his knee. It’s not career ending, but it’s bad.
I had to step up and the pressure was too much. I walk off the field after ending the worst game of my entire football career.
It sends the media into a frenzy. My teammates are questioned on my play. My coach is questioned on signing me. My college games are rehashed on ESPN, each play picked apart by a panel of commentators in minute detail. The general consensus is that I choked. I got to the big leagues and couldn’t handle it. The kid needs time. But time is a luxury in professional football. It’s something a rookie doesn’t get. We need to come out shining like a diamond. If we don’t, we don’t play. If we don’t play, we don’t get better. If we don’t get better, we don’t get endorsements. We get traded. And eventually we fade from the limelight and just become some guy that played pro ball once.
The media got it partly right. Only it’s not the football I can’t handle, nor is it the attention that comes from playing professionally. It’s everything else. But I’m trying. I haven’t taken a pill in three weeks. I need to prove to myself that I don’t need them. The withdrawals leave me shaky. I’m tired but finding sleep is hit or miss. It’s not a detox. To use that word would lay claim to me being an addict and I’m not. I’m just cleaning up a little.
Soon after I’m subjected to a urine test. I stand in the cubicle pissing into a small container while sending up a prayer of thanks. The timing is a miracle and the relief leaves me sick.
My next game I play better, but only marginally. I can’t find my focus. The next there’s more improvement, but not enough. I’m not playing anywhere near my best level without enhancements, and pushing through the pain from every bruising hit I take is wearing me down.
Breaking down, I go back to the Adderall. It turns me into an improved version of myself, like a smartphone upgrade. It’s still me. I’m still the same person. I can just do more. The only issue is the insomnia.
After talking to the team physician, explaining my exhaustion and inability to sleep, he prescribes Ambien. Two weeks later I play like a god. I back it up brilliantly the week after that. Another week later I get Jordan for four whole days. It feels like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one.
With two days off from training, we spend it traversing Houston—holding hands, shopping, eating, being normal. We play tourist, visiting the Space Center and the zoo, and that’s where our relationship hits the national spotlight.
We’re stopped in front of the new gorilla habitat. Jordan is wearing one of my old western shirts over a fitted white tank top. The worn material is blue and green, and soft from countless washes. She’s teamed it with her denim shorts and a pair of hot pink converse, keeping her long hair loose. I love the way she dresses—casual and cute. No matter how big her profile becomes, Jordan hasn’t changed.
She has a brand new Canon slung around her neck and her eyes dance with excitement when she turns to me and lowers her camera. “Why did the Gorilla go to the doctor?”
It’s a new side of Jordan I’ve only discovered today. Her bad animal jokes. She’s had one for almost every exhibit we’ve seen so far today. “I don’t know, babe. Why?”
“Because his banana wasn’t peeling very well!”
I groan. “How many more of these do you have?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why? You don’t like them?”
“Don’t quit your day job is all I’m sayin’,” I tease, holding up my hands.
“You couldn’t handle my day job.”
I arch a brow. “Oooooh, is that a challenge?”
Jordan’s lips twitch. “You better believe it.�
�
I laugh out loud. “You’re on. This afternoon. You and Eddie against me and Jaxon in a soccer showdown.”
Jaxon visits every other weekend, and the Houston Wranglers signed Eddie on as a linebacker. I bought a house with my signing bonus, and Eddie moved in because there’s too much space for me to live there alone. It has six bedrooms—the master suite for me and Jordan, three rooms for each of our future kids, Eddie’s room, and a guest room.
It’s a beautiful house—one that Jordan is decorating piece by piece each time she visits from Seattle. I’ve no doubt she’ll pick something up from the gift store here today and I’ll find it sitting somewhere in the house days later. I usually hate clutter, but everything she sets out isn’t just there to look good; it’s a memory of our life together.
I look at Jordan, grinning. “Think you can handle it?”
Her eyes dance at the challenge. “Prepare to have your ass handed to you.”
“Au contraire,” I argue. Grabbing her hand, I bring it to my lips, still chuckling when I press a light kiss to the back of it. “I’ll win, and my prize will be you naked in my bed alllllll afternoon.”
“Keep dreaming,” she retorts.
We play in the local park, and Eddie and I lose by a long, ass-kicking mile. I thought having him on my team would be an advantage, and maybe it would’ve been if it were football. But Eddie and I are too big. Jordan weaves the ball around us like a magician, leaving us standing there like two stunned lumberjacks, wondering how she did it. She could’ve taken us both without having Jax there at all.
She returns to Seattle the following afternoon, and the next day photos from our mini holiday get splashed over the media via stalking paparazzi. The one in front of the Gorilla exhibit where I’m kissing her hand goes viral. I don’t know what it is about the photo. Maybe it’s the light in her eyes as she looks up at me. Maybe it’s the way I’m looking down at her like she’s my world. Or maybe it’s the way we look so relaxed and in love.
I see it first and send her the link via Facebook messenger.
Brody: They think we’re in love, but u just want my cock.
She replies a minute later, having just changed her profile picture to the new image.
Jordan: So true. Should I set the record straight and tell them?
I grin.
Brody: Maybe they can already tell by the way you walk funny.
With two brilliant games under my belt, and the Seattle Reign’s winning streak, we both become the golden couple of sport. Suddenly we’re everywhere. I get my first endorsement and soon I’m shooting ad campaigns for protein supplement company, Evolution. Jordan does a ‘women in sport’ feature with Marie Claire magazine. They photograph her in black and white. A face shot first, her eyes dark and smoky and her hair a wild tangle. It follows with a body shot. Her skin looks dark and slick, her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. They’ve shot her from the back, not a stitch of clothing on, but she’s holding a soccer ball behind her with both hands, and it covers her sweet ass. With her standing on tiptoes, it highlights every sleek muscle in her body.
I send her a Facebook message the minute I catch a five-minute breather from on-field training.
Brody: Ur a fucking work of art.
Jordan: Tell that to Nicky. My ears are still ringing.
Brody: I bet.
But messages aren’t enough. Skype isn’t enough. Football keeps me busy, and right now I have the world at my fingertips, but even knowing that isn’t enough.
Six weeks later I’m in Seattle, knocking on the door of Jordan’s apartment. I’m exhausted, edgy, and I have to be back in Houston in twenty-four fucking hours. This is our future and it’s taking its toll. My eyes burn as I stare ahead at the door, waiting. My need for Jordan is palpable. I feel it in every part of me—my itchy skin, the short puffs of air pushing past my lips, the pulsing of my blood. I’m almost hyperventilating.
Open the damn door, Jordan.
It opens suddenly and she’s there, every perfect inch standing right where I need her to be. Warmth leaches deep inside my bones, calming me instantly. It’s the equivalent of walking out of a raging snowstorm and into a warm, cozy log cabin.
I take a deep breath and grin crookedly. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Jordan’s response is to grab my face, dragging it to hers as I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me. She kisses me violently, pushing her tongue in my mouth.
“Missed you,” she mumbles, tugging at my jacket. “How long do we have?”
“Hours,” I manage to get out before her mouth is back on mine, my arms grabbing at my own clothes, helping her. “Just a few hours.”
When I realize her own shirt is already off, my arms slide around, fumbling the clasp of her bra with shaky hands. It drops and my palms fill with her tits. She moans, tilting her head back. I take advantage, covering her neck with wet, open kisses.
I go for the button on my jeans, and Jordan bats my hands away. Dropping to her knees, she undoes the fly with hasty fingers, revealing my boxer-briefs. She tugs those down too and my cock springs out, filling her palms. My body shudders. Opening her mouth, she takes me in. Wet heat surrounds me, and warm hands grab my backside, pushing me in further.
“Fuck.” I groan.
The sucking and licking sends me rock solid, and Jordan whimpers around my cock. It’s like a fucking steel pipe in her mouth. Mere seconds later my body tightens with the sweetest agony, my balls pull up, and I’m coming down her throat. “Sorry,” I rasp, my legs unsteady. “Sorry. Fuck.”
Jordan pulls away with a final lick, and I blink down at her. A tear trickles out the corner of her eye. Shit, did I hurt her? I drop down in front of her. Another one escapes and I catch it with my finger. “Baby?”
Like the word is a catalyst, a sob rips from her throat. My jaw trembles and I wrap my arms around her curled form, dragging her against my chest.
“I h-h-hate this,” she stutters through sobs, her pain stabbing at me like a thousand knives. “I thought I c-c-could do this, but I … but I c-c-can’t.”
“You can,” I tell her, desperately needing it to be true. I’m not the strong one here. Jordan is. She always has been. Jordan is like the strongest oak in the forest. Nothing can fell her, yet here she is, half-naked in my arms and falling apart. It’s breaking my heart.
Later that night we lie in bed facing each other. Jordan stares at me as I play with a lock of her hair, watching the honey strands slide through my fingers. “If this is what it takes to be the best, then I’m not sure I want it anymore,” she croaks.
“Sure you do.” I pause my hair playing and look at Jordan. Dark circles line her eyes and there’s a sadness in them I’ve never seen before. “We’ll get used to living this way,” I reassure her. “It’s not permanent.”
But my words don’t ring true. At least not inside my own heart. I don’t want to get used to living this way. It’s hell. And this situation stretches like a long road ahead of me, so dark and bleak it may as well stretch forever.
Jordan slowly drifts off to sleep, but I don’t. I lie there wide awake, so many pills coursing through my system I feel I’ll never sleep again.
Eventually my phone beeps. The first alert on my alarm, reminding me I have an hour left before I have to leave for the airport. I pick it up to turn it off when I realize it’s not the alert, which isn’t due to go off for another ten minutes. It’s my little sister Annabelle who I haven’t spoken to in months. Why is she calling me at three a.m.?
My chest pulls tight with dread. I shoot up in bed and quickly hit answer. “Moo Moo?” I answer quietly.
“Brody,” she responds, her voice timid.
Swiping my boxer-briefs up off the floor, I tug them on, leaving the bedroom as I speak. “Sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
A little hiccup escapes her throat.
“Annabelle?”
Another hiccup hits my ears. I pad silently out into the hallway, pres
sing my back against the wall as I wait for my sister to say something. “No.”
“Moo Moo, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
“You left,” she squeezes out, her voice getting louder as she speaks until it ends on a shrill shout. “You left me and you never came back!”
Oh God. Fucking shit. What do I say? I tried. I tried calling. I stopped by the house more times than I could count, but I wasn’t allowed through the door. I stalked her school, but parents kept shooting me suspicious glances and I kept getting told to move on. I didn’t know what else to do.
Hanging my head, I run fingers through my hair, mussing strands that are long overdue for a cut. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not sorry. You’re not! Otherwise you’d be here. I hate you!” she shrieks. “I hate you, Brody, and I’m glad you’re not here! You—”
A muffled sound comes through the line. “No!” Annabelle screams. “Give it back!”
“Annabelle?” I cry out.
My father’s voice comes on the line. “Lose this number,” he orders tersely and then I get dial tone.
The arm holding my phone drops by my side and I slide down the wall, planting on my backside. My lungs drag in air, but it feels as if I can’t breathe. I’ve held it together for so long. So long. I can’t lose it now. I know if I do, I won’t ever find my way back. I’ll vanish somewhere inside myself where no one can reach.
Hold it together, I order myself, blinking fiercely.
I sit there until the second alert on my phone goes off. When it does, I stand on autopilot and walk back inside the bedroom. Jordan’s breathing is deep and even, the dark circles beneath her eyes more pronounced in the pale moonlight. Finding my clothes, I dress quietly and grab my bag. When I’m ready to leave, I lean over the bed and press a light kiss to her forehead.
The End Game Page 31
