Balls: The Complete Players Collection (Sports Romance Box Set)

by Teagan Kade

  The Dynamo defender who took out my legs winks as he runs past me. “You fucking blind, Collins? My dead grandfather could have seen that one coming.”

  I shove him. “Fuck you,” but he jogs away laughing.

  A box-to-box gets it to the Dynamo number ten, the kick wide enough to slip past our goalie and seal our fate. There’s less than a minute left. We’d need the Almighty himself to descend and don boots to have a chance in hell of coming back.

  A highlight reel runs through my head in vibrant color. I’m ripping through a thicket of defenders, a golfer lining up for a putt and slotting the ball neatly home, the net like a sail set in squall. ‘What a goal!’ comes the cry from the commentators. I see my college games and every win, all those smiling faces and shaken hands. I see the girls that followed, their bodies, but I don’t seem them. They’re the same.

  I see Scarlet, clearly—her eyes, her platinum hair and soft breasts. I see her like she’s standing beside me.

  It’s not to be. I should have my eye on the Dynamo CF, I should be channeling fucking Ronaldo, but instead I’m off with the fairies. I let him slip by without a tussle as if he were an apparition, and he practically floats down to our box for another run, the resounding groan in the stands marking the Dynamo’s third and final goal.

  The horn blows and I’m stuck looking up at the board: 3-0, the giant numbers mocking me.

  “Collins!” shouts Coach. He looks furious.

  Josh is smiling as he walks past. “Way to go, superstar.” He spits at the field and continues on while I stand there cold with shock. I’m on a battlefield that’s just been the scene of a massacre. The blood is on my hands. That was an easy pass to Josh. I should have seen that defender. I should have been in the game, not stuck in some fucking limbo world holding my cock.

  I pound at my head with my fist. “Fucking idiot. Fuck, fuck you!”

  I’m tight, no give at all in my body.

  You’re slipping. You’re fucking slipping, and soon there will be no return.

  I search the crowd, but every face tells the same story of disappointment.

  All except one.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SCARLET

  Jensen sees me. There is the briefest smile before he’s pulled away by the coach. I can hear them from here. The guy’s always scared me a little, a kind of Humpty Dumpty Scarface type of character. If his words were fists, Jensen would be on the floor by now.

  I considered wearing a hoodie to the game. I considered not coming at all, in fact, but I made the right decision. Now more than ever Jensen needs me.

  I stand and make my way to the stairs, a stumpy woman in a Victory jersey shaking her finger as I pass. I’m sure I hear “bitch” at my back. I steel myself and move on, working against the crowd to get down to the field.

  Gerry, one of the security guys, sees me. He’s worked at the stadium his whole life, started in the locker rooms lacing boots. “Scarlet! Hey. Where you been?”

  He opens the gate and I pass through. “Wishing I was invisible.”

  He leans close. “You ask me, you made the right call. Josh has everyone fooled, but not old Gerry, you hear? Jensen’s a catch.”

  “Sounds like you want to date him. Seems like a lot of guys do,” I joke.

  He smiles back. “Mrs. Gerry is more than enough for me to handle. Now, you get on now. Go console that boy of yours before he does something stupid.”

  Jensen? Doing something stupid? Wouldn’t be the first time, but I know now it’s all part of the act.

  By the time I enter the private players’ area, it’s cleared out, the team anxious to get to the nearest bar to drown their sorrows—that or get away from a fire-and-brimstone sermon from Coach Andrews.

  It seems like the air conditioning’s busted, a table of drinks untouched against a wall proclaiming Victory as the ‘Blue Devils—Pride of the East Coast’. I don’t think anyone’s feeling much pride at the moment, the least of all a shirtless Jensen, sitting with one leg up on the bench.

  I take a seat next to him, allow a little bit of distance between us. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Tough game.”

  “You think?” The comeback is sharp, uncharacteristic.

  I go to stand. “I can leave if you want, leave you to sulk and lick your wounds.”

  He takes my arm, pulling me back down, softening. “No, stay. I’m glad you came.”

  “It wasn’t all bad, you know.”

  “We lost the game and it was practically my fault every time.”

  “You’re part of a team, Jensen. A team takes collective responsibility. They don’t send their star player to the killing fields just because he had one off game.”

  “So you do think I was off?”

  Damn. “You’ve played better, but that’s not the point. If Coach Andrews is expecting you to single-handedly carry Victory, he’s delusional.”

  “I’d love to hear you say that to his face.”

  “I would, happily.”

  There’s a buzzing sound in the background I can’t place.

  “No sign of Josh?” I query.

  Jensen glances away. “Left with the others. Can’t say we’re talking much.”

  “At least you’re not doing UFC impressions out in the parking lot.”

  “Why did you come, Scarlet? Honestly. I thought we were going to cool it for a little while.”

  “I came to support you.”

  He snorts. “Support?”

  “What, you think I’m a distraction, is that it? You think you lost the game because I was here like some unlucky charm?”

  “Maybe.” He throws his hands up. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know anything at the moment. I’m tired, I’m super-fucking frustrated, and you’re not really helping.”

  I know he’s angry, misguided, taking it out on me, but I refuse to become another punching bag. Those days are over. I didn’t leave Josh to cop the same emotional blackmail from his brother. “Fuck you, Jensen.”

  The swearing has his full attention. “What did you just say?”

  I swallow and say it again, a little more daintily this time. “Fuck… you, for saying that. You know that’s what your brother used to tell me? He had a bad game and the first thing he’d do is blame me. I’m not about to let you walk over me like he did.”

  He reaches for me but I pull away. “No, Jensen. Apologize.”

  I can’t imagine any Collins likes hearing that word. Messes with their alpha voodoo. Jensen stands abruptly, shouting. “Me, apologize? For what?”

  I stand, heart beating but not about to back down. “For being an ass.”

  “Oh, an ass,” he mocks sarcastically. “Got me right in the heart, that one.”

  I get angry. “You should blame yourself for what happened out there. Josh was open. He had the better angle, but no, Jetstream Jensen needed to do it himself. How could you not see that defender coming?”

  I know this is going to piss him off, but right now I don’t care. He needs to know I’m not a pushover.

  His shoulders are high, nostrils wide. He takes a step forward, boots clattering on the concrete. I haven’t seen him this wound up, have no idea what he’s going to do or is even capable of, but I stand my ground regardless and refuse to budge.

  He continues to step forward, forcing me to back up, back up until I’m against the lockers. He stares down at me with smoldering eyes. He opens his mouth, but it’s not to speak.

  The kiss comes completely unexpected—fast, desperate. We’re in the open here. Anyone could walk in, but Jensen hardly seems to care.

  He holds himself away with a hand denting the metal door beside me, a lock pressing into my ass. “You’re right about the game, but you’re wrong about me. I’m nothing like my brother.”

  Goosebumps rise on the back of neck. My heart hammers harder. The air grows colder, seems to draw like a noose around me.

  I’m paralyzed with something, but it’s not fear. I pant
forward into the hot fog of his breath, our mouths closing together again.

  This kiss is dark, twisted, a power struggle between us, tongues moving and shifting for position, Jensen’s hands groping at my sides, crushing me against the lockers.

  Wetness spreads between my thighs. I press them tighter together, hot shame heating my face as he takes my neck and deepens the kiss, starves me of oxygen.

  We’re chest to chest, his hand moving under my skirt and rising fast, cloth bunching on the underside of his wrist. He presses his fingers into the crotch of my panties and I gasp. I bite his lower lip, more out of shock than desire. He pulls away, the plump slug of his lower lip turned bright, chestnut eyes boring into me.

  I gasp again as he takes hold of the crotch of my underwear and pulls, the garment torn away easily, snapping at my hips and discarded to the floor, his fingers free to explore the damp folds of my pussy unobstructed. There can be no hiding my arousal now, the sudden flood he has conjured.

  A needful pang runs between my legs, a sprout of pure wickedness extending out inside me as another hand runs up my side, my shirt bunched above my breasts, my bra popping upwards. My bare nipples turn stuff, dark and tawny, pinned to his chest.

  Our tongues play like liquid, cold and hot and constantly in motion. The urgency by which he takes me is a surprise, a burning need drilling down into my sopping core.

  I glance at the door, fearful we’re going to be exposed. Anyone could come through that door—Angela, Coach, even Josh.

  I place my hands against the hard sides of his body and tremble against him, my own skin suddenly on fire.

  His fingers close around a breast and I cry out, voice muffled by his mouth. I pant into him, his tongue silencing me every time and the fluorescent lights above bathing us in harsh, electric light.

  He nips at my top lip before sweeping down my neck, planting blooms of moisture before he takes a nipple into his mouth, his head tilting and eyes watching for my reaction.

  He wraps his tongue around a nipple before drawing it down to my belly, hands pulling what’s left of my skirt higher, sex exposed. He kneels before me, hands on the soft summits of my hips.

  I pant, not sure whether to allow or deny him, pushing at the top of his head, but my burst of power is evaporating at his touch.

  He moves his head up, grounding his tongue in the hollow pond of my navel. The stubble on his chin rasps against my skin, my stomach clenching hard and my core flipping over itself in terror and delight.

  His fingers shift under my backside, dig into the weighty flesh of my ass, and there he presses his tongue forward, right into my burning center.

  His tongue moves back and forth in slow, agonizing strokes, exploring and testing. I sigh and quiver, fingers splayed against the cold metal of the lockers as he finds the stiff bud at the top of my mound. He presses his tongue against it firmly, a master of seduction. He sweeps over it, pulling it into this mouth, suckling upon it until I am soaking and sticky below, the heady scent of my arousal mixing with the damp earth on his boots, everything hot and cloudy.

  “Jensen,” I moan, unable to elaborate further.

  He slides a finger inside me, stroking it leisurely in and out while he moves his tongue in time, licking, sucking, fucking me to completion. But more than anything, he tastes me, worshipping at my hidden altar like he’s starving for it too long, cast into the desert.

  I grind down against him hard, one of my suddenly heavy hands running through his hair, holding him in place while I buck and tilt to take him deeper, anything to relieve the fire that burns below.

  He concentrates on my clit while I wheeze helplessly, overwhelmed, ashamed, begging him to take me. My core drips and grows wetter, his tongue sweeping around the bottom of my cunt to collect and savor it.

  He adds another finger, stretching and probing further, his slick digits gliding easily.

  I plant myself and lift legs, my sex splitting wide. He brings a hand up to cradle it and rises before me, climbs my body breathing hard.

  I grow hotter, blood rushing in my ears, and my climax so close I could reach out and capture it.

  I hang there on the precipice of release, my sex pulsing around his fingers still jammed into my slit. I know my arousal is running down his wrist even as his thumb moves up to press against my clit, his fingers working and churning inside me, the burn increasing.

  I hear voices, echoes in the distance, but they fade. They fade but the danger remains ever-present.

  He watches my face with fascination, observes how I shiver and quake against his hard body. His chest is bare, stony muscle. He presses against me like a block of marble, his hardness thrust against my leg through his shorts.

  With a sudden twist of his wrist, his fingers curl up inside me, something exploding there like a summer storm. My legs flap around him until I’m lost in a sea of raw sensation.

  I close my eyes and try to gather myself, to bring my breathing back to normal as he reaches into his shorts and removes his cup, tossing it to the ground. He lowers his shorts and shifts between my legs, angling himself into position.

  He waits there, unsure.

  “Please,” I whisper, eyes blinking. “Take me.”

  I reach my hand up and place it against the tattoo on his back, trace my finger around the slanted wings of the eagle there.

  He presses his lips against my own. I taste the coppery burn of my body, my arousal melting on his tongue.

  Holding the back of my head, he presses his cock against my opening.

  I lose myself in his eyes, in the dark mystery that lies beyond. He cradles me there, the head of his cock anchored in the wet folds of my cunt.

  His cock nuzzles deeper and he sinks home in one stroke. He holds his length there inside me, our pubic bones fixed together.

  He moves and thrusts, humps me against the lockers with my thigh in his hand, a new torrent of arousal slickening my walls, my body opening up and enveloping him in full.

  Soon we are pressed together in the sweet agony of release, the urgency passed. I moan and whimper into his shoulder while he grunts into my ear, no breath by which to betray his state of arousal, my climax still ringing. He moves slowly in short, stabbing strokes, and then draws into me long and deep, burying the full body of his cock into my oily cleft.

  I draw towards another release. He senses it, his surges becoming more urgent and fiercer, the wet slapping of our bodies in contrast to the whisper of the breeze over his back.

  His mouth comes against me, metallic, tongues twisted together while he pins me into the metal. I soak his shaft, hands bashing against the locker doors as I shudder and shake.

  Holding my hair in one hand, the other under a buttock, sweat cooling on my skin to match his own, I whisper what I want in his ear before my voice returns to soft, animal whimpering.

  I lift my leg higher and he finds a new hollow inside my body. I ease a hand between us and let my fingers fall on my clit, a shock of sensation following and the next climax slamming into me with a dark rush.

  My hips jam out from the lockers. I arch in full, the very ghost of the locker room lighting caught in my eyes as Jensen gives a final thrust and fires his release.

  I welcome the warmth, the exquisite way his cock twitches inside me.

  With a grimace, he draws himself from my body, lowering my leg, but I’m not done.

  I psyche myself up for it. Prepare to have your mind blown, big boy.

  I kneel before his glistening cock and take it in my hand, lowering my head over his wet member and tasting our mutual arousal, that ever-safe girl I knew gone as I curl my tongue around his creamy glans, take in the way he shudders and convulses completely at my mercy.

  I lick until he can take no more, the sensitivity too much, pushing me back and drawing me back to my feet. I pat my skirt and shirt down, note the welcome ache that follows between my thighs. I dab at the corner of my lips with a finger.

  “You’re killing me, Scarlet Matthews. I n
ever thought…”

  I wink. “What can I say? I’m not always the goody two-shoes everyone thinks I am.”

  “Everyone thinks you’re a—”

  I press up against his chest. “A slut? You can say it. Maybe I want to be a little naughty every once in a while. Are you complaining?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “In fact, I think it’s time to take this public.”

  “A sex tape?” he smiles.

  “I was thinking more like a PDA, let the world know we’re together—officially.”

  “You’d be okay with that?”

  I trace my finger over his bicep. “Let the haters write their columns and headlines. As long as I have you, nothing else matters.”

  “Quoting Metallica now, huh?”

  I smile back, almost embarrassed but quite enjoying this new Scarlet all the same. “Time to ride the fucking lightning.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JENSEN

  Ever since I hit the MLS, I’ve learnt more about people than soccer. Act up and they love to cut you down, love to see that star fall from the sky, but you know what they love more than trimming a tall poppy? Watching it rise once more.

  It wasn’t easy at first. Getting our PR team to play ball required a lot of groveling, more box tickets and autographs than I can count, but they got it done. By Monday stories were already showing up, the prose far more positive than the piece Angela put together. I used every contact I had, dished out IOUs, favors and interviews like I was a human fucking piñata. The press loved it, but I made sure they ran the full story—that Josh and Scarlet were well and truly over before we started seeing each other. That had to be made crystal.

  Scarlet’s scrolling through her feed as we head into town. “Wow, I don’t know what you did, but public opinion is really turning. That kiss after the game? I never thought that would work, but here it is, blowing up.”

  I remain still. “Anything about Josh?”

  “Just that he’s seeing a new mystery woman. No direct denial, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good.”

  I take my eyes off the road for a second to look at her. I’ve got the girl, my game is back. I actually stopped in at the jewelers the other night, thankfully not caught on camera. I left empty-handed, but the question’s been bouncing around my head all day. It’s loud and very fucking clear—Scarlet is Neo. She’s the one.