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

by Teagan Kade

  The heat that’s been bearing down on the city over the last few days has dissipated when I head onto the field come night, the reception warm given this a home game.

  I scan the lower stalls. Sam usually places herself there, but tonight’s she’s nowhere to be seen. Yeah, like your fucking head.

  “Chance,” calls David, running ahead of me. “Why don’t you come down from Cloud Nine and get with the game, hey?”

  No bullshit—that’s another reason David I get on so well. I salute him and run to join the rest of the team taking their positions.

  I scan the Bengals line-up. These guys came from a five-straight losing streak in the opening round playoff games last season to seriously dominating the league this year. I’ve got to be at my absolute best here. Dalton, the Bengals quarterback, gives me a wave. Yeah, yeah, pretty boy. Watch and learn.

  It takes a lot to stay at the top of this game. The pressure would defeat most, but after what I went through in Afghanistan, it’s fucking nothing. This? Football? It’s so insignificant compared to what went down over in the Sandpit. A couple of guys in padding and helmets trying to hunt you down? Nowhere near as scary as AK47-weilding extremists happy to lay down their lives to take yours.

  The game kicks off and whatever was choking up my thoughts is gone. That’s the way it works when I’m on the field. Hell, it’s the half the reason I do it.

  I knew the Bengals would come out hard, but I didn’t expect this much fight. They’ve got the best pass rush I’ve seen all season, our boys under heavy pressure with every snap. Still, we manage to keep it together and hold them off, but it’s fifty-fifty.

  At half-time I check for Sam again, but she’s still absent from the stands.

  “You seen Sam?” I ask David. He shakes his head and points up at one of the VIP boxes. “No Morgan either.”

  I relax a little. So they’re together, maybe having their chat. That’s good.

  “Wait.”

  I follow David’s eyes to the other side of the field where Morgan is talking with one of the refs, probably ripping into him about the incomplete pass call.

  The anxiety returns. Morgan is here but Sam is not. Maybe she’s in trouble. You should be out there, protecting her.

  The siren goes and we’re back on.

  “Chance!” yells David. “What the fuck? Come on, man.” He looks up to where Sam should be. “Worry about it later.”

  I breathe in, let my lungs fill, and get my head back into the game.

  This time I can’t keep thoughts of Sam away. For all I know they might be snatching her right now while I’m out here doing what? Fumbling around with a fucking leather ball.

  It’s a miracle I hold it together, but I’m losing it fast. I’m sweating. I almost fumble the ball completely coming out of the third quarter. The forth doesn’t start much better, but I force myself to push through. Come five minutes to full time and we’re tied. I watch a punt soar high, look to the stands again hoping with everything I have she’s there.

  She’s not.

  I check again and it’s in this moment of distraction I miss the next play completely.

  Something smashes me to the ground, the wind knocked from my body. I’ve been on the receiving end of some brutal take-downs, but this is like being blind-sided by a bus.

  It gets worse, the weight builds on top of me as the dog pile forms, the world going dark and my face pressed hard into the turf, grit in my mouth, struggling for breath, unable to get out.

  I panic, a boot digging up into my ribs, another jamming down hard on my thigh. My helmet starts to dip, crushing my skull, a whistle blows madly but no one does anything to relieve the pressure.

  My vision starts to flicker, the voices around me growing dim.

  The body directly on top of me shifts and finally I’m able to pull in air, gasping with it, rolling over onto my back as the dog-pile clears and David gets down beside me. The ref next to him calls my name, but it’s blurry, everything fuzzy at the edges.

  I see the ref signal to the sidelines while David continues to shout my name, slapping the side of my helmet.

  I try to get up, but the slightest movement causes pain to flare throughout my body. My helmet’s removed, sweat cooling on my face.

  “Sam?” I manage to get out. David looks at the ref, others players ringed around us now, the murmur of the crowd low and quiet.

  I start to drift away once more when they place me onto the stretcher. It’s nice. There’s a bee-sting in my arm, the pain moving further and further into the distance and with it rational thought.

  When I wake up it’s in a cinder block-walled medical bay, a woman who could well be my mother reincarnated asking me questions you wouldn’t waste on a five-year-old.

  “Sam?” I ask again. Where is she? Why the fuck is she ignoring me?

  I say her name again before I realize my mouth isn’t moving.

  Fuck. I should be out there, taking us to the Bowl, not… here, with whoever the fuck this is.

  The woman disappears and returns with another syringe. A cold rush runs through my arm and the world pulls into a tight tunnel before, finally, it’s gone altogether.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SAM

  Morgan’s talking with a doctor outside Chance’s room. He sees me coming. “Sam. You want to go in?”

  “Could I?”

  “He’s got no immediate family, so I can’t see an issue. He should be awake soon right, doctor?”

  The doctor nods in confirmation.

  I thank Morgan as I enter. We talked earlier and it felt good to finally have everything off my chest, to not be shouldering it alone, but the thing with the private investigator concerns me. What does it mean if the Mob can get to someone like him, a professional?

  I try to focus on Chance as I take a seat by his bed.

  It’s always heart-breaking to see a man in his prime, a sporting machine, put out of action… though it’s also nice to get another look at his bare chest up close. I can make out the scar hidden by the roulette wheel a little clearer now, the zig-zag cut from the shrapnel.

  You should have been there.

  I don’t know why I didn’t attend the game. All day I was deliberately avoiding him, but why? What did I achieve by hiding in the player’s lounge downstairs during game time?

  I saw him look at the stands to the spot I usually sit, before he was dog-piled. I don’t think I’ve seen anything so cruel. The players kept stacking on, the pyramid of bodies growing until I couldn’t see Chance at all, crushed below them. It went on and on, and when the pile did clear, there he was barely conscious, broken.

  I look to his body again, his right side already black and blue, bruises across his collarbone and lower chest.

  His eyes start to open and focus on the end of the bed. He breathes out and sees me, licking his lips.

  I stand and draw close to his side. “Don’t speak. You’re in the hospital.”

  “Water,” he says, voice rough.

  I pour a glass on the side table and bring it to his lips, the same lips that were pressed against my own less than a day ago. He sips and tries to sit up, managing to get about halfway before slumping back into the bed. “What the hell happened?” His voice is quiet, strained, far from the confidence-filled banter I’m used to.

  “You were dog-piled in the fourth-quarter—bad.”

  “How bad?”

  I want to take his hand, but I can’t find the courage to do so. “I overhead the doctor outside. There’s a concussion, a bruised rib or two, but the rest of it is mostly superficial soft-tissue damage. I’ll help you get back on your feet, whatever it takes. I’ll work overtime if I have to.”

  He tries to smile. “I’m feeling better already.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Where were you?” he asks.

  I look away. “In the player’s lounge. I didn’t want to be a distraction,” I lie, glancing to his chest, “though it looks like that didn�
��t work out too well.”

  “I thought you were in danger.”

  And now I feel even worse. “No. No danger. Morgan and I talked earlier.”

  “You did?”

  “It’s nice you guys are looking out for me. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. It’s been a really, really horrible couple of weeks.”

  “What about last night?”

  The kiss. That cheeky bastard. He’s basically been steam-rolled by the entire Bengals squad and he’s still flirting like a pro. “What about it?”

  “It wasn’t that horrible, was it?”

  I can’t stop the smile, looking down into the sheets. “No, it was quite nice, in fact.”

  “Nice,” he laughs, forced into a coughing fit. “Seeing your grandma is nice. That kiss was… something else.”

  “So, what now?” I ask, unsure myself.

  “We move on—slowly. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  I don’t know what I want, though even that sounds a lot like a lie when I think about it. If I was true to myself, to my heart, I do want this. I’m just too scared about the consequences, the potential for heartbreak it might cause down later on. Could I handle that? “And if it is?”

  He reaches out and takes my hand. “No pressure, okay?”

  A nurse interrupts our little moment. “I’m sorry,” she says, placing a tray down on the table. “But I need do some bloodwork. Do you mind…?”

  I take the hint, squeezing Chance’s hand before letting it drop back to the bed. “I’ll see you later.”

  He winks, smile back to its cheery, cheeky self. “You better.”

  Morgan pulls me aside as I come out of Chance’s room. “How is he? I heard him wake.”

  “He’s good considering.”

  Morgan shakes his head. “It was a hell of a thing, that pile. He had me worried there for a minute.”

  “He’s strong. He’ll bounce back. I can help.”

  “I know. You’re good for him, Sam, professionally and otherwise. I mean, I’m talking like we’re pals, but I’ve got a good nose for these things. He could do with a girl who’s interested in more than bragging rights.”

  My cheeks are burning up again. It’s like I’m talking with my dad about menstrual cycles or something. “I don’t have any friends to brag to.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder. “You’re wrong. You’ve got a family now, albeit one full of testosterone, thick skin and mugs even a mother couldn’t love, but a family nonetheless.”

  “Thanks, Morgan.”

  “Any time. Are you going to hang around?”

  I look down the hall to the waiting room. “Why not? Who doesn’t love hospitals?”

  *

  I arrive at Chance’s place three days later. I pay the taxi driver and buzz the gate. It opens and I walk in, the front door swinging open and Chance standing there in dark boxers, a little stooped over but otherwise looking a heck of a lot better than he did in the hospital.

  I hold up the bags I’m carrying. “I brought supplies.”

  “All I need is your smile.”

  I shake my head at that, my go-to response for his come-ons now. “How do you feel about probably terrible Thai from the sketchiest kitchen in LA?”

  He tucks his arm up into the corner of the doorframe, his absence over these last few days doing nothing to diminish the tone and definition in his body. “I think anything sounds better than the slop they were serving up in the sick farm.”

  I hold up the other bag. “A selection of eighties Blurays from the bargain bin.”

  “Anything X-rated?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”

  “You’re getting good at this flirting thing.”

  “I’m learned from the best. Now, you going to let me stand out here with my arms about to snap off or you going to invite me inside?”

  He stands aside. “Come.”

  Wouldn’t you love that? I brush past his chest to squeeze inside, noticing the warmth of his skin against my arm.

  I dump the bags on the kitchen counter and can’t help but be drawn to those windows and that view again. Unsurprisingly, Los Angeles looks a lot less appealing under the midday sun, a city swimming in a desert, countless souls all vying for their five minutes of fame. It’s never appealed to me. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being hounded all day. Every move and relationship scrutinized.

  What do you think’s going to happen if you hook up with Chance?

  He joins me by the window.

  I look over his body, still bruised and patchy and from the dog-pile. All I want to do is put my hands on him. “Do you want me to work on you a bit?”

  I’m making it sound like he’s a car coming in for a tune-up, not a fine, fit athlete. The very apex of masculinity.

  He smiles. “I could do with your magic hands, but what about the Thai?”

  I glance to the kitchen. “You’re a bachelor. You do have a microwave, don’t you?”

  “Three.”

  I roll my eyes. “Crap. I didn’t bring my massage oil.”

  I watch him walk to the kitchen with a slight limp, his buttocks pressing and shifting beautifully below those boxers. He opens the cupboard and reaches to the top shelf, pulling down a jar. “How about coconut oil.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “Virgin.”

  I swallow hard. “Yep. That will do.”

  *

  Half an hour of deep tissue work later, Chance’s room smells like toasted coconut and I remove my hands from his body and sit on the bed. This would be the perfect opportunity to make a move, but I can’t will myself to do it. We’re still stuck in that quasi-professional lock.

  So, it goes on precisely as predicted. We have dinner, we watch All The Right Moves, but the movie is lost to an ever-growing sexual tension between us. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s so intense sitting next to him, but if he wants me he’s certainly not pushing for any action. Maybe he’s as nervous as you are?

  Unlikely. This is Chance Adams we are talking about, the very definition of ‘playmaker.’

  And so nothing happens. There’s a long, drawn-out moment as he sees me out. Please, I beg, but he simply says “thanks” and watches me walk to the waiting taxi. I turn hoping for something, anything, but he’s simply watching me, nothing more.

  I’m thankful this taxi driver is a little less animated than the last, but it still doesn’t soften the rejection—if I can even call it that. What am I expecting precisely?

  Chuckles is waiting when I get through the door to my apartment. I lean down and scratch the soft spot behind her ears and watch as her tiny face curdles in delight. That’s when I hear a voice behind me. “Sam.”

  I turn and there he is, standing in the doorway.

  Chance.

  I stand and the sexual tension boils over.

  This is it.

  Do something! my head screams, but I’m frozen.

  But it’s Chance who makes the first move.

  He mashes his lips against mine. The kiss is urgent and needy. I return it with the same need, relishing in this release.

  He lifts me up like I weigh nothing and carries me to a small table, sweeping off the clutter that’s gathered there and sets me down without breaking the kiss. When he does, it’s only to lift my legs over his shoulders and run his hard hands up the back of my thighs. His fingers move over my ass cheeks and I realize with a sudden acute clarity that yes, this is happening.

  My god.

  I’m panting like a marathon runner, gasping in short stabs at the thought that what’s been building for weeks is set to boil over.

  Chance bends down to cup my ass. I lift my hips upwards off the table and he draws my panties and jeans away as one, my bare pussy presented to his eager eyes.

  I can see in his eyes that reason has left, replaced only with animal instinct. He breathes in my heat and arousal. I watch him over the swell of my breasts, the way his tongue
extends and licks up the entire length of my slit in one stroke. His tongue presses deep into the wet compression of my pussy, pulling back to lap at my wetness, and I’m sold—completely and utterly his.

  He licks me relentlessly, pressing his face hard against my crotch until it is covered slick. I grind against him, smearing my desire over his lips and chin, helping him find his way between the pink folds of my sex.

  He pulls back to admire me, face glistening and his breath coming in gasps against my wet flesh. There is a look of deep satisfaction on his face I’ve never seen before. I squirm below him, close already.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he gasps.

  I run my hands through his hair and pull him back down to my crotch.

  He concentrates his energy on my clit, flicking it over and over until I’m bucking wildly on the table, a steady knot of pleasure growing below my belly ready to be undone.

  I’ve made myself come before, but it felt awkward, like something was missing. As I run my hands through Chance’s dark curls I begin to realize what. He is so engrossed in the act. Every fiber of his being is devoted to getting me off. I tug on his hair a little harder and beg him for release, my voice wispy.

  I writhe and squeal, pressing my hips forward to meet his willing tongue. The knot tightens, a concentration of bliss and energy waiting to explode inside me. When he inserts a finger, sliding it into my soaking channel, I explode.

  The knot snaps free to release a flood of pleasure throughout my body. The sensation is so intense, so mammoth in its scale, all rational thought evaporates from my mind and I am left only with the physical.

  As it ebbs away, my only thoughts are of how I can relive this sensation every day, Chance’s tongue and lips glued to my aching slit always.

  Chance rises, stubble glistening. He takes my head in his hands, pressing his lips against mine so I can taste my own sweet essence. Caught in the kiss and my arousal, I almost understand why Chance was enjoying himself so much between my legs.

  I wrap my legs around him and pull his shirt away. He does likewise, my bra snapping free and following my blouse to the floor. Hands still cupped to my ass, he lifts me off the table and drives me into the wall. The breath leaves from my lungs. I don’t think he realizes just how powerful he is, even in this state of recovery. His bulge presses against the denim of his jeans, the only material to separate him from my eager pussy.