by CoraLee June
I don’t know what possessed me to nip at Oakley like a crazed chihuahua, but one second he was teasing me with food, and the next I was sinking my teeth into his wrist and growling like I had rabies. “What the fuck!” he yelled. I let go and shoved him off of me. The hard sound of his body hitting the ground made me cackle in amusement. “Ouch! My arm! You broke my arm!”
I shoved the blankets off of me and sunk to the floor, my humor completely gone. We had a fucking game tomorrow. He couldn’t play with a fucking broken arm. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
His arms shot out like a snake about to strike, wrapping around my middle and tugging me down to the hard hotel carpet that probably hadn’t been properly shampooed in years. Was I lying in dried cum? Probably. Was Oakley still holding me? Absolutely.
“What are you doing?” I asked, squirming away. The sleep shirt I wore was rising up, up, and up. The edge of my sports bra was showing, and pretty soon I’d be mewing like a kitten.
“You sure are a feisty little thing,” he said in a low voice, licking his lips.
I shuddered involuntarily, thinking about his tongue on my magic skin ball. “You are such a jerk!” I tried to say as offhandedly as I could. “I thought I was going to have to explain to the coach how your arm got broken and exactly what I was doing in your room in the middle of the night.” I tried to redirect, although the wetness in my panties wasn’t quite ready to move on.
“Explain what?” he asked innocently. “What exactly do you think is going on here?” His devilish smile sent a new wave of heat down my body.
I absentmindedly pulled on my sleep shirt to make sure I was covered. It was a habit I kept from when I was forty pounds heavier and about one thousand times more uncomfortable in my own skin. Oakley’s eyes followed my hands to my thighs as my fingers played with the hem of my oversized Backstreet Boys tee shirt.
Oakley’s expression changed from playful to pure lust. Oh God. What panties had I put on before bed? I couldn’t even remember. I prayed to the god of girls who haven’t been laid in months that it wasn’t pink robots. “Backstreet Boys, hmm?”
“They were ahead of their time,” I replied.
He stared at my lips for a long moment. I felt my mouth grow dry. “Solver,” he whispered, placing his hand over mine. His long fingers splayed over my thigh.
“Y-yes?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
I squinted in scrutiny as his thumb massaged my skin distractedly. “I have a big game tomorrow. I’ll need my energy. I’ll eat whatever you eat.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ll need lots of protein. Like at a minimum of thirty-five hundred calories,” I sputtered, pulling away. My stomach growled at the mention of it.
“Exactly. I guess you’ll have to eat something if you want me to have enough energy for tomorrow,” he said with a smile.
“You’re bluffing,” I countered.
“I don’t bluff.”
My mind was racing, all thoughts of sexy time vanished. I did a quick round of math in my head. Burning one pound of fat was the equivalent of three-thousand five hundred calories. I typically ate around one thousand calories per day, which meant I would have to take in an extra twenty-five hundred calories. In. One. Day. I felt dizzy just at the thought of all that extra food. But I could fast for one day and then reduce my caloric intake by two hundred and fifty calories for the two days after that. That would undo the damage to my waistline, and since I was going home separately, Oakley would never know that I was fasting.
“Fine,” I said with determination. “You’re on.” I grabbed the protein bar out of his hand and wolfed it down, not even stopping to savor the two hundred calories. I was one hella dedicated publicist. He smiled as I swallowed. “Delicious,” I growled once my mouth was empty.
Oakley stared at my mouth and practically purred. “Yeah,” he began, licking his lips. “Delicious.”
12
I packed the wrong outfit for the game. I tried to go for a casually professional look. Sleek, long jeans clung to my legs, and the cream button-down shirt was in line with the university’s school colors of orange and white.
But it was hotter than the devil’s sweaty ass crack. I had lines of moisture trailing down my spine, and I stupidly left a hair tie at the hotel. I felt bloated from all the food I had to eat in order for Oakley to have enough energy for today’s game, and the humidity in the air tasted like evaporated beer.
“Yaaaaaaas!!” a girl next to me screamed. She kept bumping into me every time she cheered, knocking her hard lemonade onto me. I was annoyed by her shrieks but envied her short outfit. Unlike me, she paired a cute orange sports bra with short cut-off shorts and flip-flops. If I didn’t think it would ruin Oakley’s reputation, I’d strip down to my panties and air out my pits.
How long were football games, anyway? There were four quarters that were fifteen minutes each, so like an hour? I could literally feel the makeup melting off my face. The one time I actually made an effort to look nice. Figured.
I had no idea what was happening on the field. They were passing, dribbling, or defending pretty fiercely though. I started thinking about things I could say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete asshat if someone asked me about the game. “They sure did a good job of moving the ball from one side of the field to the other!” and “They played with a lot of heart!” both sounded pretty lame. I started writing down some things that the announcer said so I could memorize them and sound like I knew what I was talking about.
Perky orange sports bra bumped into me again and slurred in my general direction, “Like, what are you even doing?” she asked while nodding at my notepad.
“I don’t really know much about football, but I’m here to support one of the players,” I replied.
“I can help!” she said enthusiastically. “I totally know about football!” I instantly felt a strong Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants connection with sports bra girl.
“So you see the dude with dreads peeking out of his helmet?” she asked while pointing toward the field. I vaguely recognized who she was indicating and nodded. “He’s sleeping with my roommate and has an eight-inch dick.”
I wasn’t sure what this had to do with football, but call me intrigued.
“Oh really?” I asked.
“Yep. He’s the quarterback. Basically when the ball goes there, we score.”
I made a mental note. Score = Good.
“And do you see that dude right there?” she asked, waving her skinny index finger in Oakley’s direction.
“Yep,” I replied with a swallow.
“He eats ass like nobody’s business.” Sports bra held her dainty hand up to her mouth and giggled. “I mean, seriously. I didn’t think I liked rim jobs, but—”
“So what position does he play?” I asked, derailing that train of thought. I did not want to hear how well my client ate ass. Nope. Not happening.
She looked at the sky with her pretty face twisted up in confusion. “I don’t know. Running man? Run run run… Okay, so maybe I don’t know much about football…”
You think? I wanted to say. I didn’t know this chick, but for some reason I couldn’t get the image of Oakley sticking his tongue up her asshole out of my head. I bet she bleached it. She probably had a pearly white speckled starfish of an ass. I didn’t even know what mine looked like, nor did I want to.
“I just know he excels in every position,” she giggled and then began jumping up and down.
“Every position?” I asked. Why I was goading her was beyond me. Color me curious.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, “He does this thing with his tongue that I had never even heard of. Like not even in porn!”
That was super descriptive. What! What does he do with his tongue?! I was dying to ask. But I also knew that I didn’t want to be a part of this conversation anymore, especially if I ever wanted to be able to talk to Oakley again without picturing his tongue doing things t
o places that they don’t even show on Pornhub. My mind wandered back to the hotel room and Oakley licking the melted chocolate off my neck.
I cleared my throat and stood up. “I, uh...I have to go to the bathroom. See ya!” I told her as I started walking away. I took one final look at her, then headed up the stairs and saw her flicking her tongue at me between her fingers. I felt a weird pang of jealousy, and my petty-ass self thought, “I bet she has fluffy pepperoni nipples,” while I walked off.
Oh my lanta.
My first game was definitely interesting.
I was waiting outside the locker room with the press and fangirls when the game ended. We won. Yada yada. I think Oakley scored the winning touchdown, or at least that’s what I overheard from one of the reporters. I wasn’t the type to pretend to like a sport for the sake of a guy or even my career. This wasn’t in my vein of expertise.
The locker room door opened, and a guard stood at the door, checking press badges and his clipboard for letting people inside. I wasn’t really wanting to go into a locker room that probably smelled like the seventh layer of body odor hell, but I also didn’t want Oakley fucking up any interviews, and with the way the reporters were circling, I bet they had a few questions to ask.
“Name,” the burly guard-dog-looking man asked. This dude looked like his spirit animal was a cross between a German shepherd and a sloth. His movements were slow, but his teeth looked impossibly sharp.
“Amanda Matthews, I’m Oakley Davis’s publicist.”
He didn’t even look down at his clipboard. “Not on the list.”
I knew for a fucking fact that Coach Howard put me on the list. “Check again,” I said, annoyed, feeling my inner Karen dying to come out and ask for the manager.
He looked at me like my spirit animal was a shrew. “I don’t have to. Oakley Davis doesn’t have a publicist,” he emphasized.
It took all of my self-control to not roll my eyes at Sid the Sloth, and I forced my face into a smile. I started to explain that I had been hired a few weeks earlier and that Coach Howard had asked me to come along to keep Oakley squeaky clean. Oakley’s ears must have been burning or he just heard me trying not to screech, because he walked up and put his arm around my shoulders.
“It’s okay, she’s with me,” he told Sid. He squeezed my shoulder and started to guide me into the locker room as Sid scowled at me.
I looked over my shoulder and smiled sweetly at the guard while calling out in a sing-song voice, “Thanks so much for your help!” Something told me I would not be seeing Sid pop up as a friend request later.
“Making friends?” Oakley asked with a grin.
“Winning games?” I replied with a wink. I absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that he was shirtless and only wearing his football pants. I couldn’t tell if it was the strategically placed padding beneath the spandex or just his overall physique that had his ass looking the way it did, but either way, it was distracting.
“I scored the winning touchdown!” he said, poking me in the side.
“Yay!” I replied enthusiastically. As his publicist, I was excited. As a girl that seriously needed to learn more about the game, I was barely enthusiastic.
Around the locker room, half-naked guys were chatting excitedly and talking to reporters. It smelled like sweaty socks and middle school body spray. “Oakley, can I ask you a few questions?” a reporter called. I turned to look at the man and the microphone he held in Oakley’s face. Damn, dude. Personal space much?
Oakley smiled and nodded. “Sure, Mike. You know I always have time for the school newspaper.”
Mike beamed at him. He was a tall dude with long black hair that curled at the ends.
“I haven’t heard much about your extracurricular activities these days, Oakley,” Mike said with an exaggerated wink. “What have you been up to?”
I rolled my eyes so hard I think I hurt myself. Oh good, Mike wasn’t wasting any time getting into the things I really didn’t want Oakley talking about or the media focusing on. I shot Oakley a stern look that I hoped said, if you mention anything unsavory, I will fucking kill you in your sleep...in the bed we just so happen to be sharing for now.
To Oakley’s credit, he flashed Mike a winning smile and gave the most perfect answer I could have asked for. “I have been working extra hard at practices, squeezing in extra workouts, and picking Coach Howard’s brain for feedback. I think it really paid off in my performance tonight.”
Yes! I was mentally fist bumping myself. I am such an amazing publicist. I didn’t even have to steal the microphone from Mike’s boney fingers. “Really? So the rumors about you sleeping with the university president’s daughter?”
Oakley smirked. “You mean Becky Smith? I would rather have my left nut slammed in a car door—that’s off the record, of course. I’m sure she’s a nice gal, but I’m too focused on my football and scholastic career to have time for anyone else. And she’s too territorial for me.”
I cringed. Not the best thing to say about the university president’s daughter, but it was too late now. I spoke up. “Don’t forget your volunteer hours.”
Mike turned to me and pressed the microphone against my lips. Again, there was no concern for personal space. Disgusting. I pressed it away with the tips of my fingers. “And who are you?”
“I’m Oakley’s publicist. And he doesn’t have time to date because, when he’s not studying or practicing, he’s volunteering at a local nursing home. Oakley is extremely dedicated to giving back to the community.”
Mike looked back at Oakley with an expression laced with surprise.
“I’m hurt that you look so shocked, Mike,” Oakley said playfully. “It just so happens that I got to know Cassandra Kitchen really well.”
I cringed at his mention of that shit show but then reminded myself that absolutely nobody outside of the seven people who were there knew about us getting to know Mrs. Kitchen that day.
Mike followed up with, “One last question for you before I let you go. What is your favorite part about volunteering?”
“Aside from the great publicity and not being murdered by my publicist?” Oakley joked. “I really enjoyed just being able to connect with the residents. They all have such fantastic stories about their kids and grandkids. Getting to be a part of their family for even just an afternoon was actually really special.”
He did it. Oakley had a good interview. “Thank you for your time, Oakley. I’ll be sure to do a good write-up.”
“You always do, buddy,” Oakley replied, patting him on the back. The minute Mike was out of earshot, Oakley mumbled under his breath, “That guy annoys the hell out of me.”
“You did good,” I replied. Oakley was like a puppy; I just had to reward his good behavior.
“Well, you kind of terrify me…” he confessed, wiping his face with a towel. “I didn’t want you to pinch my nipples if I said anything wrong.”
“Pinch your nipples?”
“You look like the nipple-pinching type,” Oakley teased while covering his pecs.
“I don’t even know what that means, but if it’s a punishment that keeps you in line, then yes, I’ll pinch your nipples clear off.”
A few other reporters wanted an interview, and Oakley navigated their questions with ease. Unlike Mike, most of them were professional and kept to questions about his skills on the field.
After the last interviewer finished up, Oakley told me he was going to hit the showers and sauntered off, taking a moment to call over his shoulder, “Don’t think about me in the shower,” and then blew me a kiss.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I replied and stuck my tongue out. Just kidding, I was totally going to be thinking about him in the shower. I was already envisioning the water and soap running down his chiseled abs and further down to the happiest of trails.
I walked over to a set of benches in front of the lockers and used my foot to move a jock strap that was lying a little too close for comfort on the floor. I p
ulled out my phone to catch up on Oakley’s social media, and I was pleased to find that there wasn’t a single picture of a bleached blonde wearing eyeliner and a crop top with #iwokeuplikethis on his news stream. I heard the shower turn on, and Oakley started belting “Milkshake” by Kelis. I giggled and went back to my phone, secretly loving his confidence, not that I would ever admit that.
I was checking up on the dumpster fire of the internet—Twitter—when he stepped out of the showers with what was quite possibly the world’s tiniest towel wrapped around his waist. There were a few other players casually loitering, but my eyes were stuck on him. “Get dressed,” I ordered, dragging my reluctant eyes back to my phone.
“I packed my party clothes!” he hollered, making the other dweebs dancing around the locker room hoot in agreement. Party clothes? Uh. No.
I snapped my eyes back up just in time to see Oakley Davis drop his towel. Sweet mother of our lord and savior, Meryl Streep. Seeing Oakley’s cock online versus seeing it in person was a completely different thing. It was a spiritual experience. It was like I left my body and was looking down upon the world with my lady garage open and ready for his bus of a dick to park itself right up in there.
I was so engrossed in thinking about how I was going to sleep next to Oakley that night, knowing exactly what he was packing on his side of the bed, that I practically jumped out of my skin when he came up beside me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey there, Solver. You looked pretty deep in thought. Everything ok?”
I nodded my head and stammered, willing my coochie to calm the fuck down. “Yeah, all good. How many parties are you going to make me follow you to tonight?” I asked, already dreading the answer. I was already hot and sweaty from the game, which by the way took three hours and thirteen minutes. Fifteen minute quarters, my ass. My makeup had melted into a swirling cakey mess, and I could smell myself. All I wanted to do was take a shower and change into pajamas.
He was already in boxers and was shrugging on his pants while staring at me, his head cocked to the side. “I was thinking we’d start off bar hopping at a couple of local hot spots,” he began, crouching lower to look me in the eye from where I was sitting. I internally cringed. “Then, we could hit up a couple frat parties. They’re all on the same block, so it’s easy to get to.”
