Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2)

by T. A Richards Neville

  Angel's breasts were plump handfuls, her tawny nipples taut, and sadly, out of my reach. “Touch one,” I said.

  She stared into the screen of her iPad. Brought her thumb and index finger to her right nipple and rolled the beautiful bud between them.

  This might very well be the most I'd ever talked her into doing while we'd been apart, and fuck if I wasn't going to push my luck as far as it could stretch.

  “This is your body,” I told her, still gripping onto my dick. “Don't be scared of it.”

  The light etchings of a frown weighed above her eyes. But her second thoughts breezed by quickly and she cupped a breast in each hand, massaging with a carefulness that made my groin ache. Just when I thought I'd have to ask for it, one of her hands slid over her flat stomach, moving so far down, it ended up out of shot.

  “Move back, baby,” I instructed. My heartrate kicked up and I rubbed my dick, squeezing the tip to slow things down. Angel shuffled back on the bed, her legs still crossed at the ankles. She trailed a lone finger along the seam in her thong that looked way too tiny between her legs. Her fingertips curled at the material's lacy edging right as a loud buzzing tore into the pregnant silence.

  I blinked twice before I realized it was someone buzzing at the ground floor entrance of my building. Angel pulled a pillow from behind her, covering her front and ruining the show. No, not ruining it. That would be too hopeful. She was ending it.

  “Are you expecting someone?” she asked. I didn't like the look in her eyes one bit, but the buzzer went off again and I started to go soft at the disruption. Then I was just pissed at whoever had shown up to my place this late. Even if I wasn't about to jack off to the closest thing I could get to actual sex in a very long time, I was on the road with the team early morning, and whoever knew me would know not to go knocking at my door stupid o'clock at night.

  “No.” I stood up and took my phone with me to the video intercom. Her back was to the camera, but the blonde hair was enough confirmation.

  I rolled my eyes, prompting Angel to say, “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “I'ma have to go, though. Rain check?”

  “Right.”

  I considered leaving Angela standing out there, in the claustrophobic Miami heat. She should know better than to come by here at this time, she was traveling with us tomorrow. I looked at the screen on my phone. “Don't be salty, Angel. Not tonight.”

  “I'm not salty.” I'd have believed that if she hadn't said it so defensively. “Just call me tomorrow. Good-night, Julian.” She reached for her iPad, taking the pillow with her, and the angle on my screen went crooked before the connection cut out.

  I shoved the phone in my back pocket, my anger and irritation swelling, then I buzzed Angela up.

  I opened the internal door to the building for Angela, then jogged upstairs to pull on a t-shirt.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked, side-eyeing me from the entryway.

  I tugged my t-shirt over my head as I walked down the stairs. “You were. You aren't anymore. Why so late, Angela?” I headed for the kitchen. Sitting in the living room ran the hazard of Angela assuming I wanted her to get comfortable.

  As if she was some kind of siren, Dog came bounding down the stairs from the first floor, his clumsy paws sliding on the chrome and glass. He raced to Angela's bare legs, climbing up and catching his nails on her linen shorts. Angela laughed, sitting right there on the floor by the door and letting Dog lick her hands, every other second trying for her face.

  Her head reared back and she smiled, rubbing two hands over Dog's head and behind his pointed ears. “Hey, gorgeous,” she said, making kissy faces, narrowly missing Dog's pink tongue as it darted out toward her mouth. “You're getting so big,” she said to him, then to me, “he seems happy here.”

  “He was lying under my bed before you turned up.”

  “I think he actually spends more time with me.”

  “Not that much more. You work, too.”

  “Not as many hours as you.”

  “Why're you here?” I sat in the same stool I'd vacated minutes ago, and turned away from the granite counter, watching my dog attack Angela in a fashion that was starting to irritate me. He didn't greet me like that when I came home, and he was my responsibility. I wasn't even sure he liked me all that much.

  Angela settled Dog by rubbing his back in long, firm strokes, and his body relaxed over her legs, his head resting on her knee. “I stopped by to see if you’d made arrangements for Dog, since you're on the road tomorrow and won't be back until Sunday night.”

  Yes, I'd made arrangements, and I was chewed over my decision. Trying not to think too much about where I'd be leaving him. “There's an animal place over on West Ave. I'm dropping him off in the morning, first thing.”

  “What's the name?”

  “Ah... Paws something. Can't remember.”

  Angela shook her head. “No.”

  My eyebrows lowered. “No, what?”

  “No, you cannot use that horror camp. It has a terrible rep. It's a good thing I came by.”

  That wasn't what I wanted to hear. I'd left the place after practice yesterday afternoon with the faint ringing of alarm bells. It looked legit from the outside, but the front of house guy was weird. He was more evasive than helpful, and had some shit excuse about being busy when I'd asked to go back and see the kennels.

  His weirdness hadn't been enough to put me off, but I was wary, and now my unease had been confirmed, I was fucked.

  “What am I supposed to do? It's too last minute to line up another spot, and I can't take him with me. Load him up in the plane's cargo hold and cross my fingers he doesn't shit in my hotel room.”

  “Okay... hold onto your s-bombs, Rookie. My cousin, Raelle, she's manageress at Home from Home. It's on 1st and swear to God, it's like a doggy hotel. Little guy here's going to love it. Raelle runs twenty-four-hour staff, if you want me to call her?”

  I wanted to ask why she thought me taking Dog from the shelter would be a good idea when she could've just taken him. I was quickly learning I had no business owning a pet with my rigorous schedule. And Angela picking up most of the slack wouldn't work long term. We spent enough time together at work as it was. Her showing up at my apartment most nights?

  That was a big, fat no.

  “Call her,” I said, on the tip of a tired sigh. “I got a funny feeling from the guy at that Paws joint, anyway.”

  After Angela left and Dog sulked back to his usual spot under my bed, I took a bottle of water up to bed with me, lay on top of my white sheets and stared at Angel's contact on my phone, debating calling her and finishing off what we almost started.

  I slid my phone under my pillow after deciding there was a slim to none chance she'd strip for me again. I draped my arm over the side of the bed and stroked under Dog's chin, his velvety tongue coming out to lick my fingers.

  Then I stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep

  My phone vibrated under my head, the annoying alarm tone rudely alerting me to the time. It was six a.m. Saturday; the day the team was flying out to Cincinnati for the game tomorrow. I stretched, yawning loudly and sat up. I took a shower before I did anything else. Finished in under ten minutes, I pulled out my suit to travel in, lay it on my bed next to my overnight bag, and then threw on athletic pants and a t-shirt. My phone rang on my way into the kitchen and I pulled it from my pocket, answering as I opened the fridge door.

  “Yeah,” I said, reaching into the fridge for two bottles of electrolyte water.

  “What a rude way to answer the phone. Especially when it's your mother.”

  “Sorry, I didn't look. You're calling early, what's up? Taj okay?”

  “Your brother's fine. I'm making sure you're awake and you've found somewhere for the puppy to stay, or someone to look after him. I meant to call last night but Helen didn’t show for her shift at work, so I had to stay late.”

  “You don't need to call to check I'm awake, t
hat’s what alarms are for. And I'm taking Dog now to his digs for the night. It's some fancy pants place, so he should be set.”

  “Good.”

  Silence.

  “Was that it?” I whistled for Dog to come downstairs, and I took his leash from the hook by the door.

  “Yeah...”

  Didn't sound like that was it.

  “Just say it. Why'd you really call?”

  “Well, since you asked, one of the girls from the office was showing off a picture of you with some attractive blonde girl who works for the Dolphins? Only, it didn't seem like either of you were working—”

  “Angela. Her name's Angela, and you're right, she’s on the Dolphins’ payroll. Don't even ask it, Mom.”

  “Ask what?”

  “I'm not sleeping with her. There isn’t anything going on.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Sorry for worrying, but you're my son, and you read things and can't help but—”

  “There's nothing for you to worry about. I wouldn't do that to Angel, never mind I don't want to.”

  “Fine, I believe you—thousands wouldn't. I'm not sure I'm well prepared to see your face plastered all over magazine headlines. I can't even open the national newspaper without being forced to read about or look at you. It makes me nervous.”

  “So don't read the news. I'm just out here playing ball, that's it.”

  Mom sighed. She didn't believe me, and I didn't have time to get too concerned about that. She'd get over it. I had a dog to get somewhere, a flight to catch and a game to get ready for.

  “Text me when you land, and good luck for tomorrow. I'll be watching with Taj.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Love you.”

  “Love you, baby.”

  I tucked Dog's sack of food under my arm and ruffled the fur behind his ears as he followed me out of the apartment and down to the parking garage. I'd bought him a new bed and I dropped it off with him and the food.

  I was more relaxed driving back home to pick up my stuff. Angela was right, Home from Home was so over the fucking top, I'd had to laugh when I’d walked inside. There was only one staff member on shift, and she spoke to Dog how a preschool teacher might speak to her kids. Didn't matter one bit to me. Dog loved it, and I slipped away without another sniff.

  He was happy. I was happy.

  Because I'd eat breakfast at the training facility, I picked up my black three-piece suite, zipped away in its cover, and slung my bag over my shoulder. I set the condo’s alarm and got back in the car to meet the rest of the team before we boarded the bus to the airport.

  TSA scanned us in a private section of Miami International, speeding up the process of boarding the Delta flight. I wasn't one of those players that liked to make a lot of noise before a game, and I didn't appreciate those players that did like to make a lot of noise; hitting guys and riling everyone up. I listened to my iPod for an hour and then sat in silence with two seats to myself in coach for the last hour of the flight. Pre-game prep was different for the defensive side; their game was more physical, they had every right to get hyped. For the O-lines, especially playing quarterback, it was a mental game. More thinking and strategizing required. Silence wasn't optional, it was necessary.

  And then there was Angel. Lately, every conversation ended abruptly with her, or it was tense. It was fucking with my head and I tentatively shut it down before we landed in Cincinnati, Ohio and checked in at the hotel. Now I knew there was a picture circulating with mine and Angela's face on it, that didn't help matters. In the past I hadn't given Angel too many reasons to trust me, but she did, and I couldn't allow meaningless pictures to ruin what I'd been building.

  “Yo, Rookie!"

  I turned my head, where Jared Lees, five-season defensive tackle, sat in the aisle seat one row over. “What?”

  “Hold my dick while I hit the head.”

  A few of the players snickered and I flipped Jared the finger. As rookie, I was also errand boy. Refilling the water and coffee in the O-room, making sure there were always plenty of snacks, that kind of dumb shit. And I was good at it, too. Always on top of my game. But the guys still liked to rip me a new one any chance they got. I'd proved myself to the head coach and offensive coaches in development camp, earning my position as starting QB and taking over from Brody Palmer, who'd done nothing but lead the Dolphins to misery last season. I carried around an impressive record from BU, but no one seriously thought I'd top the roster so soon. Not even me. Palmer was given another chance to prove he was worth one more shot, and he screwed that up first game of the season, so I took the reins from there.

  But I was still one of the rookies, and there was an order to adhere to. An order I had to respect, and an order I did respect.

  “Rookie.” Elliot Neal, running back, leaned forward in his seat, running his black tie through his hand. “I’m about to chase a growler and the last spike I dropped ghosted me. You cool to snap this one on its way to the Superbowl for my story”

  I laughed, spreading my thighs in front of me and settling back in my seat. “Sure thing, Neal. I'll even wipe your ass while I'm at it.”

  Angela stood from her seat up ahead and walked down the aisle, hands coasting over leather seatbacks. Wearing a knee-length powder blue dress that clung to her stomach and thighs, she pried quick glances from players and staff, some lingering longer than others.

  I pulled up the shade and looked out the oval window as she approached my row and bent down across the empty seat next to me. “I wouldn't touch his ass if I were you, Rookie. You never know what's been up there.”

  “Neal,” Carlion bellowed, “you said you loved me.”

  Nealy lifted his headphones over his ears and called back, “You’re punching, C. That’s all I’ll say on it.”

  Angela rolled her eyes and continued down the aisle to the back of the plane.

  It wasn't long until we touched down at Cincinnati/Northern, and I cleared my head of the shit around me. It was time to buckle down to business.

  “H ey!” I called out when the bartender finished speaking to a customer. Slinging a dishtowel over his shoulder, he made his way to my less cluttered end of the counter.

  “What can I get you?”

  The slight narrowing of his green eyes and the subtle wrinkle to his thick eyebrow were signals he was about to card me. Which was fine; I was covered. I wasn't here for a drink, though. I was content with my diet soda.

  I pointed to one of the flat screens hanging over the bar. Sporting highlights played, and other than scant glances, no one in here appeared to be paying it any attention. “Could you put on the Dolphins game?”

  Some form of sport, whether it was the full game, post-game or pre-game report, showed from each television in O'Connor's sports bar on Wilshire.

  The bartender stood silent for so long, I'd already started listing other bars in the area where I might be able to catch the football game. Or what would be left of it. Then he turned to the shelf behind him, grabbing the television remote from between two bottles of flavored vodka. I smiled when I looked up and saw the packed Paul Brown Stadium.

  “Thanks,” I said. All I got in return was a brisk nod as the bartender shuffled back to work, his attention taken by an impatient customer farther down the line.

  I walked back to my table and moved my stool into a better position to see the game. “I can't hear anything from here,” I said to Hayden Bonner, a girlfriend from my Sociology class at Santa Monica College.

  “That's because it's on mute.” Hayden was scrolling through her Facebook feed on her cell phone. She cared about football less than I did.

  I stood up, taking my drink with me. “I'm sitting at the bar.”

  Spotting an empty stool at the far end of the rectangular counter, I went straight over there, claiming the space directly under the mounted TV. It wasn't too much higher than me and I leaned forward, catching the eye of the bartender again. He approached me with
as much enthusiasm as he did a few moments ago, and I said, “Can you turn this up, please?” The music playing was turned down low, so I didn't see why it would be a problem.

  “I have other customers.”

  I looked to my right, at the two lines deep of people talking amongst themselves. Laughing and drinking and not watching television. It wasn't their sole focus, anyway. “I don't think anyone's going to mind.”

  “We only turn up big games.”

  “This is a big game,” I said. “My boyfriend's playing. It doesn't have to be loud, I'll settle for audible.”

  The bartender turned, glancing up at the television screen, then back at me. “Who's your boyfriend?” The question was riddled with suspicion and peppered with doubt.

  “Julian Lawson. He plays for the Dolphins, and this is as close to any of his games I can get right now. Please... I won't bother you anymore after this.”

  I didn't know if it was the name dropping or my obvious display of desperation, but the volume increased, and I could hear the sportscaster over the roar of the Bengals fans.

  Hayden squeezed in on my left, getting up close and personal with the stack of muscles draining the last of his beer. He banged the pint glass down on the bar top, eyes lowered to my miniature, silver-haired friend. Hayden introduced herself to Hercules, and I trained my eyes and ears on the game that was getting ready to kickoff. The announcer reeled off a list of injuries to the Dolphins roster and I was always thankful not to hear Julian's name, even if it was still early days.

  Speaking of Julian, he became the camera’s focus at center field, and I automatically sat a little straighter—became more interested. As visiting captain, he called for the coin toss. All three captains from both teams gathered around the referee and after the coin was flipped, the ref made a kicking motion toward the Bengals and then pointed to Julian. The Bengals would receive the kickoff. Julian deferred his choice until the second half.

  “Wow.” Hayden hopped up onto the stool on my other side that just became available. “Don't those cheerleaders bother you? They're practically naked out there. Lifting and spreading their legs for your man. It's shameless.”