Once Upon A Half-Time: A Sports Romance (Touchdowns and Tiaras Book 3)

by Sosie Frost

  And that was fine. I didn’t mind the pain. It was part of the game. Just another adrenaline rush, something to keep me moving, my mind on the play, and my feet planted in the grass.

  But this was not like college ball. The players charged faster, the tackles hit harder, and the plays crashed over in seconds. Every snap became a game of Russian roulette, but instead of a gun to the head, I had cleats kicking my temple.

  The second quarter blitzed faster than the first. I stared at the play clock.

  Did the seconds speed up? How was I supposed to catch my breath?

  I took my spot on the line of scrimmage, listening to Jack’s barked cadence. The ball snapped, and I rushed forward only a couple yards, just enough to block the linebacker’s timed charge through the line.

  He hit me like a goddamned train, slamming through me. I dug my feet in and surged from my hips to keep the monster busy as Jack handed the ball off to Bryon. Our running back churned through the opposite end of the line for a four-yard gain.

  The whistle blew. My opposing linebacker roared at me.

  “Coming for you, rookie! I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll hand me that signing bonus!”

  I got in his face. “Just say you love me and promise to cuddle.”

  “You gonna eat those words.”

  Caleb hauled me into the huddle. I blinked away the spots before my eyes, rubbing away the sweat. Nothing eased the ache in my muscles. I had to force my hands to clap at the end of the huddle.

  This wasn’t exhaustion.

  This was a beating.

  We lined up again. Second down. Similar play. A run up the middle, and I was supposed to pick up the blitz.

  I saw it coming—I could read a defense. But nothing prepared me for catching a three-hundred-pound prick as he thrust through the line and raced into the backfield.

  I collided with him, our bodies crashing hard enough to twist my helmet and block my vision. He cut left. A fake-out. I lost a step as he spun to the right. I couldn’t stop him, but Bryon had already darted past the center and earned us another three yards.

  Was this what it was going to be like?

  A couple seconds of agony interspersed with a bone-chilling fear that I’d missed my block and let a defender past?

  My entire fucking future rested on a split second after a ball was snapped.

  Jack grabbed my facemask in the huddle. I panted, trying to fill unresponsive lungs with as much air as I could get.

  “Step it up, rookie.” He patted my helmet. “This pass has got your name on it.”

  “Give it to me, baby.”

  Jack grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  At least I could still fake the confidence.

  We ran the same play we’d drilled for so goddamned long at training camp. I had fucking dreamt of the timing pattern, chasing away any and all sexy visions of Elle. I preferred dreaming of a naked, desperate woman, but all I had were nightmares anymore. Every night, I ran along endless hash marks, towards an end zone that never got any closer.

  We lined up. I exhaled, expelling the shadowing doubts and lingering pain. I’d be damned if I let tomorrow’s bruises fuck with me today.

  The ball snapped.

  I sprinted down the field, counting the seconds in my head.

  Three. Two. Hook back. One. Catch the ball.

  I spun. Jack delivered the strike directly into my hands. I clutched the ball.

  And the blindside hit nearly shattered every bone in my body.

  I crashed to the grass as the cornerback wrapped me up the instant the ball hit my fingers. I grunted, saw white, and, for one frightening second, everything faded to black.

  Until I blinked and realized I was face-down in the fucking grass.

  No ball.

  No catch.

  No first down.

  And no one helped me to my feet. That was fine. I walked to make sure my spine hadn’t snapped on my way to the ground.

  Nothing broken except my spirit.

  I stumbled to the sidelines, grasping for water.

  Jack patted my shoulders. “Hell of a hit.”

  I nodded. Couldn’t answer. Hadn’t breathed yet.

  “You’re gonna get the shit kicked out of you when you run routes down the middle,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Name of the game. That’s why we’re sending you out there, rookie. Show me you can handle it.”

  Show him?

  I was still walking, wasn’t I? Barely. I chugged my water and searched for Elle.

  She wasn’t hard to find. She was the only woman wandering the sidelines with a camera.

  And she did it well. Read the plays. Sensed the action. She hauled her camera and bag over her shoulder and rushed down the field closer to the thirty. The other photographers hovered twenty yards back. Either she was way out of position, or she knew something they didn’t.

  I shouldn’t have doubted her. She understood the Hurricane’s offense better than I did, recognizing the new personnel on the field. She had anticipated the long bomb down the sideline.

  Elle snapped her picture as the receiver caught the pass. He took two steps before getting obliterated by Cole Hawthorne. The ball popped out, and Cole landed on it like a rabid dog seizing a piece of raw meat.

  My cheer was short-lived.

  I expected a few minutes of peace before returning to the field.

  Cole led his defense to the sidelines, and I grabbed my helmet once more.

  I tried not to hesitate. Tried not to realize it.

  But, Christ, was I overwhelmed—and the coaches knew it.

  The next call was the same play as before, forcing me down the middle again. Jack fed me to the damn lions. He pointed at me.

  “You good? Hanging in there?”

  “Never better, boss.”

  “Catch that mother-fucker for me this time.”

  “Gotta ask me nicely,” I said.

  “Catch the goddamned ball or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

  “That’s the kind of pillow talk I expect from Jack Carson!”

  Maybe it was easier to fake knowing what I was doing.

  At least for now. At least while it felt like I ran through mud with feet made of wood.

  I caught the ball, but that was instinct by now. First down and a cheer from one very excited photographer.

  It wasn’t enough. The rest of my game had to improve. I had to be faster, read the plays quicker, plant my feet better, block stronger…

  I could do this. My career couldn’t end this quickly. Not yet.

  We won the game, but my play wasn’t pretty. At least I’d survived.

  I showered and changed, avoiding most of the media as it was just the second exhibition game of four. They weren’t circling to scavenge their prey yet. It wasn’t the cameras I had to worry about.

  Coach Thompson forced me into his office before I could escape from the locker room. He slammed the door behind us.

  I already got beat on the field. I wasn’t looking forward his particular brand of sodomy.

  “Well. You got your taste of the league, Reed,” Coach Thompson said. “You feeling good about that performance?”

  What was the right answer to that? “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Yeah, you looked good getting your ass knocked to the ground. Did we watch the same game?”

  “I could show you the play-by-play on my bruises if you want.”

  He grabbed my collar, yanking me to meet his face, eye-to-eye. He didn’t have the balls or strength to hurt me, but I couldn’t raise a goddamned hand to defend myself.

  “Listen here you little cocksucker.” He sprayed me with saliva. “You have one chance left. You better prove that I didn’t waste my first-round draft choice on your sorry ass. Figure out your positioning on the field. Anticipate the blitz. Get your ass open. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your pretty boy charm. Fuck the photographer all
you want. Joke around with the team. But if you don’t improve in the next five-fucking-minutes, you’re gone. You understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Get the hell out of my locker room. I better see your smiling face on the field bright and early tomorrow. You get a day off when you earn it, rookie.”

  I wasn’t sticking around for any more verbal fucking without some lube. I burst from the chair and returned to my locker, heart-racing. Didn’t know if I wanted to slink home and lick my wounds or tighten my fists and brace for a fight that hadn’t come.

  The guys laughed as they packed their shit. I kept quiet. The black and gold uniforms and locker room sickened me more than I sickened myself.

  I had to get out of there.

  I didn’t make it far. Jack pointed me to the hall.

  “Got someone waiting for you,” he said.

  I wasn’t in the mood. “I’m leaving.”

  “She’ll want a picture.”

  Fuck me. Elle.

  She usually marauded around the locker room after a win—and the guys made sure they celebrated properly by flashing a dick in any or all of her pictures. But if I couldn’t look myself in the mirror, what was I supposed to say to her?

  I exited the locker room, checking the stadium’s tunnel for Elle. A couple staff members and field managers lingered, and the few players chatted on their way to the team bus. Voices echoed off the cement tunnel.

  None as loud as his.

  Sebastian ran for me, full-fucking-speed, those little devil fists curled up tight.

  “I saw you! I saw you! I saw you!”

  He jumped up like he expected a hug.

  Fuck.

  I’d have bent over, but I packed a bag of ice between my suit jacket and dress shirt. Last thing I needed was for my spleen to fall out when I grabbed the kid.

  “Hey, little man.” I kept him an arm’s length from my worst aches and pains. “Careful. I’m sore.”

  “I watched you! Lachlan…Lachlan listen. We…hey, listen. We were in the seats right over the field. You caught the ball, and…Lachlan, look. Hey watch. The people went crazy!” He leapt around me. “Like this. They just…” He made an explosion sound through pursed lips. “And, and, and, Mom let me have…she let me eat a hot dog and then Elle came to get me. Can I see the locker room? I have to go the bathroom!”

  Elle still wore her khakis and polo, but her camera was packed up for the night. She dodged Bast’s flailed fists as he regaled us with a play-by-play of the game. I didn’t remember gaining any superhuman ability to fly across the field with rocket jets, but his version of the events was definitely more exciting.

  “Lachlan! Hey! Listen!” He zoomed around me, hyper as fuck, grinning like a maniac.

  At least someone enjoyed the game. The bluish slushie stain around his lips probably had something to do with his newfound ability to bounce wall-to-wall.

  Elle edged in close to me. “Hey. Are you okay? You got hit pretty hard a couple times…”

  Was she pitying me? “I’m fine. Just sore.”

  “How’d it go?”

  I snorted. “You had the viewfinder. You tell me.”

  My tone was harsh, and she punished me for it. Her voice had returned, and so had her sass. “Well, it looked a little sloppy.”

  Sebastian tugged on my arm. “Lachlan! Lachlan, listen! Hey!”

  Sloppy was my middle name these days. I sneered. “Say it. I screwed up. Don’t patronize me. Just make sure you get my good side in those pictures.”

  “Yeah. I got a lot of good shots of your ass—butt…which is what you’re acting like now.”

  Sebastian clapped. “Lachlan, watch me!”

  “I had a tough game, Red.”

  “And I’m trying to help.”

  “Lachlan!” Sebastian got louder. “Lach? Lach. Lachlan. Watch what I can do!”

  He ran laps around us. He sprinted down the tunnel, nearly getting trampled by the guys as they left the locker room.

  “Bast, get your butt over here,” I said.

  “It’s Sebastian!”

  “It’s time-out if you don’t get over here right now.”

  Elle touched my arm, accidentally squeezing a bruise. “He’s so excited. Your mom said he was thrilled to see you play.”

  “Yeah!” Sebastian launched at me. “You were the best!”

  For a little guy, he packed a decent punch. Then again, he had run full speed at my kidneys. A shock of pain burst through my body. I shouted.

  “Christ! Watch it, Bast!”

  The kid jumped back, eyes wide. “Sorry!”

  “I told you I was sore!”

  “I’m sorry!” His eyes widened.

  I never saw him go completely motionless, but I’d never really yelled at him before. Elle cleared her throat, a quiet sound.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m peachy fucking keen.”

  Goddamn it. I was usually careful with my words, but the language came naturally in the stadium. Elle rolled her eyes. Sebastian thought it was the greatest thing he’d ever heard.

  “Wow! You said a bad word.” He grinned at me. “Mom’s gonna be mad.”

  “Don’t repeat it.”

  He did it to challenge me, just to have some fun. “Peachy fuc—”

  “Sebastian!”

  My voice echoed through the hall—loud, sharp, and absolutely the wrong tone to take with him. My teammates stopped to look. The couple reporters went silent.

  Sebastian didn’t know what to do.

  He stared at me, stunned, lip quivering like he was about to cry.

  Oh, Christ. I couldn’t handle that. Not now.

  “Lachlan.” Elle took Sebastian’s hand. She was like a natural with him. “I think you need to calm down. I know you’re disappointed about the game.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “So tell me. Talk to me. If you need help…”

  I wasn’t having this conversation. “I’m tired. I’m sore. I just want to go home and ice my body.”

  Elle understood—somewhat. “Want some company?”

  “No.”

  She frowned.

  Fuck. Did I piss her off too? I didn’t have the energy or patience to explain how I felt. I just wanted to sleep it off and deal with the shit tomorrow.

  “Not tonight.” I mussed Sebastian’s hair. He flinched away. Damn it. “Take him to my mom. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Even the Tinkerbell bag hurt my shoulders. I carried it gently, unwilling to let Elle or Bast see the pain.

  Sebastian hadn’t mastered the art of the whisper. His voice echoed through the tunnel.

  Heart-broken.

  “Did…did I make him mad?”

  Elle softened her voice. “Oh no. He didn’t mean it. He had a really tough game. He’s just tired.”

  “I thought he did awesome.”

  “Me too. Let’s go find your momma.”

  I made it out of the stadium and to the team bus without collapsing. It was a short ride to the practice facility, but I had to drag my ass to my car.

  It wasn’t adrenaline that kept me moving.

  It was fear.

  I stared at my brand new Lexis. I’d bought two new cars, two houses, new phones and computers and everything else that would spoil me, Mom, and Sebastian.

  But now, it worried me. I’d played my second exhibition game, and all I had to show for it was a handful of pissed off coaches, a traitorous media, and skeptical teammates.

  My once-in-a-lifetime opportunity faded. Everything I worked for—almost gone.

  It wasn’t my sacrifices that hurt the most. It was Mom’s. Everything she’d done to help me. The schools. The travel. The personal trainers.

  Sebastian.

  It didn’t matter what happened to me. I had to make sure they were taken care of. I had to put the family first.

  All of my family.

&n
bsp; Including Elle.

  I could see a future with her. Playing with Sebastian. Cuddling with me on the couch. Rock climbing in the spring. Sweaty sex every night.

  She was so much fucking more than a mistaken elopement.

  I knew I loved her, but admitting it to myself drove the air from my lungs like a hit from a linebacker. She was my everything now. A tease. A friend. A lover.

  A wife.

  This game wasn’t about me anymore. I’d work my ass off so I could provide for everyone I loved.

  Mom. Sebastian.

  And the woman I’d love for the rest of my life.

  17

  Elle

  I was out of time.

  The interns and videographers running around the office didn’t notice Peter’s fake smile.

  He closed my laptop and summoned me with a curled finger.

  “Elle, Coach Thompson and I wanted to speak with you. Got a minute?”

  I was used to getting queasy now, but this wasn’t because the baby was using my stomach as an in-utero trampoline.

  I picked up my camera. Peter shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about that.” He stopped me before I reach for my cell phone. “This won’t take long. Leave your phone.”

  He didn’t want me recording the conversation.

  Damn it. That had been my contingency plan, especially since the only wire I had was the broken bit of my bra, poking me in the side.

  I followed Peter to Coach Thompson’s office. The hall was quiet, most of the coaches and staff still working with the players on the field.

  The door closed behind me. I sat in the chair opposite Coach Thompson’s desk.

  The silence prickled every hair on the back of my neck.

  Something was wrong.

  Coach Thompson pulled a file from his desk drawer. I stayed silent as he pushed a glossy, 8x10 print towards me.

  Just what I expected. The nude was a shade too fuzzy and a lot too nefarious to catch the cover of Sports Illustrated. I’d find it on TMZ instead.

  I said nothing. I had no defense. The photos were clear, leaving no doubt that it was my naked tushy posing in the Rivets’ locker room.

  “Do you know what this is, Elle?” Coach Thompson asked.

  “Twenty-three years of good diet and exercise?”