We’ve got the kind of chemistry that could burn up the sheets. Saturday night proved it.
And now that I’ve had a taste of Carter? I want more. More of the fiery passion that keeps me jerking off to the memory of her lips on mine, the only cure for the near constant hard-on I’ve battled since Saturday night.
No, there’s something worth exploring between us and I’m not about to walk away.
I’ll put in the work to show her not all football players are assholes. And the next time I kiss Carter? It’ll be because she wants it, because she’s begging for it.
“Hey, Carter,” I call out just as she reaches for the door. She freezes, but doesn’t turn to look at me. That’s okay. My ego can handle it, because I know this thing between us is far from over. Hell, we’re just getting started. “You can try to shut me out, but the thing is, I’m an offensive player. There’s no one better at reading—and bypassing—a defensive move than me.”
Kennedy
“I can only talk for a minute.” I glance at the clock in the makeshift dressing room, which is really the office of one of the Nebraska assistant coaches. Not that I mind. It’s private and smells better than a lot of the locker rooms I’ve had the misfortune of using for away games.
“I won’t keep you long,” Mom says. “Just wanted to say good luck today, since we didn’t get to talk yesterday.” Mom’s hours have been cut back, but not as much as either of us would like. Apparently there’s a nursing shortage—again. “How’d your proposal for the ACME competition go?”
I’m about to step on the field to play Big Ten football and my mom’s more concerned with my academics. I wish I could reach through the phone and hug her. “My advisor loved the concept, although he’s concerned about the complexity. He’s worried I won’t be able to finish on time.” But he’s wrong. Without work study, I’ll be much better positioned to work on this year’s design, even if it is far more complex than anything I’ve attempted in the past.
“Are you sure you won’t need help?” Her tone is cautious, like she knows how much I’ll hate this question. After all, she’s the one who raised me to be self-sufficient. “Maybe you should consider a partner this year.”
Yeah, right. And put my chances of success in someone else’s hands? So not happening. It’s a national competition, and the top finishers are pretty much guaranteed the best job offers. Hell, the company sponsoring this year’s competition has locations in a half-dozen major cities and career tracks with sweet starting salaries. Plus, they’d pay for my master’s degree.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”
Mostly.
She clears her throat. “Speaking of control, how’re those boys on the team treating you?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Stop worrying.” No way I’m telling her I kissed one of them or that I can’t stop thinking about him. The thought of Reid’s lips crashing against my own sends a flash of desire straight to my lady bits, and just like that I’m thinking about what it would be like to have his chiseled body pressed to mine. Damn Reid and his kissable lips. “Team’s on a winning streak. We’re five and oh. Soon to be six. Everything’s great. But I need to get my butt over to the locker room for Coach’s pregame huddle. Talk soon, okay?”
She barely gets out her goodbye before I disconnect. Real smooth, Kennedy. I’m sure she won’t suspect a thing.
My phone vibrates and a text pops up on the screen.
At first I think it’ll be a message from my mom, the “I love you” I cut off with my hasty disconnect. I couldn’t be more wrong.
Hey Kenny. Let me know when you’re free for lunch. I need to see you.
Red-hot fury coils low in my belly, incinerating all thoughts of Reid’s nibblicious lips. I hate it when my dad calls me Kenny. It just reinforces the knowledge that if I’d been born with a penis, if he thought we had anything in common, he might’ve taken more interest.
I shove the phone in my bag without responding. I have no idea why he wants to see me now, or why he assumes I’d want to see him. We haven’t spoken in months, so why now?
The answer is so painfully obvious, I almost laugh. He saw my picture in the press and he wants something. Like one of those distant relatives who comes crawling out of the woodwork when you hit the lottery.
I try to stuff my anger down, to ignore the pain that comes with it. So, my father’s an asshole. It’s not new news. And still, the knowledge finds the cracks in my armor, wedging itself into the dark corners of my heart I’d thought long hardened to his machinations. I hate that I care so much when he cares so little. It’s not fair.
Yeah, well, life’s not fair. If you haven’t figured it out yet, let this be a reminder.
I suck in a breath, the air sliding into my lungs like razor-tipped barbed wire. It doesn’t matter. This is hardly the time to reflect on my father’s shitty parenting skills. I’ve got a game to play and the team’s counting on me. I grab my helmet and head for the team locker room on shaky legs.
Four hours later, I return to the tiny office/dressing room, secure in the knowledge I lost my team the game. What should’ve been a 6-0 record is now 5-1. I kick off my cleats and then strip off my jersey and pads, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor. I never should’ve looked at my stupid phone before the game. I let my father get in my head and it cost me.
Cost the team.
Hell, it might even cost them their title run.
I shimmy out of my pants and trade them
