Page 2 of The Best Kind of Forever
“Are you coming back to bed?” she asks, hope playing in her umber eyes.
“I should probably head back to the party. You know, rub shoulders with some sponsors, maybe a few geriatric sugar daddies,” I joke, but her lack of laughter hits me in the face like a wicked slapshot.
“Oh, right. Will I see you again?”
My cock loves the idea of seeing her again, but I really shouldn’t be entertaining a relationship with everything going on. This was a one-time thing.
A wrecking ball of anxiety swings to the center of my chest, making the air in my lungs diminish. “Sure, I can get you tickets to an upcoming game.”
I take my time getting dressed, because I’m definitely not in a rush to get back to the party.
My response must’ve been convincing enough because she perks up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That would be great. Uh, can I see your phone?”
I hand my phone over to her, slowly slipping one pant leg on at a time so I don’t look like I’m in a hurry to get out of here.
Look, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, alright? I know she’s gonna put her number in there, and I’m not going to stop her. I’ll just let her down nice and easy over text. That way I don’t have to deal with the tears and the yelling.
She hands me back the device, exposing her tits as she reaches down to pick up her shirt. “I put my number in there. I hope you use it.”
I’m only able to nod because I’m currently contemplating how moral it would be if I proposed we go for a second round.
Verdict: not moral.
I shake the thought from my addled brain, say a quick goodbye, and give her a half-hearted hug. Then I slip out of the bedroom, ready to sprint for the exit to evade any prying eyes. And I foolishly think I’m in the clear before I come face to face with the last person I wanted to run into.
The top buttons of my shirt are undone, my hair’s a mess from the girl gouging her fingers through it, and I’m pretty sure I saw at least three hickeys decorating my neck in the mirror.
“Coach?” I sputter, the air around me seeming strangely distilled.
“Hollings, I—”
Coach takes in my disheveled state, and then his eyes turn as round as frisbees.
“Please tell me that’s not Sienna Talavera’s bedroom,” he bellows, that one vein on his forehead pulsing with a mind of its own.
Who?
My back goes as stiff as a board when I hear that drill sergeant voice of his, like it’s a conditioned response. “I…I don’t know, sir.”
I’ve never heard that name in my entire life.
“Sienna. Talavera,” he reiterates slowly. Those behemoth arms of his are barred over his chest, reminding me how easy it’d be for him to squash me like a cartoon mouse.
I wait for him to elaborate, and judging by the death glare he’s giving me, I know I just fucked up. My hands are so clammy that I keep wiping them on my pant legs, my heart is galloping like a racehorse in my chest, and my stomach is seconds away from revolting the hors d'oeuvres I polished off an hour ago.
Coach expels what I think is supposed to be a cleansing breath, but his nostrils are still flared. “Son, Raymond Talavera owns the sports drink company sponsoring our team,” he explains.
Fuck me.
“Coach, I swear, I had no idea,” I blurt, desperate to temper the anxiety racing through me at warp speed.
“Hollings, this cannot get out, do you understand? If Raymond hears that you slept with his daughter, he’ll pull, and we need his sponsorship. We need the media coverage, especially with all the negative traffic fromyourfuckups.”
“I promise I won’t say anything, Coach.”
“If it comes down to it, the team owner will have no problem picking Talavera over you. Every player is tradeable, expendable.”
“Understood.”
