Page 57 of Just Playin'
Huffing, Skylar plops back into her chair. “We’re barely into the first quarter, and he’s fumbled the ball twice. Coach is going to pull him.” She sounds more frustrated that he’ll be out of her sight than benched.
“Maybe he just needs some encouragement?” I curl my hands around my mouth to ensure my words extend further than the mumbled gripes around me. “Come on, Ref, let ‘em play!” I doubt the referee has done anything wrong, but tell me one football fanatic who doesn’t love complaining about poor refereeing. “It looks like swiss cheese out there. Tighten up the holes.”
“Yeah!” Skylar joins me in heckling both the referees and the players. “You have one job, Lee: protect your QB. If he stops getting slammed, maybe he’ll stop dropping the ball.”
I cringe. That’s not quite the encouragement I was hoping for, but thankfully, her comment inspires many others. They stand to their feet so their words can be accentuated with the stomp of their shoes. “Hut! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
I get in on the action too. Before I know it, I’m stomping my feet and clapping my hands in rhythm with the crowd. I’m not suddenly a fan of football; the energy is just too intense not to swallow me whole.
“Come on, Elvis, show them why you’re the King!”
“Oh my gawd!” Skylar’s scream sets my hearing back by a decade. “Did you see that? Presley,I’m so fucking hot I’ll get you pregnant just by looking at youCarlton, winked at me!” She dances on the spot, her bump and grind gaining her more than a few admirers. “I’m going home with him tonight. We’re going to make cute babies, buy a Porsche and a ginormous house with no picket fences. Oh yeah, I’m going home with him tonight.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her Elvis’s wink wasn’t for her. He was responding to the frisky one I gave him when my shout reached him halfway across the field. His smile, though. . . that’s for Skylar. He’s more amused by her invisible cowboy lasso routine than me. He can be. He can’t hear the naughty things she’s whispering while galloping around the seats generous enough to give her ample dance space.
I’m not so lucky.
“YEAH,baby! Did you see that? Our boy is on fire!”
I jump forward two steps when Foster slaps my backside. I want to blame the adrenaline pumping through his veins for the strength behind his frisky tease, but that would be a lie. Foster is either stronger than he realizes, or he thinks my generous curves can withstand rough-handling. They can, but I don’t think Elvis appreciates his knowledge of this.
His eyes squint when they lower to the area Foster spanked. They narrow even further when he realizes what I’m wearing. I could have dressed in the uniform I’ve donned every day for the past three weeks, but I thought that would look a little suspicious to Skylar, so I opted for a more casual look with a miniskirt and a fitted shirt that says, “I’m only here for the beer.”
“Do you like my shirt?” I ask him when he stands in front of me. My words are a little huskier, the smell of his heated skin too invigorating for my body not to respond. If you can take away the scent of fresh-cut grass, he smells like he did after a night of fucking. It’s a virile, manly scent that has my thighs squeezing together.
“Your shirt is okay. Your skirt. . .” He bites on the edge of his hand as he makes a groaning sound.
I bump him with my hip. “So it’s good then, yeah?”
He ignores my question, instead choosing to ask his own. “Where’s Skylar?”
I want to reply,most likely waiting for you in the parking lot,but instead, I opt with, “She’s gone to celebrate the win with your other super fans.” I swivel on the spot. Excitement is brimming out of me. “You killed it tonight, E. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play so well.”
He saves my lower lip from my teeth before murmuring, “I can think of one time I brought out all my best tricks. It wasn’t on a playing field though; it was on a much more appetizing playground.”
Someone pull the fire alarm because I’m burning up like a witch on a stake. His hot breath on my ear is too much for me to bear. It reminds me of when he was kneeling between my legs, preparing to devour my pussy. His eyes are holding the same spark they did that night as well. He looks like he’s about to ravish me at any moment, like the rules no longer matter.
I wish that were true.
“We can’t.” Pulling away from his lips is pure torture—torture I’m not sure I’m strong enough to endure. “Coach James is watching.”
“Coach James thanks you for our win tonight, so I doubt he’ll care about a little grind-up in the hallway.” Elvis drags his crotch against me to emphasize certain parts of his comment.
I pull back for the second time. It’s even more torturous than the first since I can feel how erect he is. “Coach James might not care, but fifty percent of my grade is relying on this internship. I can’t give that up for anything or anyone.” I lock my eyes with his. They’re brimming with lust. “Not even The Hulk.”
The truth in my statement settles some of the spark in Elvis’s eyes. Not entirely, just a smidge. “So no ass smashing for The Hulk, so what about a rubdown?”
“You want a rubdown?” I swear half the continent hears my question. After lowering my voice to a more acceptable level, I ask more calmly, “You want a rubdown?”
“Yeah, my back is killing me.” He arches his back while pulling a face that has every man around us paying careful attention to him. Their concern isn’t needed when he adds on, “I think a large kink in my crotch has thrown off my balance, so if you work on that first, my back will feel much better as well.”
I punch him in the stomach before pushing off my feet. “I’m a sports therapist, not a Chinese masseuse.”
He overtakes me, his wish to get to my cubicle at the back of the locker room the reason for his lengthened steps. “I’ll call you anything you want to be called if you fix myissue.” I don’t care if you’re as old as dirt or as new as Dalton and Becca’s daughter, you couldn’t have missed the innuendo in his tone when he said “issue.”
The vibe in the locker room is the most intense it’s been since I started at 69ers camp. I wasn’t lying earlier when I said Elvis played the game of his life tonight. I was in such awe, it was the fight of my life not to yell out, “That’s my man!” every time he did something spectacular. I shouldn’t have held back. There were at least a dozen women yelling precisely that. It’s lucky I don’t get jealous. . .much.
Worries I’m one of many women in Elvis’s life fly out the window when I enter my little domain. He’s sitting on my massage table, eating the bag of Cheetos Coach James confiscated from me last week. He tugged off his jersey somewhere between the locker rooms and here, and he has a twinkle in his eyes that reveals under all those layers of muscle is a teen boy drunk on the high of a win.
