Madam President (Dirty Play #1)

1. Levi

One

Levi

I’ve met kings. Actual royalty. Prime ministers, presidents, celebrities with egos the size of football stadiums. Thirty years in professional soccer, playing and coaching, and I’ve shaken hands with every kind of powerful person you can imagine.

Never been nervous. Not once.

So why the fuck are my palms sweating?

Get it together, Hendricks. You’re forty-five years old. This is embarrassing.

I check my tie in the hotel mirror for the third time. It’s fine. It was fine the first two times.

We’re going to the White House. Standard stuff for a home World Cup. The president hosts the team, does a photo op, and wishes us luck. I’ve done this kind of shit plenty of times in a dozen different countries.

But this time, she’ll be there.

Lina Kane. President of the United States. The woman I’ve been low-key obsessed with for longer than I’d ever admit out loud.

Fuck.

I remember exactly when it started. Eight years ago.

She was running for her first term, and I was home between seasons, flipping through news channels at two in the morning because jet lag is a bitch.

I wasn’t paying attention, just background noise while I answered emails, until I heard her voice.

I looked up. And forgot how to breathe.

She was giving a campaign speech. Some rally in Ohio or Iowa or one of those swing states. But I didn’t hear a single word she said. I was too busy staring at her like a goddamn idiot.

Lina Kane.

She had to be in her mid-thirties then. Tall, curvy in a way that made my mouth water.

The camera was at a distance, but I could see enough.

Full hips that swayed when she moved across the stage.

A waist my hands itched to wrap around. And her tits , Jesus, full and round, straining against the fabric of her blazer in a way that made me shift on the couch.

Her skin was deep brown and smooth. She wore her hair pulled back, showing off her neck, her jaw, her gorgeous face. High cheekbones, full lips, eyes that shone with intelligence and fire.

She smiled at something the crowd did, and my dick twitched.

What the fuck?

I sat up. Turned up the volume. Watched the rest of the speech with my elbows on my knees, leaning forward like I could get closer to her through the screen.

Her voice. God, her voice. Low and smooth, the kind of voice that made you want to shut up and listen. The kind of voice you’d want whispering filthy things in your ear at three in the morning.

I was hard by the end of her speech. Fully, painfully hard. For a politician on television. A woman I’d never met.

You’re losing it, Hendricks.

But I didn’t change the channel. I watched the commentary after.

Googled her name. Read her biography, her policy positions, and interviews going back years.

Found photos, official ones, candid ones, ones where she was caught laughing with her head thrown back, and I stared at the smooth column of her throat and thought about pressing my lips there.

I told myself it was to keep up with current events. That I was being an informed citizen.

Yeah, right. That’s why you know her favorite book and what she orders at that coffee shop in D.C. from some interview she gave five fucking years ago. That’s why you rewatch her speeches, not because you like the way her mouth moves when she talks.

I’m a whole grown man with a celebrity crush. Like a fucking teenager with posters on his wall. Except my posters are bookmarked articles and late-night C-SPAN recordings I’ve watched more times than I’ll ever confess.

I’ve thought about her in the shower. In bed. On long flights when I couldn’t sleep. Imagined what she’d sound like moaning my name. What her body would feel like under my hands. What her face would look like when she came.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

And now I’m about to meet her. In person. For the first time.

God help me.

“Coach? Bus leaves in ten.”

The knock snaps me out of my spiral. Thank fuck.

“Be right there.”

One more look in the mirror. I’m fine. I look fine.

She’s not going to notice you, dumbass. She meets hundreds of people a day. You’re just another handshake.

That should calm me down. It doesn’t.

* * *

The bus is chaos. Two dozen players hyped out of their fucking minds, taking selfies, practicing what they’ll say to the president. Most of them are young, playing in their first major tournament. They have an excuse to be excited. I don’t.

I sit at the front of the bus, with my arms crossed, watching D.C. roll by and trying to think about anything except her.

Danny, my assistant coach, drops into the seat next to me. He’s ten years younger than me, smart, and annoying as fuck.

“Big day, boss. Meeting the president.” He grins. “You excited?”

I grumble, “It’s a photo op.”

“Come on, man. It’s the president. First woman ever. Historic figure.” He lowers his voice. “Plus, she’s fine. Don’t tell my wife I said that.”

I almost break his fucking jaw. I do not take well to hearing other men talk about her like that. Which is fucking insane. I don’t even know this woman. Never met her. Have zero claim on her.

But here we fucking are.

“Focus on the tournament,” I reply, and my tone ends the conversation.

Danny holds up his hands and moves to another seat.

I go back to the window.

It’s just a handshake. You’ll be fine.

* * *

The White House is a lot.

We’re escorted through security, down hallways that look exactly like on TV, past paintings of old presidents and furniture that’s probably worth more than my first contract. The youngest players have finally gone quiet, looking around wide-eyed.

A staff member explains the schedule. Photo line, brief remarks, team picture. Forty-five minutes. But I’m not listening because the door opens, and she walks in.

Fuck.

She’s better in person. So much fucking better. Television doesn’t prepare you. Eight years of watching her through screens, I thought I knew what she looked like. I didn’t know shit. Lina Kane in the flesh is a goddamn vision.

She moves through the room like a goddamn empress, flanked by her aides and Secret Service detail. Every head turns her way, including mine. Shit, I couldn’t look away if I tried.

She’s wearing a deep blue dress that hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her body.

And what curves… My eyes travel down her magnificent body before I can stop them.

The swell of her chest, full, round, the fabric draping over her tits in a way that makes my hands ache for a touch.

Her waist is nipped in, flaring out to soft hips that were made for my grip.

I can see the shape of her thick thighs when she walks.

And her ass… fuck. Her skin is even more beautiful in person.

Deep brown, rich and warm, smooth, soft-looking.

I want to run my tongue along her collarbone, find out if she tastes as good as she looks.

Okay, you need to calm the fuck down, Hendricks. You’re in the fucking White House.

But my body isn’t listening. Heat spreads in my chest, blood rushes south, and I have to shift my stance to accommodate whatever the fuck is happening in my pants.

You’re a professional, a grown man. You’re the head coach of the United States Men’s National Team. Do NOT fucking get hard in the White House!

I drag my gaze back to her face, but that doesn’t fucking help. At all. All I see is high cheekbones. Full lips painted a deep berry color that makes me think about what they’d look like wrapped around my…

Stop. Fucking stop. NOW!

Her eyes are scanning the room, sharp and intelligent, missing nothing. She’s smiling her public smile, polished, practiced, but even that makes my balls ache. I wonder what her real smile looks like. The one she’d give in bed, satisfied, lazy, mine.

I’m so fucking fucked.

The next twenty minutes are the longest of my life.

Lina works the room, greeting players, asking questions.

I watch her like a goddamn creep, tracking her every movement.

The way she tilts her head when she listens.

How she laughs, warm and real, at something one of my guys says.

And, of course, her laugh goes straight to my dick.

This is insane. You’re being fucking insane, Levi.

But then she’s moving toward the coaching staff. Toward me. My pulse kicks up. I roll my shoulders and plant my feet.

It’s just a handshake. Don’t be weird. Don’t stare at her tits. Don’t say anything stupid.

First, she greets Danny. And I use those seconds to pull myself together. Breathe. Focus.

Fuck, she smells incredible. Something warm and expensive that cuts through everything else in the room and goes straight to my hindbrain. I want to bury my face between her breasts and inhale, lick, bite, fucking taste…

Then she’s in front of me.

“Coach Hendricks.” Her voice is even sexier up close. Low and smooth, with warmth under the formality. It slides over my skin like a touch. “Thank you for being here. The country is proud of what you and the team have accomplished.”

She extends her hand, and I take it. Her palm is soft against mine, her grip firm. My fingers and palm swallow hers completely, delicate against my rough. I feel the cool press of her rings, the warmth of her skin. So, of course, I hold on too long. I know I do. Can’t bring myself to fucking care.

“The pleasure is all mine, Madam President.” My voice comes out rough. Low. I watch her pupils dilate, just barely…

Fuck, she feels it too.

“I’ve followed your career,” Lina says, and my heart fucking stumbles. “The program you built in Europe. Impressive work.”

She knows my work? She fucking looked me up?!

It was probably just briefing materials. Doesn’t mean anything. But my idiot heart doesn’t care about logic.

“I’m a fan of yours too,” I say.

I let the words land exactly how I mean them. Not I voted for you. Not I support your policies.

I’m a fan. Of you.

Her lips part. I watch her throat move as she swallows. And there it is, barely visible against her dark skin, heat rising at her neck, spreading to her cheeks.

Yeah. She definitely felt that.

“My friends call me Levi,” I add. Still holding her hand.

Her composure cracks. Just a little more. Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and for one perfect second, she’s not the President of the United States. She’s just a woman, looking at me like she’s trying to figure out what the hell is happening.

Same, sweetheart. Same.

“Well,” Lina recovers, slipping her hand from mine. But her smile is different now. Softer. Real. “Good luck in the tournament, Coach Hendricks.”

She moves to the next person.

I stand there, heart pounding, the ghost of her hand still warm on my palm.

I watch her walk away. The sway of her hips. The curve of her perfect fucking ass in that dress. The straight, elegant line of her spine.

Then she glances back. Quick. Subtle. Anyone else would miss it.

She catches me looking.

I don’t look away.

Neither does she.

Something passes between us, a current, a spark, a promise of something, and then she’s gone, absorbed back into the crowd.

Danny appears at my elbow.

“Dude. Did the president just check you out?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She did , I saw it!”

“I said, shut up.”

“Coach has a crush on the…”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll break your face .”

He mimes zipping his lips, but he’s grinning. And so am I.

Yeah. I’m completely fucked.