Matchup (Playing the Field #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Every seat in the stadium is full, the fans are screaming, music is playing, and cheerleaders are dancing, but down here on the Kelly green turf, it’s just us. The players. We’re focused on the game, our visions tunneled to include only yard lines, jerseys, and the brown leather football. This is the game of the season, and every man on this field has one goal—to win.

The ball soars in my direction—well, not intended for me, but it’s my job to intercept it—so I jump as high as I can, arms fully extended. My fingertips graze the ball, just out of reach, and less than a millisecond later, another pair of hands tangles with mine, also trying to make the catch. The tipped football goes wide and falls dead on the sideline, just as the other player and I collide.

Two bodies crashing together . . .

We go down?—

Arms and legs entwined . . .

— elbows and knees jabbing soft flesh, adding bruises to the ones already forming from earlier plays.

Fingertip bruises left on hips . . .

The hard ground greets my body without mercy or forgiveness, and I take a second to check myself. Toes, fingers, legs, arms, neck—all good. My helmet and mouthguard are still in place, my gloves and shoes still on. All good.

Pushing myself up with my arms, I attempt to stifle a groan. Every muscle is protesting after three quarters already passed in this game, not to mention the workout from last night—and this morning—and the exhaustion from not getting a full night’s rest. It was worth it, though.

Firm lips against mine, pressing lingering kiss after kiss, growing more frantic with every touch of our hands upon each other. Fingers drag down my chest, over my abs, a thumb flicking across my navel until I let loose a groan. My head falls back onto the mattress as I breathe his name . . .

“You good?” The masculine voice brings me back to the game.

In this tiny sliver of a second between plays, I blink down at the man pinned below me.

He takes me to bed, hovering over me as he eases me open and carefully slips inside me . . .

Grey eyes turn stormy as he meets my gaze, as if he can see the memories flashing across my mind, as if he can feel the phantom hands on my flesh. We stare at each other, words dancing unspoken in the air between us, and we linger a half-second longer.

“Yeah,” I breathe soundlessly because my oxygen is lost somewhere deep within the nerves rioting in my belly.

Hands settle on my waist?—

Grab my hips and thrust . . .

—and help me to my feet.

“That’s a turnover,” he says as we rise to our full heights, his helmet a few inches below mine. In the small amount of time we were sprawled on the turf, our teams have already begun switching players to prepare for a punt. Our second and a half is over. “See you on the next one.”

Then, he’s gone, and I take the leftover half second to watch him run back to his sideline, opposite mine. His team punts the ball, and my team’s offense takes the field to try and score the few points we need to catch up. A touchdown will put us back in the running. Even a field goal would help.

I try—I really try—to keep my head in the game, to watch the players on the field instead of the one on the sideline across from me. They are only two plays in when I give in to the devil on my shoulder and steal a glance in his direction.

To my surprise, he is already watching me, and as our eyes meet, his hands begin moving. “ Is your leg okay? ” he signs in ASL.

I give him a dramatic eye roll that clearly translates as “ my leg is fine .”

He grins, all full-blown and endearingly uneven.

My responding smile is just as wide and just as crooked. Holding up my right hand, palm facing his sideline, I teasingly point at my thumb, then shake my head. I can’t hear it, but his shoulders shake with a laugh. I point at my index finger, following that with another head shake. Pointing to my middle finger, I give an exaggerated nod and push it down, repeating the moves with my fourth finger as well.

That leaves me with my palm out, thumb, index, and pinky raised, with the other two fingers lowered, forming a nearly universal sign—one of the first I ever learned.

On the field I’d forgotten all about, the other team’s defense makes an interception, so they get possession of the football once again, ending our chances of a score on this drive. We switch places, our defense moving to meet their offense at the line of scrimmage. With the way this game is going, I’m not surprised. We have struggled to get our points with only field goals, whereas they have gotten touchdowns what seems like left and right.

We’re still giving them hell, though. It’s not over until the game clock is at zero.

I take my place on the line, trying to focus on my job. Run. Follow the ball. Keep them from scoring again. Get a pick if I can.

“Make me come.”

Grey eyes appear in front of me, and their depths swirl with mirth. “What are you thinking about?” he asks in a teasing voice, as if he already knows. The light freckles on his nose scrunch when he pulls a face at me.

“Faster.”

The center snaps the football, players blurring as they run for their designated places. I follow the receiver in front of me, but we slow as the running back tucks the ball and takes off. Our route is done as he gets taken down with only a few yards gained.

We line up once again, and the man in front of me tries another lighthearted taunt. “That all you got?”

“Harder.”

He smirks. “Let’s go.”

“More.”

“Come on.”

“Come for me.”

The ball goes live, and the endorphins in my brain have me running faster and harder, my memories aiding to push me further. I’m on his trail, step for step, stride for stride, so close I could be his shadow. If the ball is passed to him, it will have to go through me first.

He peeks over his shoulder; I look over mine.

Our route is pointless because their offense is running a quarterback sneak. He’s tricked me into going so far down the field I’m powerless to turn and stop their quarterback from running the ball for a first and ten.

He slows while I’m turned away, causing me, in all my distracted looking, to run right into him. I try my best to pull back, try to catch us or turn him away from the impact, and he chuckles even as we slam onto the ground. “Jesus, man. If you wanted to get me horizontal, all you had to do was ask.”

Sprawled half on top of him, I playfully knock my helmet against his. “Fuck off.”

“That’s not what you said last night. Or this morning.”

I give him a mock scoff, push myself to stand, and hold my hand out to help him up.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says as he slides his gloved hand into mine.

“What?”

“What were you thinking about earlier? Before the snap.”

Bracing myself, I haul him to his feet in one heave, pulling him until our face masks clack together, and whisper, “ You .” I push him away before jogging for the new line of scrimmage, readying myself for the next play.

He sprints past me, slapping my ass as he goes.

I take my place on the line and meet his grey eyes—picturing the hatred that used to burn in them, as well as the scowl that used to be a permanent landmark across his lips—and wonder how, exactly, we made it here.