21. Beckett
Beckett
Three successful long field goals, a few extra points, and a win later—and everyone likes me again.
Reliable Beckett Davis is back. I’ve already seen a headline saying so.
But it doesn’t really make me feel anything.
What does make me feel something is the text and accompanying photo from Greer on my phone.
Greer: Earmuffs Jersey. Very friendly.
I didn’t feel particularly friendly towards her when I saw it after the game. And I still don’t, now that I’m at home, staring at it like it’s my own version of The Starry Night .
It’s not because of the number nineteen I can see stitched in gold along the shearling. It doesn’t really have anything to do with her wearing something that’s supposed to represent my team or me. I asked Brooke to add my number more as a joke.
It has to do with the way she’s looking at the camera. She’s not even smiling. Impossibly dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, the earmuffs even starker because of it. But one hand presses against her chest, and the sunlight hits her just so—high cheekbones that for once don’t look like they could cut a man, and full lips together but it’s not a hard line. She looks content.
She looks beautiful.
I knew where she was sitting, and I tried not to look—but I did each time I stepped onto the field, even though she was lost somewhere in the blur of white and gold. I debated getting her seats right at the field, but then I would have been able to see her and that’s probably not what Darren meant when he asked me if I had my visualization down.
It was an easy lie, slipping off my tongue while I pretended to be the me of last season. Said I’d been practicing all week. Old Beckett Davis, sure. He’d have visualized until all he could see were the uprights.
This me, though, she’s all over me and under my skin and I can’t really see anything but her. I thought maybe it would go away after we slept together, but I think she’s probably in my veins now and even if I bled myself dry—she’d be all that was left.
She’s there right now, just under my chest. It’s her hands on me and her nails digging into my shoulders.
My calf twitches and it’s not the overexertion of the muscle.
It’s her fingers painting down my back, moving me like a puppet on a string.
I swallow and drop back against my couch.
Beckett: Glad you liked them. Hope they helped.
Greer: It made everything very comfortable. Thank you.
My chest swells at that—the idea that anything I’ve ever done might have helped her out just a little.
Greer: My sister’s taken it upon herself to learn everything she can about football in general, and she tells me it was great kicking. So, good job, you.
You.
Me. Real.
Beckett: Thanks for spending your Sunday watching a bunch of men chase a ball around a field.
Greer: I usually spend it reading about fictional men with wings.
Beckett: How do you usually spend your Sunday nights?
Greer: Same as above.
My visualization kicks in pretty easily—I can picture her on her couch. Low lighting of her living room. A candle flickering. Hear the faint flip of a page while she reads. Her lips moving ever so slightly as her eyes track the words.
My thumbs start moving because it’s her lips I feel against my ear, her hair brushing my skin.
Beckett: If you’re worried about strain from your eyes bugging out when you get to the particularly sexy parts, you could come over.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
They reappear.
I start to type an apology—to tell her it was a joke, that I’m tired.
And I am tired—but her hand makes a fist, and she pulls taut on the strings of me she holds in her fingers when she answers.
Greer: Text me your address.
“No earmuffs?” I grin, resting my head against the doorframe.
Greer gives me a flat look, crossing her arms over her chest. The hood of her black sweater bunches around her neck, and her left leg shifts, like she’s considering tapping her foot. “Are they required for admission?”
I shake my head and push off the doorframe, tipping my chin towards the kitchen just beyond the open door. “Nah. Surprised you came, though.”
“I had to,” she says, full lips curving in this stubborn line that makes me want to drop to my knees, before she walks right by me and into my apartment. “For the sake of my eyes.”
“Right. Your eyes.” I close the door behind me, watching as she tips her head back, eyeing the vaulted ceilings and exposed brick. “Can’t strain those before all the big important surgeries you have this week.”
She makes a noncommittal noise, but I think her arms tighten, and she takes a tentative step with a socked foot—these mid-calf, slouchy white crew socks that look cuter on her than a sock should on a woman—towards one of the chairs pushed haphazardly into the granite island spanning the length of the kitchen.
Greer cocks her head before pulling out a chair and swinging herself into it. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. High ceilings are great for practicing kicks.” I point towards the fridge. “Drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.” She tips her head back again, looking up, and all that does is give me a view of her neck. The lines of it. Where it dips under her sweater and meets her shoulders. Most of her skin is hidden—but I’d like to run my tongue over it. “Can you really kick in here?”
Clearing my throat, I grip my jaw and turn towards the fridge. “Yeah. I have a practice net in the spare room.”
She makes another noise, a smaller one this time.
“Beer okay? I usually have one if it’s an afternoon home game.”
“Only one?” Her voice is just a rasp, but I roll my neck anyway because I think I can feel it burrowing into me.
The bottles knock together when I grab them off the shelf, twisting the caps off and pitching them onto the counter before turning back to her. “Only one. I know I don’t run but I take my program seriously during the season.”
“Reliable, likeable, and dedicated.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and her eyebrows lift in acknowledgement when I hand it to her.
All those beautiful lines stretch across the column of her neck when she raises the bottle to her lips.
Her eyes find mine, and she might smile against the cold glass. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.” I swallow, taking a longer sip than necessary. “For coming today. Were the earmuffs okay?”
She really does smile this time—the corners of her lips furling upwards from behind the bottle. “They were. That was very thoughtful of you. My sister was quite taken with them, actually.”
“Noted. I’ll be sure to ask for another pair next time.”
Her smile quirks up when she talks about her sister. It’s another little thing I’ve noticed, collected and coveted and placed in my back pocket along with all those other pieces of her.
But it never lasts long. There’s always this initial flash of love, then a tiny twitch in her cheek and she looks like something about all that love hurts her.
I jerk my head towards the couch because I don’t quite trust myself with words. She nods and pads across the living room.
She folds herself down at one end, and her eyes cut to the TV mounted to the wall, where the countdown to the night game plays. She studies the screen for a second before rolling her shoulders and leaning back against the arm of the couch.
Greer swings her legs up, stretching across the cushions like she’s at ease, and I like the idea of that.
I’m tempted to sit right beside her, but I doubt that’s something she would consider friendly, so I sit at the opposite end and wince when I stretch my legs along the sectional. “Can I ask you a question? Just one friend trying to get to know another friend better.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, she takes another sip of her beer and nods softly.
“The noises—at the hospital. Is that why—”
“Why they think I’m mean?” Greer angles her head. She chews on the inside of her cheek for a second before raising one shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes. I don’t let anyone change my playlist in the OR because I know all of the songs and I know what to expect. I don’t like when people are chaotic or they drop things. But mostly, it’s because it’s not just one life we’re playing with.”
“And I just kick a ball. What an unlikely pair of friends we make.”
Her eyes narrow, like the self-deprecation doesn’t land. She blinks at me, slowly, sits forward, and all it does is highlight the way the amber flecks in her eyes look alive under the low lighting of my living room. “So today was game day. What does tomorrow look like for you? The rest of the week?”
It’s usually a six-days-a-week job, whether people think it’s real or not. I take a sip of beer before swinging my legs so I’m facing her. Our feet almost touch, but she doesn’t move. “Body work. I’ll do a lower body massage tomorrow, mostly on my kicking leg. Focusing on my hamstrings, adductors. Cryotherapy. I’ll do a light Pilates class, and then it’s game tape. It looks more or less the same for everyone else on the team. Different workouts and different therapies but we’re all there together every day.”
“What kind of tape?” She drops back against the arm of the couch.
She’s looking at me like she’s actually interested, and even though it’s this thing I hate half the time, I find myself smiling at her anyway. “We’ll review tape from today. Good plays, bad plays. And then it’s onto next week.”
Greer nods, taking another small sip of beer before asking another question. “Where did you play before?”
I’m not used to this. No one wants to get to know me. My family wants me to fix things and pay for things. My teammates want me to score them points and my agent wants me to smile because it makes her money, too. “Uh, after college, I was drafted to Cincinnati. I played there until the expansion a few years ago.”
She blinks, and even though it’s a gesture that doesn’t say anything, I think I can hear it anyway. These questions, they’re real, just like you are, Beckett. “Is that normal?” she asks.
I run a hand through my hair. “For a kicker? Not necessarily. It’s a pretty fickle business. I’ve seen guys get traded after one bad game and someone who hadn’t played all season get picked up. There isn’t necessarily a lot of longevity. Kickers are rarely drafted but I—”
A dark eyebrow lifts and she looks amused. “It’s okay to say you’re good at it.”
“Kind of a stupid thing to be good at.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not helping anyone. It’s not surgery.”
“I’m not sure that’s always helpful, either.” She takes another sip of her beer before setting it down beside her and leaning forward, elbows coming to her thighs. Greer props her chin up on her hands. “You know—I’m not going to pretend I’m some secret sports fanatic and that being at one game unlocked something in me I didn’t even know existed. But you made people happy today, Beckett. And that counts for something.”
I don’t mean to do it. I meant what I said when I told her I wouldn’t cross her boundaries or her lines. That I’d respect them. And I do respect her—probably more than anyone on the planet.
But I’ve never counted for anything.
I drain the rest of my beer, discard the bottle, grip her calves, and I’ve got her on my lap, my hands in the back of her hair and my mouth on hers before I can think better of it.
She kisses me back, for the record.
Immediately. Enthusiastically. In all the ways.
Her back arches, her chest pushes into mine, the tiny noises I’ve already fallen in love with rising in her throat when our tongues meet. Her hands find my hair, nails running reverently over my scalp and tugging on the ends.
My hands find the curve of her waist, sliding up under her sweater to meet her bare skin. One finger brushes the raised edge of the scar and I hope she knows I think it’s one of the most beautiful things about her.
She presses her hips into mine when my hand slides higher, under her bra, and I roll my finger and thumb over her peaked nipple. Her lips leave mine, head tipping back with the most beautiful fucking moan I’ve ever heard echoing across my apartment.
I could watch her like this—on top of me, feeling the way I think I’m making her feel, the way she makes me feel—forever.
My cock strains in my pants, and she moves her hips faster, back arched, my hand moving across her chest.
“Take my sweater off,” she rasps, before her voice gets smaller, a tiny plea. “Please, Beckett.”
The way she says my name makes me want to die. Granted, it would be a better death than I ever would have imagined for myself. The most beautiful person in the entire world arching into me.
Trusting me with more than just her body, but a body I want to take care of all the same.
Her clothes come off and so do mine.
She makes me get up to go get a condom, but she tells me she doesn’t want to leave the couch.
I don’t know if she thinks that’s against the rules, but I’d bleed her if she asked me to.
Her thigh muscles tense on either side of mine, and she peers down at me, dark hair framing her face, when I roll my shoulders against the cushions of the couch and rip open the stupid wrapper.
“Can you—will you go on top?” I breathe, voice rough. “I want to watch you.”
She hesitates, head tilting to the side.
“If you’re not comfortable—”
Greer glances down, the raised pink edge of the scar hardly visible in the light, and shakes her head. “It’s not the physical presence part of the scar that bothers me. Scar tissue is just healed skin.” Her nose wrinkles. “I’m just realizing that maybe it feels sort of ... unfriendly, for me to ride you on a couch.”
I groan. My cock twitches and I pause halfway through rolling the condom on. “Don’t say ride.”
She smiles, and it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. The corners of her lips curl up, eyes sparkling, and she rolls her hips forward. “Mount?”
“Stop.”
“For me to take a little drive on—”
“Enough.”
She must think so, too, because her hands find my shoulders, and she lowers herself down onto me inch by inch, pausing as she stretches around me, her head tipped back with these breathy moans.
Our eyes meet, her lips part with a sharp inhale, and we stay there, joined, just for a minute. My hand moves up the centre of her, thumb pressing down where I know she likes. My other hand finds the small of her back, and she rolls her hips forward.
It’s just a small movement, but my head drops back against the couch, and I move with her.
Greer arches her back, nails digging into my skin, and when her chest brushes my face, I take my hand off her back, palming her and rolling her nipple between my fingers again before replacing it with my tongue.
It goes like this: wandering hands, hips rising to meet one another, mouths crashing together, and really no echo of the word friends until she clenches around me and I swallow the moan she makes into my mouth, and I combust, too.
Her forehead drops to mine, and we’re too close to really stare at each other but I think I see all of her anyway before she moves her head to the side and drops it to the crook of my neck.
“We’re still just friends,” she whispers against my shoulder.
I turn, pressing my lips to the side of her head. “You’re probably my best friend, actually.”
That might be true. But she’s also this unyielding, unbreaking, beautiful person who sculpted me from crumbled clay.
She loves her sister and I know she loves her father even though it hurts her. She’s funny when she means to be and endlessly serious the rest of the time, even though she reads books about faeries and doesn’t appreciate the intricacies of the French Revolution.
My heart tells me this is a stupid fucking idea, because she’s only given me tiny pieces of herself. But I can’t really hear it because it’s whispering to me from where she is, one leg on either side of mine, hands still on my shoulders, but not really, because they’ve got that stupid organ of mine in their palms.