2. Ryan
TWO
Well,that was a terrible fucking game. It wasn’t just the worst game in the history of the Nashville Aces, but all of the NFL. I’d like to say I’m kidding, but I’m not.
It was bad.
No one could hold on to the damn football. It’s almost like it was covered in lubricant—although I can damn sure hold onto my dick when it’s coated in the stuff. The plays were all disastrous, and don’t even get me started on the offensive line.
Fucking pathetic.
And yeah, I did a terrible job, too. I couldn’t catch the ball to save my life. I couldn’t avoid a tackle. The only thing that resembled a tight end on that field was my ass in these pants.
It can’t keep happening.
There’s no way.
While the Aces aren’t exactly sitting pretty at the top of the NFL, that shouldn’t affect me. I should still play like a star, but every time I get out on the field, I end up looking like a dud. It’s only my second year in the NFL, but still…I should be better. We should all be better.
I just need to figure out how to get my head promptly removed from my ass before the coach does it for me. Or worse, benches me for the rest of the season. Joining the Aces has been humbling. I was top dog at the University of Texas, one of the top teams in the nation, and now that I’m back home in Tennessee, I’m part of a sub par team and I just can’t seem to get it together.
Not sure if it’s me, them, or all of us that’s the problem.
I’m working my ass off on and off the field, but I haven’t got much playing time yet. This season is supposed to be my opportunity to prove myself.
Which obviously hasn’t happened yet.
If I can’t work harder, be the best, it might not. And that’s just unacceptable.
“You know, when I decide to throw you the ball next time, you might want to catch it.” Gunner punches my shoulder as I shove my suit jacket in my duffel and zip it up.
I scoff, slinging the bag over my shoulder, barely suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. If he were anyone else, I’d have told him to fuck off before he finished his sentence. But Gunner Rose is not only my best friend, but one of the two people in this world who get a free pass to say whatever they want.He’s not wrong, but still.
“Maybe next time, throw it somewhere in my general vicinity instead of out of bounds. I don’t think that camera guy was ready to join the play.”
If the terrified expression on his face when the football was spiraling right toward him was any indication, he was not.
Gunner smiles wide, cracking his knuckles before leaning down to tie his dress shoes. “Don’t want to make your job too easy.” He grunts and slips on his suit jacket. “Are you going home or…?”
I’d love to tell him I’m going home, watch some trash TV, and head to bed. I’d love not to see the disappointment seeping into his eyes as I shuffle my feet and glance to the floor, but there it is. He knows exactly what I’m going to do, what I’ve been doing since I joined the NFL—losing myself in some anonymous woman. It’s a few hours where I don’t have to be myself. I don’t have my own expectations pressing down on my shoulders. And I sure as fuck don’t have the oppressive grief threatening to choke me at every turn.
I can turn off my brain. I can be someone else.
I can feel a bit of the freedom I felt before…well, just before.
“I feel like it’s going to be an option B kinda night.”
He shakes his head, smoothing down his suit. “You really should get yourself a girlfriend.”
“Like you?” I fire back, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t know. No one does. Not like he can talk anyway. He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since…ever. “Besides, you know I can’t do that. If it’s not football, I don’t have time for it.”
Which isn’t untrue.
Gunner throws his head back with a laugh, slapping me on the back. “Excuse me, I forgot you were married to the game.”
Another jab in the chest and I force my brightest smile. Fake it till you make it.
It’s how I survived the past couple years and it’s how I’ll continue in the future.
There are a couple unwritten rules I live my life by. No more falling in love. Football is life. That’s it.
I don’t have time for anything else. No complications. No distractions. No exceptions.
I say my goodbyes to Gunner and make my way out of the stadium to my recently restored 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500R. My own little Eleanor. After watching Gone in 60 Seconds, I was obsessed. But since my mom and I scraped by with what little money my sperm donor left us, there was no way I could even afford a model until I got my first big contract.
As a fuck you to my piece of shit father, I traded in my old piece of shit car and my mom’s old Durango and took over all her living expenses. Neither one of us would depend on him again.
This car is sleek. Powerful. Sexy. It always elicits looks when I’m driving.
Envious looks from men and how-you-doing looks from the ladies. Guys want to drive it and women want to drive me in it. Especially that one crossing the street in front of me in a tight little gold dress, throwing fuck-me eyes my way. Her boyfriend looks like he’d object but picking up taken women isn’t my style anyway.
So I head to my favorite dive bar, a little Irish pub called Bangers. I like it for a few reasons: the bartender makes my favorite Black and Tan with the beer on tap, and there’s a hotel conveniently across the street. Plus, with a name like Bangers, all sorts of women show up there. Some because they think the name is funny—which it is—and others who are literally looking for just that.
It’s a little busier than usual but since there was a game tonight, it’s not surprising. People in Nashville come out in droves to cheer on anything football. Being a professional athlete in this town is as good as being a celebrity.
Well, maybe we’re not as well known as the country music stars around here, but it’s enough in situations like this where the crowds are parting for me as I shoulder my way through the throngs of drinkers to get to my favorite spot at the bar. It’s around the back corner so I can look out and watch the crowd without having to turn away from the bartender and the flowing drinks. The locals know to vacate that stool when I show up, and the occasional tourist gets booted before I get there.
Fuck.
I should’ve known tonight wasn’t going to be my night; not after that disaster of a game. I can see through the crowd that my favorite seat is very much occupied.
Double fuck.
I can’t see her face, but I can make out two delicate hands tapping red polished nails against the gleaming wood of the bar top. She’s got a few people standing in front of her so I can’t make out any specifics, but it looks like she’s surrounded by a white halo. That can’t be right. Doesn’t matter anyway though, she can take her angelic ass and move it somewhere else.
Whatever she has going on is not my problem.
The closer I get, the more flashes of white I see. There’s sparkly white gauzy material and lots of it. Maybe I hit my head during one of those tackles. There’s no fucking way I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. No way. Not in my bar and certainly not in my chair.
The guys standing in front of her move as I get closer, revealing her in all her glory, and I nearly swallow my tongue. The mysterious woman occupying my spot is wearing a damn wedding dress. A horrible one. There are layers upon layers of fluff engulfing her. A beaded bodice shines like a beacon under the bar’s low light. She’s even got a crown on top of her intricately styled hair. Who the fuck is this girl?
Despite the dress and my surprise at seeing her in it, I can see that she’s a stunner. Petite and curvy with gorgeous dark brown eyes and glossy red lips I want trailing all over my body. I want that red lipstick in places it has no business being and then I want her to lick it off.
Her caramel hair is pinned in intricate braids and curls and my fingers flex, wanting nothing more than to pull out every last pin, shake it all loose, and have her wearing that crown while she rides my face.
Not something I plan on doing anywhere outside my head because in this getup, I know for certain she’s not for me.
She’s in a goddamn wedding dress. She might as well be wearing a giant red flag and it’s waving right at me.
This girl is trouble.
Something tells me she’s not looking for conversation anyway. She has a deep scowl etched across her beautiful face, on what should be the happiest day of her life, and a death grip around the Bangers’ signature raspberry and lime vodka soda.
Still, I can’t stop staring at her dress and that ridiculous crown.
It’s a little too early for Halloween and this doesn’t look like anything you could buy in even the fanciest costume stores. Plus, that stare of hers has my balls retreating inside my body for safety. No one is that angry in a Halloween costume.
I should be running in the opposite direction. I should take this as a sign to go home, put my feet up, and eat a pint of ice cream. Especially since the only free seat at the bar is right next to her.
But dammit. I need a drink.
It’s not like I’m going to be the one marrying her. Never again.
The second I park my ass in that chair, she turns to me, studying my face with her deep brown eyes. The scowl never leaves her face. “How do you know that seat wasn’t taken?”
“Well, I don’t.” I rest my elbows on the bar and steeple my hands in front of me. “Is there a groom around here somewhere I should be watching out for?”
She mumbles something unintelligible and resumes the staring contest with her cocktail. Again, I should leave her alone. I shouldn’t engage in conversation. I should mind my own fucking business. So tell me why my mouth opens and I just keep on talking?
“Am I to assume that’s a no?”
Her answer is another string of mumbles I can’t make out. I shouldn’t be amused, and I damn sure know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help the satisfied rumble in my chest.
The mystery woman’s ruby red lips curl into the slightest hint of a smile before she realizes her slip and flattens them in a straight line.
“You can assume whatever you want.” She pauses and takes a small sip of her drink. “Just don’t talk to me.”
“What am I allowed to do to you?”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop myself and lay heavy between us.
Her eyebrows rise, her plump little lips forming an “oh” of surprise. Join the club, princess. I’m surprised myself. Fuck. I really need to reign this shit back in. She’s either taken or on Facebook as it’s complicated and I don’t do complicated.
There’s no noticeable ring on her ringer, I can’t—and won’t—assume there’s nobody waiting for her at home. Marriage vows are to important to break for an empty fuck and I refuse to help someone cheat.
“That depends.” She straightens and stirs the straw around in her glass, clinking the ice together. “Actually, it doesn’t matter.” She huffs a laugh, but it’s hollow. Empty. “In my experience, I’ve found men to be selfish and lack the ability to bring women to orgasm. The odds are stacked against you. Sorry. You might want to look somewhere else.”
I should look literally anywhere else.
But dammit. Beautiful and snarky.
It’s not every day a woman intrigues me and even rarer that one keeps me on my toes. I need to find out her story and if she’s single, I’ll push her a little, because she piques my interest which is something that doesn’t happen often.
And did she say men can’t give her orgasms?
Because Jesus H Christ. That means she’s not been properly taken care of and a woman like her has needs. And dirty fantasies that need to be explored.
Trust me, she has dirty fantasies. I know it, and she knows it. The fact that she’s staring at me with wide eyes and hasn’t slapped me yet is all the proof I need. Not to mention the shadow of intrigue behind those big brown eyes of hers.
“If I give you an invitation to sit on my face, the question won’t be if I can bring you to orgasm, Princess. It’ll be how many times.”