CHAPTER 39 Ford Bradley
Spank Bank
The next ten days are a whirl of hot sex with my new wife and football…and a few headlines here and there about my new wife and football.
Once our wedding photos hit the media, her phone started ringing off the hook with couples wanting to book Winston Manor.
She’s busy.
But she still makes time for me. For sex.
Sex in our bed. Sex bent over the terrace. Sex on the kitchen counter. The kitchen table. In the pantry—the site of the first place we ever had any sort of intimacy outside of a kiss.
It’s a lot of sex as we make up for lost time, and each new experience we share feels better than the ones that came before it as we bond over this new transition in our relationship.
But as we slide into Wild Card Weekend, I know I need to take my foot off the gas just a little even though I don’t want to.
I’m loving this new side to our relationship. But I need rest. I need focus. And I have neither when I’m staying up all hours of the night focusing on my wife’s cunt instead of studying the film my coach gave me.
I need to be prepared, maybe especially because we’re the underdogs. We’re playing in Detroit this weekend, and it’s going to be one of the toughest matchups of the season. But everyone loves a good underdog story, and the Beasts are ready to put up a fight.
If we lose this game, that means our season is over. If we win, we advance to the divisional round, where we’ll face another tough opponent.
I don’t want it to be over.
I want to fight.
But at the same time, I’m ready to have time to focus on Tatum. I’ve never really had this sort of conflict before.
“I hate to even say this, but I need to work tonight,” Tatum says over dinner on Thursday night. “We’re closing in on Lindsay and Devon’s wedding date, and I have so much to do still.”
“Can I help?” I ask before I really think it through. The truth is that I have a lot to do, too.
“I’m sure I can find stuff for you to do, but don’t you have film to review?”
“I do,” I say, shooting her a bit of a guilty look. “I have a lot to review, to be honest. I’ve been focusing on my wife instead of on football.” I pull a face. “I’d rather focus on you, but we have to beat the Lions this weekend or we’re out.”
She reaches over and grabs my hand in hers. “I know. So go beat the hell out of them.”
“I want you there.”
She looks surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah. I can get you tickets, and I want you there. In my jersey.”
“Won’t it be cold?” she asks, wrinkling her nose at the thought of sitting at the game.
“It’s a climate-controlled dome.”
She laughs. “Oh! Great. Then I’m totally in.”
I chuckle as I text our player engagement staff member that I need a single ticket in the best seat possible for Sunday.
Seeing her there in the stands cheering me on will give me everything I need.
I fly with the team the day before our game, and she flies out later the same evening. I’m busy running through drills and plays, so we don’t get much time to talk. But I did manage to find time to leave a gift in her hotel room just so she’ll know I’m thinking of her.
I know the moment she finds it because I get a text.
Tatum: FORD! This is so perfect.
Me: I’m glad you like it. Can’t wait to see it on.
Tatum: Can I see you?
Me: It’s curfew. I have to stay in my room.
Tatum: I can come to you…
Me: Don’t tempt me. If I get caught, I’ll get my ass handed to me.
Tatum: Does this tempt you?
A photo comes through a moment later of her wearing the gift I left in her room—a women’s jersey with the number 86 on it with my last name emblazoned on the back.
Her last name now, too.
And it appears to be all she’s wearing.
My mouth waters as my cock hardens.
Me: It’s more than tempting.
Tatum: So what are you going to do about it?
I debate what to do. I can’t leave my room, and I can’t invite her to mine.
But nobody is in my room with me. We could have a little fun…
I snap a picture and send it to her before I even think twice. It’s a shot of my hand down my shorts. I’m not showing any skin, but it’s a clear enough message that I’m holding my cock in my hand and I’m ready to start stroking it.
Tatum: Wishing it was my hand.
Me: What are you doing with your hand?
Tatum: I wasn’t doing anything, but seeing that image has me doing this now.
She sends back a picture similar to mine, and my mind runs wild with the possibilities of what her fingers are doing down there.
Me: Tease that cunt for me. Slide a finger inside, but don’t touch your clit yet.
Tatum: Why not?
Me: Because I’ll tell you when I’m getting close so we can come together.
Tatum: How am I supposed to text you while I’m coming?
Me: You’ll figure it out if you want it bad enough. Now take a tit out and pinch your nipple for me.
She sends me a picture.
A goddamn picture of her nipple held tight between her fingertips, which means her other hand isn’t in her pussy anymore.
Her face isn’t in it, but Christ, that image is going in the spank bank for the rest of time.
Me: You stopped touching your cunt.
Tatum: Only to send you that pic. Sliding my finger back in…now.
Me: How does it feel?
Tatum: I like it better when it’s your finger, but getting these directions over text message is kinda hot.
Me: Just kinda hot? Maybe I need to step it up.
I pull my cock out of my shorts, grip it at the base, and take a picture. I send it to her.
Tatum: Oh my God, Ford. That’s hot as hell.
Me: That’s more like it. I’m going to slide my hand up and down it and think of your sweet, hot cunt while I do it.
Tatum: I want to touch my clit.
Me: Not yet.
Tatum: Please?
Me: No.
I stroke harder as her texts come faster.
Tatum: Ford, please.
Tatum: I need to.
Me: Not yet, baby. Take your time. Pull your finger out and taste yourself.
I picture her dragging her finger out of her cunt as her lips twist and her eyes flash with the agony of needing a release. I hear her sweet, soft moans and her pleas to let her have it.
Tatum: I wish it was you tasting me. I wish I had your cock in my mouth right now.
Me: That’s my hot, dirty wife. I wish my cock was slipping into your ass right now.
Tatum: Oh, God, Ford. I want you to fuck me there.
Me: I will, baby.
I think about fucking her in the ass, and it sends me to another level. My strokes get shorter and faster as the heat tears down my spine.
Me: I’m getting close. Rub your clit.
Instead of a text reply, she sends a voice clip. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she moans. “Ford, yes. I’m coming. Oh fuck, I’m coming so hard.” She’s whimpering by the end, and it’s enough to send me into my own release.
I manage to hit the audio message button, and it’s all ragged breathing and heavy grunts of her name as my release plows into me. “Fuck!” I roar as the surge bursts onto my hand.
Tatum: *saves audio file to add to spank bank*
Me: Women have spank banks?
Tatum: Of course they do!
Me: That’s hot as fuck, Tate.
Tatum: [laugh emoji]
Me: Saving your audio file as well.
Instead of texting goodnight, I hit the call button.
“You know,” she answers, “this would’ve been easier to do over an actual phone call versus a text from the start.”
I chuckle. Leave it to her to put me in my place seconds after an orgasm. “Listen, then you wouldn’t have that audio file for your spank bank.”
“Neither would you.”
“Good point. I just wanted to say goodnight, and I love you.”
“Goodnight, and I love you, too. Go get ’em tomorrow, okay?” she says.
“Absolutely.” I disconnect the call, and I head to bed with a warm feeling in my chest.
I sleep well, and I feel ready for game day when I wake.
I stretch a little to get my muscles warm with my pregame list blasting in my ears, and I head to the team breakfast. I eat light, allowing myself one piece of bacon along with an omelet, and I sit with Cole and a few of the wide receivers as we run through game scenarios together.
Coach Matthews gathers the tight ends to review our game plan, give us his extensive list of final reminders, and discuss our matchups.
Kickoff isn’t until four thirty, so we hold a walkthrough in one of the hotel’s ballrooms before we’re released for a team lunch while we each hydrate with our electrolyte drink of preference, mine being Gatorade, and then some guys meet with trainers for treatment while others move onto their own pregame routines.
I listen to my playlist as I pace my hotel room.
I try to block everything out and focus.
But I keep coming back to that picture of Tatum’s tits sitting on my phone. It’s distracting me.
I let myself look anyway.
I blow out a breath. We’re leaving for the stadium in twenty minutes. Now isn’t the time for an erection.
I force it away and head down to meet my teammates, and we board a bus to the stadium. As the team bus pulls away, I spot Tatum standing near the hotel entrance. She’s waving, and I wonder how I missed her as I walked through the lobby to get to the bus.
I wave, but the windows are tinted. There’s no way she can see me.
But she looks fine as hell wearing my number.
We arrive at the stadium, and I strategically lay out my gear the same way I always do. It’s a superstition for me, I guess. We head to the field for warm-ups, and I glance around at the crowd starting to gather.
This is it. I’m ready. We’ve practiced this hundreds of times. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.
We get dressed. We gather in a circle around Coach Wilder, and he’s fired up. “We’re here to win. Let’s show these Lions what kind of Beasts we are!”
He turns it over to the captains, who give similar sentiments and lead us in prayer, and then Coach Wilder has a few more words for us.
“This is it, team. This is everything we’ve worked for this whole season.
We got here because of hard work, so let’s show them what we’re made of.
Let’s focus on today, this game, this win.
Next week doesn’t matter. Next year doesn’t matter.
All that matters is what’s in front of us today.
Right now. We have sixty minutes to leave it all out there on the field.
Get out there and execute. Do the job you’ve trained for.
You’re prepared, you’re ready, and now it’s time to fight.
” He holds his hand out, and we gather around in a team huddle. “Beasts on three. One, two, three—”
“BEASTS!” The roar is solid and loud, a unified team ready to take on this opponent.
We race out to the field as our team is announced, and I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet to keep my muscles warm as the pre-game events take place.
I glance through the crowd for Tatum, and my eyes zero in on her about a third of the way up directly behind our sideline.
I tap the side of my helmet twice, and she grins down at me and goes wild as she waves at me.
She’s beautiful there, her blonde hair somehow swaying despite the fact that we’re indoors and there’s no breeze in here.
She’s watching me, waiting for some signal from me, and she’s thrilled that I gave her one.
I find myself wanting to play to impress her.
There’s an added fire to my reasons for wanting to win.
It’s no longer just for me. It’s so we have something else we can celebrate together.
She showed up for me, and somehow, it means more to me than I ever realized it would.
She’s not just my friend anymore. She’s my wife, and I want to do whatever I can to make her as happy as she makes me.
We sing the national anthem.
Our captains head out for the coin flip, which we lose, and the Lions defer the first play to us.
We take the field.
We’re fucking ready.
It’s the first snap of the game, and our center hikes it to Reggie. It’s a little high for him, and he misses.
He fucking misses, and the ball drops to the field. He scrambles for it, but the Lions’ defenders are all over that fucking ball. Reggie’s too late. We all are.
The Lions recover the ball, and the stadium goes absolutely wild. It’s deafeningly loud in here, and Coach Wilder tells Reggie to shake it off.
Reggie does not, in fact, take that advice.
He’s nervous, and it shows—especially after the Lions score on that first turnover.
It gets worse from there.
The best we can do is a few field goals, and our season is over with a shitty final score of thirty-four to nine.
I showed up. I did my job.
But it wasn’t enough.
Disappointment lances through me. If we just would’ve had Grant Landry here today instead of injured on the sidelines, we might’ve had a chance.
I can’t blame the loss entirely on Reggie. It’s a team effort.
But we sure could’ve used Grant’s quick thinking today instead of Reggie’s butterfingers.
Coach Wilder tried our third-string quarterback in the second half, and he’s the one that got us close enough to try for field goals. He’s the reason we weren’t shut out.
It was too little, too late.
The locker room is quiet.
I imagine Coach will be taking a harder look at the quarterbacks coming up in this year’s draft since our backup turned out to be a dud.
He gives us some platitudes about how we came together as a team, about how we can start looking forward to next season, about how we should be proud of the effort we gave in the face of so many obstacles. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. The truth is that our season is over now.
The bus ride to the airport is quiet.
The flight home is even quieter.
We head our separate ways. Tomorrow will be for cleaning out lockers and saying goodbyes and tackling the exit process, including interviews with Coach Matthews, Coach Wilder, and our general manager, Richard Ellery.
And that’ll be it. I’ll have a longer break than I did last year when we made it to the conference championship. That was one game away from the big one, and we lost it.
It felt like more of a heartbreak to lose that one than today’s game, which we were expected to lose.
Or maybe it’s the fact that this year, I have someone waiting at home. I’m not going home to an empty condo to stare out over the view for the next six months.
And right now, I can’t wait to get home to my wife.