Chapter 4 #2
Max leans forward to grab the handle, but I swat his hand away. “Nope. Can’t have you upsetting my feminine energy. Besides, Jake is here. I sure do appreciate your help.”
Jake gives me a huge grin as he grabs the handle, then grunts as he lifts it. I know it’s heavy. Denise talked me into multiple extra outfits “just in case.” I’m not entirely sure what kind of trouble she thinks I’m going to get into in Chicago at the end of March. “Damn. What do you have in here?”
“Extra clothes in case I need them,” I lie, then cover his hand with mine. “I can get it. It’s fine. I don’t want you to injure your arm before Opening Day.”
Jake looks relieved, then trots up the stairs. As I turn to place my hand on the railing, I feel my hair move. Jolting, I realize it’s not the wind, but Max’s face dangerously close to my hair. “Do you always smell like this?”
“Like what?” I ask breathily, my voice quite a bit higher than a moment ago.
“Like you bathe in peaches. Peach everything. But like you rolled in sugar too.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “Leave it to you to take a healthy food and fatten it up. And I don’t smell like peach anything, because I hate the fruit. We’ve talked about this.”
“It’s a fruit, that much I know. Is it pomegranate?” Max asks as he inhales deeply.
It is, but I’m not telling him. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Now let go of my suitcase so I can drag it up the stairs. Unless you’re desperate for extra ways to burn all the calories you ate in fried food today.”
“I’m sure there are other ways to burn calories that we’d both enjoy,” he mumbles.
“What did you say?” I ask incredulously, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Nothing.” Max motions for me to walk up the staircase. Silently, I march up the stairs, acutely aware of how close his face is to my ass. I thank him for carrying my suitcase, then quietly make my way to my seat.
The Raptors have their own airplane, as I’m sure most of the teams in the league do.
It’s a specialty 757 that gives most of the team lay-flat first-class seating.
Some teams even add things like card tables to their planes, but the Raptors just have seating.
While some of the coaching staff have better seating, I’m relegated to the back of the plane, in a standard economy seat.
It doesn’t matter to me. I plan to make notes for new recipes and look at some local distributors to source specific ingredients.
The flight is quiet. I don’t have any close friends on the staff yet, and I honestly figure it isn’t likely to happen anytime soon.
I’m the youngest by quite a few years, and also one of the only women on staff.
Most of my interactions are with the players, and I get a weekly reminder email from Human Resources about fraternization.
I have to wonder if every employee receives the same email, or if I’m singled out due to my age and gender.
I laugh to myself when I think about Mike, a physical therapist who is in his sixties, getting a weekly reminder not to canoodle with any of the players.
Thankful for the free wi-fi on the plane, I make a split-second decision to download a dating app again.
I already have a profile, using it sporadically throughout my twenties.
I mostly use it to find someone for a few dates, or a quick hookup, because I know there aren’t any men of good value on those things.
I’m not in a place in my life where I want to date long-term anyway.
My job is my partner for now. Maybe in a year or two, I’ll decide I want to share my life with someone.
But right now, I could use a release of a sexual nature, and the idea of meeting someone I definitely won’t see again is a huge plus.
Three hours later, after checking into the hotel and confirming the player meals were delivered correctly for dinner, I fall onto the bed with a relieved moan.
The Raptors try to have everyone under the same roof, but this first trip, a few of us are staying at a hotel across from the team’s hotel.
I don’t care if I’m at the same hotel. I appreciate that I’m not having to travel across town to ensure their needs are met every day we’re in Chicago, though.
Pulling out my phone, I open up the dating app. Might as well pass the time with some man-ogling. Swiping through potential matches, I find I’ve matched with someone who only features a silhouette picture of himself, from the back, named Ground Man.
“What the hell kind of name is that?” I murmur to myself.
The profile image is somewhat striking, featuring wide shoulders and a strong neck.
The man appears to be wearing a hat of some kind, but no logo or label tells me anything about him.
His overall profile is mostly vague information, but it does say he’s only in Chicago for a few days and is looking for some no-strings fun.
“Took the words right out of my mouth, Ground Man.”
I click through his few pictures, which are all pretty standard and lacking any detail about his physical features, and wonder if it’s a catfish situation.
This could be a fifty-year-old woman named Andrea for all I know.
There’s a picture of a man climbing the stairs at Red Rocks Amphitheater, and a very tiny warning bell sounds in the back of my head.
Could this possibly be someone from the team?
Only in town for a few days and a very vague profile?
No. These guys would be on that celebrity app, right?
Not on a normal dating app. And I’m certainly never getting an invite to the celebrity one.
“What the hell,” I whisper, clicking on the message icon. I send him a very respectful “hey” message, then jolt when I get an immediate response.
Ground Man: Hey.
Me: Okay, I need the deets on your name.
Ground Man: It’s a nickname I’ve had since high school.
Me: So that isn’t your real name? Thank GOD. I don’t think I could move forward with you if that were the case.
Ground Man: Oh?
Me: I can’t imagine myself getting all hot and bothered, and being forced to say, “Oh, yes, Ground Man, don’t stop!” Just doesn’t roll off the tongue that well.
Ground Man: That’s fair.
Me: Why the secrecy over your name? Protecting your real identity?
Ground Man: Something like that. You don’t really have room to talk. Your name is Kale Kween.
Me: I like Kale. But that could be a real name, you know.
Ground Man: Give me one example of someone named Kale.
Ground Man: Ah, fuck. I just googled it. There are people named Kale. Who knew?
Me: I did. Obviously.
Ground Man: Your real name isn’t Kale.
Me: No.
Ground Man: You gonna share what it really is?
Me: Are you going to share yours?
Ground Man: No.
Me: Then I’m not either.
Ground Man: How are we supposed to see if you’ll really tell me not to stop if we don’t know each other’s names?
Me: I just won’t say yours. “Oh God, right there, don’t stop, yes!” See? It’s fine.
Ground Man: And what should I call you as I’m making you come?
Me: Baby works.
Ground Man: Alright, baby. Tell me something about yourself.
Me: How detailed are we getting? Careers, where we live, family things? Or should we keep it fairly simple and just talk about sex?
Ground Man: I have to admit, I like how straightforward you are. No details. Definitely nothing about careers or families. I’m only in town briefly, and I only make it back to Chicago a couple of times a year. This won’t go anywhere after this week. Are you good with that?
Me: I am. I’m also visiting. I rarely come to Chicago. Anything you recommend?
Ground Man: Navy Pier. Gotta see The Bean at least once in your life. The Skydeck is pretty cool, as long as you aren’t scared of heights. I like the Riverwalk. It’s cool for people watching. Tons of nightclubs, if that’s your scene.
Me: Eh. Not really. Maybe when I was in college. Now I’m too old to enjoy it.
Ground Man: Am I allowed to ask how old you are? Or is that too detailed?
Me: I don’t think it’s too detailed. I’m thirty.
Ground Man: Oh. Do you want to know my age?
Me: You can tell me. I’ll have to take your word for it, though. I still kind of think I’m talking to a Gen-Xer named Jessica or Ashley who just fucks with people on dating apps out of sheer boredom.
Ground Man: That’s oddly specific. Definitely not a Gen-Xer. Although I think I’m a millennial? I’m not sure. I don’t keep up with that kind of shit. I’m thirty-five.
Me: You are a millennial. I’m a hybrid, depending on what info you look at. Some say I’m a millennial, some say I’m Gen Z.
Ground Man: I have no idea what the difference is, other than age. And honestly? I don’t care one bit.
Me: I really don’t either. Bigger issues in the world than generation names.
Ground Man: Back to what is really important: let’s talk about why your profile has zero pictures of you.
Me: Excuse me, that cleavage picture is of me. Don’t even act like you didn’t swipe on me just because of that.
Ground Man: Actually, it was your quote of “I make myself laugh so much, I should date me.”
Me: I am a fucking delight, Ground Man.
Ground Man: I’ll keep that in mind.
Ground Man: Although your tits did appear to be nice ones.
Me: They are. They also love to be played with.
Ground Man: You gonna let me play?
Me: I might.
Ground Man: I bet they’d enjoy being fucked too. Bet you’d look fucking spectacular with my cum on your tits, and dripping off your tongue.
Me: As a matter of fact, I would look spectacular like that. As long as your dick could reach that far. For research purposes, how long are we talking?
Ground Man: I’ve had no complaints, baby. A thick eight inches.
Me: Oh, I love this for me. As a thirty-five-year old, how virile are the older men? I’ll admit, I tend to have extracurriculars with men closer to my age.
Ground Man: I don’t think you’ll be upset. In fact, I bet you enjoy how many times I can make you come before I do.
Ground Man: Tell me, baby. Are you touching yourself right now? Because I am.
Me: God, yes. I’ve been on the edge since your first message.
Ground Man: I know, sweet girl. I bet you’re just aching to have me fill you up.
Me: Fuck, yes! I need it so badly.
Ground Man: I’m imagining how wet you are.
Me: So wet.
Ground Man: God damn. I bet you’re hot and wet, and you’d feel so perfectly snug warming my cock. You stroking that clit for me?
Me: Yes. I’m so close.
Ground Man: Imagine me with my hand wrapped around your neck. My other hand is strumming your clit. I can feel you tensing around me. You’re gonna make me come.
Me: Coming!
Ground Man: Damn. Not how I expected our convo to go, but I’m not upset about it in the slightest.
Me: Whew. I needed that more than I realized.
Ground Man: How long are you in Chicago?
Me: A few days.
Ground Man: I’d really like to meet in person. I’ve got an event tomorrow night, and won’t be able to meet until pretty late. Probably around eleven.
Me: That’s actually good for me. I really want to meet you, too. I need to see if you’re exaggerating the thick eight inches or not.
Ground Man: Nope. All me.
Me: Your modesty is remarkable.
Ground Man: Not about modesty. I know what I bring to the table. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sweet girl.
Me: Until then, Ground Man.