Chapter Eleven #2
Darcy rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”
My roommate had likely heard — and seen — enough when it came to my list of sexual acts I wanted to achieve in my lifetime.
It was nothing serious, just something fun I’d drafted up when I was traveling abroad and realized there was absolutely nothing wrong with centering my pleasure — no matter how badly society tried to convince me otherwise.
I’d done a few things on the list already. Threesome? Check. Getting fingered while on the phone? Check. Riding a man’s face? Checkity-check.
But there were still plenty of things left on that list, and I didn’t want to just check them off with anyone.
If I learned anything in my time experimenting with it, it was that I didn’t particularly enjoy one-night stands, or doing these things with just any man who I found slightly attractive.
Unfortunately — likely because I grew up with parents who were stupid in love and always doting on one another — I actually preferred to have a connection with someone before we jumped into bed together.
I found I couldn’t relax enough to orgasm if I didn’t feel some sort of friendship first, some sort of relationship that made me both horny and comfortable.
Damn my genetic makeup.
And so, the list had been untouched for a few years now.
But Braden had me desperate to break it back out and blow the dust off.
He also had me desperate to blow some other things.
“What? It’s healthy to have goals, Darc,” I said.
“I don’t think give road head is what they mean when they say that.”
“Sounds like a great goal to me,” Marcus muttered in disagreement.
“I also have receive road head on there,” I pointed out. “See? I’m prioritizing self-care. I think it’s admirable.”
Marcus snickered.
Darcy sighed again.
And then, her eyes tripled in size and she grabbed my phone and held it behind her back. “Hi, Claire!”
Marcus and I spun in place, our smiles too wide as we greeted our director — who was watching all of us with narrowed eyes.
“You look stunning today, Miss Woodrow,” Marcus said, waving his hand over her. “I think we’ve found our cover of the calendar right here.”
“There’s no need for the flattery, Marcus. You already made the team,” she said, even keeled and impatient. Her eyes were still assessing us. “Darcy, they’re ready for you in photography. Emily, don’t go too far — you should be up in ten.”
“I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room and I’ll be right back,” I promised, feet already carrying me toward the exit.
Claire pointed to the bathrooms attached to our dressing room. “We have restrooms right here.”
I smiled, blinking at the door she pointed to and then back at her.
“Someone had a nasty case of belly trouble in there, I think,” Darcy said, and all our gazes swung to her. She grimaced and shook her head. “It doesn’t smell the most pleasant at the moment.”
Claire wrinkled her nose before waving me off. “Very well. But hurry — Claude Dubois waits for no one.”
I nodded at the reference to the man who had photographed the team for two decades now before saluting Claire and jogging toward the door. I paused when I pushed through it, turning to mouth a thank you to Darcy.
She just gave me a pointed look and tapped her wrist, telling me wordlessly not to waste any time.
My stomach was in knots as I hustled down the hallway toward the team store stock room. I was smoothing my hair for a split second before I realized what I was doing and stopped dead in my tracks.
Am I… nervous?
I laughed at myself, shaking my head before I let out a long exhale and slowed my pace.
I didn’t hurry for any man.
Even one as alluring as Braden Lock.
Still, my body betrayed my common sense the closer I got to the team store.
I hadn’t seen Braden in three weeks — since the day I convinced him to choose himself for once and buy the car he wanted.
He’d done it, walking off the lot with a sexy Bronco that he beamed behind the wheel of.
He’d driven me home, dropping me off with his eyes raking the surrounding area like he was afraid we’d get caught.
“See you around,” he’d said.
“See you,” I’d replied.
And yet we hadn’t seen a damn thing since.
I knew better than to text him or call him or try to make up some reason to see him.
He was right — we had signed a no fraternization clause in our contract.
And as much as I teased about flirting with that line, I cared about my position on this squad just as much as he cared about his on the football team.
I thought that was where it would rest — that we’d been able to sneak a couple days together thanks to a car breakdown situation and that would be it.
Maybe we’d smile at each other on the field during warmups.
Maybe our eyes would catch when he ran out from the tunnel and I was there to cheer him on, pompoms rustling between my hands.
I sure as fuck didn’t expect him to text me and suggest we meet in secret.
But I definitely wasn’t upset about it.
I was looking around to make sure no one was watching — which was kind of silly, provided it was the offseason and this end of the stadium was completely dead right now — when I rounded the corner that would take me to the stock room.
And when I looked straight again, I found Braden Lock leaning one shoulder against the stock room door, his arms crossed and chin tilted down like he was just having a moment of meditation rather than waiting to meet up with a dancer he very much was not supposed to hang out with.
He was in full uniform.
And my mouth watered instantly.
Fuck.
The white Seahawks jersey clung to his broad shoulders, the navy numbers stretching over muscle that looked like it had been carved from marble.
His pants hugged powerful thighs that could probably snap me in half without much effort, and the bright slash of neon green along the seams of his pants only drew more attention to his beastly build.
His helmet rested on the ground by his cleats, leaving his hair free — a mess of light brown waves that looked like someone had tried to tame them for the cameras and failed halfway through.