Dirty Player(14)

He lifted his brow before shaking off whatever thought he had. “Both. I can get the shake, though.”

“No problem.” I turned back to the fridge and pulled out the small container along with two bottles of water.

The blender was already out on the countertop, so I helped myself to it, dumping in the contents of the veggies before reaching for the jar of protein powder on the counter.

“You make these a lot?” Oliver asked as he reached around me and twisted off the top of the water bottle. “Beaux make you take care of him?”

I stiffened at the mention of my brother—how anything I’d done to help him succeed was because he’d made me. “No. I make them because I care about him.”

He was silent for a moment while I dumped in the powder, and then the only sound in the room was the whirling of the blender. I blended it longer than necessary, stabbing buttons to turn it off, unable to hide my irritation.

“Tell me about him. What’s Beaux really like?”

I frowned at the question. “He’s Beaux. I’m not sure I understand.”

Taking the mixer out of my hands, Oliver twisted and reached for a glass, dumping the thick green sludge inside.

He slammed it back, chugging it in one swallow, and cringed before he cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I have a hard time reading him. And in order to trust him, I need to know him.”

“Perhaps it’s his trust you have to earn.” I arched a challenging brow. Yeah, Oliver was the veteran on the offensive line, and he was team captain. But Beaux was still the QB. He had to trust who he was throwing the ball to, not the other way around.

“Can we talk about him without you getting defensive?”

I ground my teeth together. Was that what I’d been doing? For so long, it had just been Beaux and me against the world. It was a hard wall to drop.

“Sorry. What is it?” I reached for my own water and took a seat at the small but cozy kitchen table.

This time, Oliver seemed to measure his thoughts before speaking. “Is he really as laid-back as he seems?”

I tilted my head. “Yeah. I guess. He doesn’t let anything get to him. Is that why you’ve been such a dick to him? You don’t think he takes this shit seriously?”

“There are men who join the game for the game and not the work.”

I snorted. If he only knew. “How cute. I’ll tell Beaux that. He’ll think it’s fucking hilarious. You think he made it as far as he has based solely on natural talent and not his work ethic? How fucking hypocritical of you.”

Oliver’s water bottle crushed inside his death grip. “He lacks intensity. It worries me.”

“He has confidence in his ability and the members of his team in spades. That keeps him loose.”

It hit me then, why it bothered him so much. My irritation that had prickled at the first question began to flicker and disappear. “That’s why it bothers you, isn’t it? He’s enjoying himself out there. Playing his hardest, loving the ride and the life and the game and hell, everything else he has to do in order to get on top and stay there, and it pisses you off he does that while still having fun.”

His lip curled. I’d made my point.

“Tell him he’s hesitating a half-second too long in the pocket. He needs to speed up his throws or he’s going to get sacked every game.”

“Maybe you should get open quicker.”

Another lip curl. Another wave of irritation rolled off him like a tidal wave. Something else I couldn’t miss sparked and burned brighter.

“Fucking hell,” Oliver growled. “How is it that you’re pissing me off, and all I can think about is bending you over this table and fucking the attitude out of you?”

A delicious, warm shiver rolled down my spine.

“You want that?” He stepped forward, setting the damaged bottle on the counter. “Do you know how fucking hot it is that I can read every thought that flashes through your eyes? You hide nothing from me.”

That could be a disaster at some point.

I swallowed a huge gulp of water to settle my nerves and stood from my chair. “Exactly how would you like it to happen?”

I turned my back to him then and pulled his gray shirt, which I’d thrown on earlier, over my head.

I’d barely gotten it tossed onto the floor when one of his hands was at my hip, the other between my shoulder blades, pushing me down.

And then my shorts were pulled down, my legs kicked apart.

His lips hit my shoulder and I heard the tear of foil right before his cock drove into me, not giving me time to adjust—but I was already wet and ready for him.

When we were done, he learned that even a deliciously hard fucking that was quick and powerful wasn’t enough to erase the attitude from me.





Chapter EIGHT





OLIVER



I moved more hay into Winne’s stall, my back hurting worse than it should have been. It’d been bugging me for months now. Not painful, but a dull ache that never seemed to go away despite pain meds and deep tissue massages and chiro appointments.

Yesterday and last night’s activities had made the pain flare up, but I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

I was still hoping to finish cleaning out the stalls before Shannon woke up. The sun was just starting to rise, and while I knew she said she had to get home early, I figured I still had time.

I had plans for her before I had to take her back to her brother’s.

We’d reached an impasse yesterday when I’d talked about Beaux. Her defense of him along with the fact that she’d read me so well made me not want to jump into that topic of him ever again.

He wasn’t going to kick my ass for fucking his sister. And I might try to be less of a dick to him.

I pushed people.

I always had. I wanted to be the best and needed to know everyone else on my team wanted the same thing. Seeing someone so kicked back and chill over practices and incomplete throws and bad plays ate at something deep inside me.

Shannon had also been right—not that I’d admit it. I’d lost the enjoyment of the game a long time ago.

I loved football. It was rooted down deep in me, inside my marrow. Over the last few years, it’d been too hard to stay on top. Too much work to stay the number one tight end in the league. Too much work to stay pain free. I was kidding myself if I wasn’t getting tired of it. Plus, at thirty, retirement was knocking on my door, whispered through the halls and in the voices of sportscasters—not to mention in my own head, late at night when the sounds of birds and crickets were all I heard.

It was barreling down on me. I had another two or three years at most, and that damn gold ring was calling to me—laughing at me in the distance, mocking my inability to take my team there earlier.

And yeah, maybe that was why I drove Beaux harder, pushed him more than I ever would have Mason.

I wasn’t pissed that Mason had gone free agent and Beaux had been traded. I was pissed that Mason and I hadn’t been the ones to bring the Super Bowl win to Raleigh.

I wanted it. I wanted the parade and the madness and the recognition that my team was the best.

We had it in us.

Next to me, Hulk battered against the door of his stall, anxious for his early morning ride I didn’t have time for.

“Settle, boy.” I moved the remaining hay around Winne’s stall before propping the pitchfork on the far wall. I went to the stall she was waiting in and moved her back into hers before locking the door and going to see Hulk.

His black eyes narrowed when I came closer, that distrust so similar to Shannon’s when I spoke dirty to her.

She didn’t trust me, and she shouldn’t. So far I’d worked to earn Hulk’s, but if things went according to my plan with Shannon, there was no point in earning hers.

She’d be gone before there was time anyway.

Hulk whined and bucked against the door again, thrusting his head out of the stall and toward a noise I couldn’t yet hear, but I still turned to look at the barn doors just in time to see Shannon rush through them.

Her curly hair was wild and untamed, flying out behind her when she slid in the dirt and braced herself against the doorway.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She was breathless, a hand pressed to her chest. She’d also already thrown back on yesterday’s barely existent outfit of her swimsuit and cover-up.

I scowled at the look. She’d ruined my idea of waking her up with my mouth all over her.

“I’m here.” I walked toward her and checked my watch. “What are you doing up? It’s still before six.”

“I told you I had to get home early today.”

She had, but early by most people’s standards wasn’t before seven. Another way I’d underestimated her, apparently.

“Do you have to go now?” I asked, cutting the distance between us by half. “Because I’m done here, and I was thinking of joining you in bed, my mouth on you, your hands digging into my hair, your legs spread open for me.”

Her breathing faltered when I reached her. I placed my gloved hands on her hips, smiling as she shivered at my touch.

She was so transparent. So pliant. Her pink tongue darted out and swiped her lips.

Instead of taking me up on my offer, she stepped back and pushed her hands through her unruly hair.

“I can’t. I really have to get back to town and get to work. There’s so much to do.” Her voice thickened as she looked up at me, long black lashes flickering wildly as pink burst onto her cheeks. “And, well, I’m really sore.”