Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(163)

"Oh, crap!" I hear one of the photographers cry out, but by then it's  already too late. I step off of the field, crashing through the line and  the photographers, and stumbling my way off of the field like a raging  tornado. I'm heading straight to that blonde girl and her friend, but I  can't stop my trajectory now. Step out of the way, ladies-incoming.

They jump out of their seats just in time; I crash on my back, right  against where they were sitting, the ball still pressed tight against my  chest. The seat under me seems like it's broken now but, on the bright  side, it seems like I got out of this in one piece.

I take a deep breath, ready to go back to the field, when my eyes find  that blonde girl. She's staring at me, her mouth hanging open as if she  still hasn't processed that I almost crashed into her.

Well, fuck it, I might have ruined the play, but I'm not going to ruin  this: still lying down on the ruins of the broken seats, I flash her my  game-winning smile.

"Danny Manning, nice to meet you."





124





Fiona





Holy crap, what the hell just happened?

One moment, I'm fantasizing about having Danny Manning between the  sheets, and the next he literally crashes down on the place I'm sitting.  I know I'm wet right now, but I never realized my pussy could summon  hot guys like that. Now that's a super power I don't mind having.

"Danny Manning, nice to meet you," he says with a grin, still sprawled  over the seats with the ball in his hand, and I almost pass out. Someone  pinch me; is this really happening?

"Fiona …  Fiona Barnett," I manage to say, looking at him in disbelief.  Still with that smile on his face, he slowly goes up to his feet and  starts ambling back to the field. When he walks past me he winks, and my  knees start buckling. Around us, the photographers are going crazy,  taking pictures of Danny as he keeps on smiling, acting as if he didn't  almost kill me just a few seconds ago.

When I go back to my seat-now a broken mess of twisted plastic-Christine is looking at me as if I have two heads.

"What?" I ask her. "Is it something on my face? My makeup?"

"Girl  …  Your makeup's fine. But, holy shit, he talked to you. He actually talked to you."

"I know … " I merely say, hardly believing that one of the most famous  athletes in the US-no, in the world!-just introduced himself to me on  live television. Now he's back on the field, and I bet that he has  already forgotten about me. I mean, he's Danny Manning; women throw  themselves at his feet every time he steps outside his home. And I'm  just Fiona, a normal girl trying to make her mark on the world as a  lawyer. Well, as a Law student actually, but whatever. Details, details.

"Holy crap!" Christine cries out, her eyes focused on what's happening  on the field. I follow her gaze just in time to see Danny sprinting down  the sidelines, zigzagging between the Miami MILFs' defense as quickly  and easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. Now, I don't know much  about football, but I don't think a quarterback is supposed to be  rushing down the field. Still, that's what Danny's doing, and he seems  hell bent of sprinting all the way down to the end zone.

"He's not gonna make it," Christine breathes out, grabbing my hand so  tightly she might break a finger or two. In front of Danny is what looks  like a giant, at least 7 feet high and weighing about a billion pounds.  Danny's just a few feet away from him, and at the speed he's going  there's no way he's going to avoid being tackled. Except that's exactly  what he does; as the lineman throws himself forward to grab Danny by the  waist, he crouches and then jumps, his legs working as coils to send  him flying over the Miami MILFs' giant. Somersaulting over the lineman,  he somehow manages to land on his feet right in the end zone.         

     



 

Everyone goes nuts.

The photographers are acting all crazy, and the roar that comes from the  crowd behind us is deafening. Even Christine's on her feet, screaming  as loud as she can and clapping her hands. I figure Danny's touchdown is  going to be a viral hit on YouTube the moment the game's over, which is  just a formality by now, really, the scoreboard makes that pretty  clear. With only ten minutes to go on the clock, the MILFs are down 27  points.

The game ends with one more perfect pass from Danny, leading to another  touchdown for the Nailers with seconds on the clock. When the referee  finally stops the game (or shall I say the massacre?), some of the  Nailers' players start doing laps around the field, carrying Danny on  their shoulders like he's the second coming of Christ. There's going to  be a lot of money to be made selling Danny Manning jerseys tonight,  that's for sure.

"We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic," I tell Christine,  but she's still staring at Danny's victory lap, her eyes suddenly  widening so much her eyes almost jump from their orbits.

"Fiona  … " she whispers, raising one finger and pointing behind me. I  turn on my heels, my eyes following the direction of her finger, and I  can barely believe what I'm seeing. Danny's jogging across the field, a  grin on his face, and he's coming straight toward us.

My legs grow weak, and the urge to simply run away takes over me. But  I'm frozen in place, watching my mouth hanging open as Danny strolls  toward me, an army of reporters trailing after him, and at least a dozen  cameras transmitting the whole thing live.

"Fiona," he says the moment he gets close enough. The reporters surround  us both, recording the whole thing and snapping pictures, and I feel  like I'm some kind of movie star in the middle of one important scene.  "Can I have your number?"

I almost pinch myself. Is he really asking for my phone number, or am I  dreaming this whole thing? He takes a pen out of the hand of a  journalist and then just looks at me, waiting with that confident grin  of his.

Still feeling as if I'm inside a dream, I give him my number and he jots it down on his forearm in big wide numbers.

"How does tomorrow sound? 8 pm at Per Se," he asks me, lowering his  voice so that only I can hear it, and I have to blink twice to  understand what he's saying.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"I sure am," he says, taking one step toward me. He towers over me, and I  become so wet I might just pass out from dehydration, if that's even  possible. "8 pm at Per Se, I'll meet you there," he whispers, leaning in  toward me.

"8 pm. Per Se," I repeat after him, completely stunned. With one final  wink, he turns on his heels and jogs back to the field, the army of  reporters following after him.

"Holy shit," I hear Christine say by my side, as stunned as I am. "You have a date with Danny Manning."

Holy shit indeed.





125





Danny





The limo stops outside of Pink Elephant and I get out and survey the line waiting out the door of the nightclub.

You ever seen a NFL game and the post game highlights? Sure you have, if  you don't live under a rock. Well, you always see some of the players  dressed up to the nines, right?

Suit and fucking tie. All showered and changed. Despite the fact that just an hour ago they were sweaty and fucking gross.

Sure, they probably have scars, bruises, cuts, and even broken bones.  But even with that internal bleeding they put on fly clothes. Dressed to  impress.

Well, this is fucking why.

I pause for a second before the press realizes that I'm standing there,  which they do soon enough. That's when the cameras go off and the flash  bulbs burn.

I mean, don't get me wrong. There's about sixty guys from the team over  here tonight. We're here to fucking celebrate a win that we weren't  expecting after all.

Pink Elephant is only the hottest fucking nightclub in New York City  right now. Situated in the Meatpacking District, it's got a vibe that  gets the girls fucking wet.

I mean, you can just see from looking around. They're turned around,  looking at the players. They're licking their lips, touching their  breasts. They're bending over. They're turning around..

In short, their doing everything that you would expect these women to do for football players.

I'm not going to say I've never indulged.

Fuck, actually the opposite. I think I've probably fucked most of the  girls in this line. But you know what? I never told them that I wanted  to fucking marry them, or put a baby in their belly. Never even told  them that I wanted to go steady or anything of the sort. Hell, I really  never even told them that I would see them past the weekend. But that  didn't stop them from dropping their clothes and getting on their knees.  From taking my cock into their mouths and then climbing on top of me  after they've gotten me good and fucking hard. From turning over and  getting on all fours as I amorally shucked into them and gave it to them  doggie.

By the morning, they were fucking forgotten, having been taken home by my limo.

But they still held hope. That one day ...

"Hey Danny," a random female from the pack yells. And all of a sudden, like a wave, they all seem to turn.