Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(37)

I try to catch my breath, but once again they’re facing off. Tahoe hunches low, glancing in my direction for just a second. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to make me suppress another squirm. He’s very menacing. No emotion on his face as he turns his head just a fraction, his colored visor flashing with the move.

Each team has ten players. The goalie, three defenses, three midfield men, three attackers—then two referees. Tahoe is the center midfield man, the one who faces off and fights for possession of the ball every time a game begins or a goal is scored.

He’s super quick, muscular in form and as athletic as a pro.

On his second face-off, he makes a fast break—claiming the ball with a flick of his wrist, a run, and a perfect pass. His team member catches and throws, and when team Black’s defense steps in to scoop up the ball, Tahoe charges forward.

“Check him, check him!” someone cries beside me.

Tahoe checks him by slapping his stick into the other guy, throwing checks left and right as he fights to recover possession. Before I know it, he’s not only scooped up the ball, but immediately passed it to a team member a foot away from the goal.

“Score Red!”

I can tell he’s comfortable with both hands, even his off hand. I can also tell he’s an aggressive, no-nonsense player. If anyone has the ball, he wants it, and he’ll check and use his speed, his wits, his everything to get it.

During the third face-off, he looks at me again. I came alone, am sitting here surrounded by strangers, but I don’t feel alone simply because he keeps turning his head to look at me in a way that makes me feel as if I’m with him.

His head remains tilted in my direction—they face off.

“Possession Black!”

His opponent runs with it; Tahoe gets so mad he charges forward and trucks him to the ground. “Unnecessary roughness,” the announcer says. “Illegal procedure number zero-zero, penalty box, thirty seconds.”

“Oh, that always happens,” someone beside me tells his friend. “He plays so aggressive, he always gets a penalty.”

I watch Tahoe grip his stick angrily as he storms to the box, seething as he drops down on one knee, his head canted up at the clock, waiting impatiently. A trainer approaches to offer him water, and he declines with a shake of his head.

The backup does the face-off, and the announcer soon calls, “Score Black!”

As the teams position at the center of the field again, Tahoe charges out of the penalty box.

He leans forward, in position to face off. He’s seething testosterone as he scoops up the ball and runs with it, so powerful that he throws the ball from far away. The ball blows up-field and the goalie sweeps to the right, but the ball hits the top shelf, right at the bar, then bounces inside.

“Outside shot, score Red!”

I can feel the energy in the stands increasing, people excited that this is going to be a big-scoring game.

They face off again. Eye to eye—his head turning a fraction.

God, will he stop looking at me?

I watch him intently, noting how he puts his head over the ball, pitches it upward with his wrist, swiftly scoops it up, and runs like the devil. Defense charges forward; Tahoe fakes it, and when they fall for it, he takes two more steps and puts it in. “Score Red!”

“Score Red!”

“Score Red!”

“Holy shit, that was a 105-mile-per-hour shot!” someone near my seat cries.

During halftime he’s the only player who doesn’t remove his helmet or take water. He’s ready to go out again, eager to play.

I cannot take my eyes off him when he’s back on the field. I hardly know what’s happening with the other players because I’m watching only him. I wonder why he wanted me here. Why he wanted me to see how he possesses that ball, how strong he is, athletic he is, how fucking hot he looks with that visor. Passing fast, facing off, possessing the ball, time and again, shooting high to high, high to low, shooting into the ground at an angle that bounces in front of the goal and goes in.

The game lasts about two hours. Red wins 20-1, completely squashing their competitors.

The crowd cheers and whistles as their victory is declared. The players shuffle out, but rather than leave, I watch with accumulated nervous energy and excitement as zero-zero heads toward the stands.

He jerks off his sweaty jersey with one gloved fist. His visor tips upward in my direction.

He balls the fabric and in one powerful throw, just like the ones he did on the field, he throws his dirty, sweaty jersey directly onto my lap.

My seat neighbor reaches out to catch it with a thrilled, hungry little gasp.

“Nope,” I tell her, yanking it free from her hands.