“I want an explanation.” His voice is quiet now, but tight, menacing.
What the fuck is he thinking?
“For what?”
“Why the fucking hell you’d spread your legs for that brainless jock and not look twice at me.”
I blink. My mouth starts moving before I can think about what it’s going to say. “The fact you’re threatening me physically in a corner at a party where we’re supposed to be having fun ought to give you about half a clue, asshole.”
His grin twists, half leer, half sneer. His hand lowers, as if he realizes on some level that he’s out of line. Beyond out of line. So far past inappropriate there’s not really a word for it.
“I’m just being friendly. In fact, I don’t want to threaten you at all. Let’s just make a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Sure.” He gives an insincere shrug. “You don’t want me to talk to Dr. Richards, so how about this? We head over to that corner”—he indicates a dark area of the room with a nod—“I’ll drop my pants, and you suck my dick until I tell you to stop. Then I won’t tell Dr. Richards a damn thing.”
My hand tightens on the champagne flute, and before I can think, I toss its contents into his face. “Get your hands off me, you fucking piece of shit.”
He backs off, more surprised than cowed, and I take advantage of the opportunity to slip away from him and out into the rest of the crowd. I can feel people watching, but I avoid eye contact. All I want to do is get away.
I head for the opposite end of the party, grabbing more champagne on the way. I’ve finished the first glass before I pass another tray, so I exchange the empty flute for a new one.
Before I know it, I’ve downed four glasses, and I’m still moving rapidly and aimlessly through the crowd. I’m getting dizzy. I’m also so angry I can barely contain it.
Finally, I find my way to a door that leads out of the club area and into the rest of the stadium. I push my way through it, unnoticed, and head for the one place that feels like a refuge to me—the locker room.
There’s no one there, of course, and the lights are down. I slip in and immediately feel better. I’m used to this place. Austin spends time here—so much I almost think I can sort his smell out of the multiple threads of other scents, but of course that’s my imagination. I head for the training room.
It’s so quiet, especially compared to the party I just left. I stop for a few minutes just to catch my breath and settle my breathing, to let the heavy pounding of my heart slow. Here’s the tub where Austin kissed me; here’s the bench where he went down on me. There’s a tin of eyeblack on a shelf. I pick it up, wondering if it’s his. Sure enough, it has his number 22 written on a piece of masking tape stuck to the bottom of the tin. Austin uses this for every game, I think. He’s touched this a million times. He’s opened it and dipped his fingers into the black grease, spreading it on his face.
I open it. I’ve never seen eyeblack before. It just looks like black Vaseline. I dip a finger in it and sniff. It smells like Vaseline. Experimentally, I draw a line down my wrist. It looks harsh, dramatic against my pale skin.
An idea hits me. It’s probably the alcohol talking—okay, it’s definitely the alcohol talking—but I don’t care. I unbutton my blouse and undo my bra, then decide that’s not sufficient and just pull everything off. My nipples rise high and hard at the exposure. Digging my fingers into the eyeblack, I scoop out a generous portion and write across the tops of my tits. When I’m done, I pull my phone out and hold it up for a selfie. I can see myself framed on the screen—hair a little askew, bare skin smeared with eyeblack that forms the number 22—Austin’s number.
Perfect. My head’s still swimming a little, the champagne making me dizzy and wobbly. I smile into the camera and snap the picture.
I feel daring, a little jazzed as I adjust the picture, lightening it so Austin will be able to see my face better. Then I text the photo to him, smiling to myself.
Just thinking about him makes me feel better. I pull a paper towel out of one of the dispensers and start to wipe the eyeblack off, then change my mind and just put my bra and shirt back on. My skin’s tingling with the excitement of what I just did—I can almost feel the big black numbers burning into my skin. It’s like I’m high on thoughts of Austin. As long as he’s around, nothing can touch me.
My phone buzzes just as I’m buttoning the last button on my shirt. I grab it quickly, certain it’s Austin.
Nice tits, lady.
I giggle at the comment, absurdly pleased that he likes what I’ve done.
All natural, I text back.
I know. There’s a pause of several seconds, then, All mine.
You know it.
Those are the best tits, he shoots back after a few more seconds. I picture him looking at the picture again, taking it in, trying to catch all the details he might have missed the first time.
Wish you were touching them.
That can be arranged.
Another long pause. What’s he doing now? Maybe he’s touching himself, hand between his legs, pressing on the hardness of his cock, trying to keep from coming in his pants.
Then: Where are you?
At the stadium.
Of course. The party.
He knows about the party? Is that strange? Maybe not. It’s the team medical personnel, after all. My head’s swimming enough I can’t put all the pieces together, so I just answer, Yes.
Are you having fun?
No. My answer is immediate. I don’t even have to think about it.
Baby, you should be having fun. You stay put. I’ll be there in like fifteen minutes.
Another pause.
I’m going to fuck your brains out, honey.
I smile and stroke my thumb along the edge of the phone. This party might not be a complete disaster after all.
10
Austin
I practically floor it on the way to the stadium; I can’t get there fast enough. All I can think about is Chloe. The picture she sent me, her full, round breasts, the eyeblack smeared across them. It’s like she’s put my mark on her—claimed herself for me. It makes me want to claim her in other ways, with my teeth, my hands, my cock. Makes me want to bathe her with my scent, inside and out.
It’s a good thing my car pretty much knows its own way to the stadium, because I sure as hell can’t focus. I don’t clearly remember pulling into the parking lot, but suddenly there I am, car nosed into my reserved space, and I’m flinging myself out the driver’s side door because I don’t have the proper technology to just teleport myself directly to Chloe. Or inside her, which would be ideal.
The party is on the club level, and I can hear it before I can see it. Those physical therapist and doctor types can get pretty rowdy if you get enough booze into them.
I head into the thick of things, past an unmanned refreshment stand and into a group of people chatting, laughing far too loudly, and tossing back wine and champagne. No sign of Chloe. She’s the only one I’m looking for. I have no desire to see anyone else.
I scan the crowd—I’m tall enough to see over the majority of the other people in the room—but still see no sign of her.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and switch course, but a hand grabs my arm.
“Austin Sherwood!” The voice is high-pitched and loud, the kind of voice that definitely belongs to a woman who’s been drinking too much. I look down at her and smile, trying to be gracious.
“Hi.” I have no idea who she is.
“Oh my God!” she screeches. “Look who I found! It’s Austin Sherwood!”
Most of the guests in the immediate vicinity are now staring at us. One of them, an older gentleman in an immaculate suit who seems markedly less drunk than the others, comes up and extends a hand. He looks vaguely familiar.
“Peter Richards,” he introduces himself. “I’m your PT’s boss.”
“Good to meet you, Dr. Richards.” I take his hand in a firm shake and meet his eyes squarely. I’m totally not fucking your PT. “I have to say, Chloe’s the best physical therapist it’s ever been my pleasure to work with.”
“That’s great to hear.”
“In fact…” I glance around again, but my hope that Chloe will just pop up out of the crowd is dashed immediately. “In fact, I’m looking for her right now.”
“Really?” Dr. Richards seems a little suspicious. “Why now?”
I lay a hand on the small of my back. “Just having some issues. I was hoping she could squeeze in a quick session.”
“I see. Well, I’m not sure where she is…”
His voice fades into the background as I finally catch sight of Chloe. I release his hand and move toward her, all the other voices and sounds fading to nothing as everything in my body tunes in to her and her alone.
She’s standing a few yards away. Her hair is vaguely mussed like it was in the selfie she sent me, but of course she’s got her shirt back on, neatly buttoned. Even across the room, her eyes bore into mine, drawing me to her like a tractor beam. I move as quickly as I can without plowing over everyone in front of me. On the way, I grab a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter, just for the hell of it.
It’s only a few steps before we’re standing face to face. I hand her a glass of champagne. She looks up at me and says nothing. I stand for a moment just staring down into her eyes, remembering the last thing I texted to her before I headed over here.