Lady and the Champ(7)

“What’s up, Doc?”

She crosses her thin arms over her chest, sighing in exasperation. “What do you want?”

To fuck you, mostly.

“I couldn’t help but notice how you were staring at my ass while I was running in the field.”

“I was watching your gait.”

“That sounds like an excuse you tell all the guys to get your fill of eye candy for the day.”

Her cheeks blaze with red and her eyes smolder at me. “I’ll stop staring at your ass when you stop talking out of it.”

A smile hitches on my face. “If you’re listening, you shouldn’t have to stare.”

“Did you come here just to annoy me?”

“Nope. I came here to tell you that I can see your panties.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I point at the line curving down her ass, and she looks, running her finger along the elastic band.

“Next time, you should probably wear a thong.”

I think I’m addicted to the bright patches of red on her cheeks.

“I don’t have a thong.” Then she blushes with the realization of giving out too much information.

My face cracks into an evil grin. “I’m surprised.”

She glares at me.

“None of your boyfriends ever bought you sexy underwear? Hell, you’ve never bought yourself sexy underwear?”

“My choice of underwear is none of your damn business.”

“It is my business when you have them on display.”

“Yes. Thank you so much for pointing out that you can see my underwear. You are a lifesaver. Really.”

“What are friends for, right Doc?”

She opens her mouth angrily right before Coach screams across the field. “Sherwood! Get your ass back out here!”

I give Chloe a wink and a smile before running back to the field. It’s been a long time since I haven’t been able to just snap my fingers and have a woman give in. Chloe’s a challenge.

Far be it from me to back away from a challenge. Especially when it’s something I want. And I want Chloe. So I’m going to have her.

I push the thoughts aside and focus on the next round of sprints. While I’m running, my mind goes quiet, everything centered on the movements of my legs, my arms. Out to the fifty-yard line and back, and then out again. One more time. Another. My breath’s coming hard and fast, my body straining.

Then it’s time to stop and walk again. I start picturing the members of the team we’ll be playing this afternoon. I know them all far better than I’d like to, mostly from them plastering me all over the field during games. They’re good. Very good. They’re also one of our biggest rivals—we’ve had to get through them for the past three years to get to the playoffs. Coach has been pounding plays into our heads all week, telling us what to look out for, how to get in their heads.

I pull up near the sidelines and touch my toes a few times to stretch my hamstrings. When I straighten the fourth time, there’s a woman standing in front of me. She’s exactly my type—smallish, blonde, with breasts bulging halfway out of the V-neck of her T-shirt, which bears a team logo. This is the kind of woman I’ve taken back to motel rooms, back to my house, to the nearest hotel, whenever I’ve had half a chance. Perks of the profession.

“Hey,” I say, surprised. “Where did you come from?”

She smiles, and I know right away what she’s after. It’s a sultry smile, and her gaze strokes down my sweaty chest. Weirdly, nothing in me responds, though. Maybe I’m a little too tired.

“I was with the group watching practice,” she says quietly. “They told us to go back to the bus.”

“And you didn’t go back to the bus?”

“I didn’t go back to the bus.” She gives a quick, surreptitious look over her shoulder, and then takes a step closer. “When will you be done here?”

I start to respond automatically, then cut my answer short. “Look, I need to finish getting ready for the game.”

She’s obviously taken aback. I can’t blame her—I’m a little surprised, myself. This is totally out of character for me. I don’t abstain before games—fucking gives me more energy, not less. But even with this woman standing with her tits practically in my face, I can’t summon sufficient interest. I just want to get back to practice.

“You know, I’ve got some girlfriends who said you were up for anything.”

“I’m sure you do. Not today, though. Sorry. I need to focus, and I can’t risk wrenching this damn hip again.”

I turn and run back toward the fifty-yard line.

I’m halfway there when I realize why I really turned her down.

It’s because she wasn’t Chloe.



He goes, he goes, he’s gone! The thirty, the twenty, the ten…

Except not quite. I can hear the announcer’s voice in my head like I’m watching myself play on TV as my feet eat up yard after yard of the football field. Thirty, twenty, fifteen…but before I hit the ten, I’m plowed into the ground.

It was a damn good run, though. Almost made it to the end zone. I can hear the crowd roaring; it’s so loud it echoes in my head. It’s like being at a huge rock concert, speakers turned up to eleven. I can’t even hear the cheerleaders, and they’re maybe twenty yards away from me, chanting something cheerleader-like on the sidelines while they shake their red-and-black pompoms and their not quite as red-and-black tits.

I roll over, football still clutched against me like a baby—although if it were a baby, I’d be squeezing it way too tight and it probably would have thrown up on me by now. I never let go of the ball until an official comes to take it. No way I’m handing it over to anybody else.

The guy who brought me down is built like an elephant. Or four. He’s fucking huge. His eyes are flat black, staring at me through his helmet. He hasn’t gotten up off me yet, even though the whistle has blown.

“Buy me a drink first, big boy.”

Elephant man goes beet red with indignation as he finally lurches off me. “I’ll kill you next time,” he mutters at me, the tone of his voice as flat as the black of his eyes.

Okay, that’s not creepy or anything.

“That’s the spirit,” I shoot back as I pop to my feet. I hand the ball to the referee.

It’s first down and maybe twelve yards. I can do this. If the quarterback decides to throw to me again, that is. He might decide to run it in, or he might get a better opening throwing to somebody else. I just need to watch and be ready.

There’s the snap. Weber, our quarterback, decides to run. I take off toward him, cutting through the other team’s defense to distract them and moving closer in case I do need to grab at a pass. Looks like Weber’s got it, though.

Something hits me hard. Goddammit, I let the four elephants get into my blind spot. He drives me right to the turf. And as I go down, my leg twists to the side.

The pain is indescribable. I’ve never felt anything like that in my life, and I’ve broken bones before. The ginormous freaking defenseman has me pinned, and I swear I feel something pop in my hip as his weight rolls over me.

Everything goes black. It can’t be for more than a second or two, but it feels like hours. When I blink myself back, though, the crowd is still screaming. I glance sideways to see Weber hip-thrusting in the end zone.

Well. At least we got a TD out of it.

The big pile of human gets off me, and I can see him slamming his fist into the turf in frustration. I try to get up, too—the pain’s eased off a little—but the minute I shift on the leg that got bent under me, the pain shreds me again.

Shit. Shit piss fuck. This is not good.

I fall back to the grass. I can’t even move that leg. It’s trapped, bent, my foot shoved into my ass. Did I break something? Tear my knee in half? It sure as hell feels like it.

A whistle shrills, and I assume one of the officials has realized I’m in trouble. Sure enough, I see a zebra-striped uniform jogging over, just behind him the familiar figure of one of the team doctors.

The ref kneels next to me. “You okay, Sherwood?”

“Not so much.”

The doctor joins the ref on the ground, flipping open his box of doctor tools. “Hold still a minute,” he orders me.

“You got it.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Like it’ll pop off if I move it.”

“Don’t move it.”

It seems like reasonable advice.

“Will you need a stretcher?” This is the ref. He’s speaking in a low voice to the team doctor, as if he thinks I can’t hear him. Of course I can hear him. I fucked up my knee, not my ears.

“Yeah. Get one.”

That makes me blink. I’ve never been stretchered off the field before. Can’t be good, then. Maybe my leg really will pop off at the knee if I move it wrong.

“I’m going to straighten this out,” the doctor tells me, a hand closing on my thigh. “It’s probably going to hurt like a motherfucking son of a bitch.”

I clench my teeth. “Any chance we can wait until I can get some morphine or something?”

“Suck it up,” the doctor shoots back. “It’ll just be a second. I need to get everything straight.”

“Fine.”

“You ready?”