"They . . . what?" I ask, getting angrier as I listen. "They think I'm some sort of what . . . next booty call?"
“Yes,” Jason admits. "I'm not saying I agree with them, just . . . they're jocks. They're gonna talk."
"Oh, I'll give them something to talk about," I growl, turning on a heel and marching back to the stadium area. I know there's nothing I can do about it until I get a chance to talk to Duncan, but it still pisses me off. It pisses me off so much, in fact, that I have to be tapped on the shoulder to go back to the training room, where I find Duncan waiting for me.
“About time,” he taunts as soon as I come in. "Were the water bottles a little low on ice or something?"
"Shut up," I hiss, grabbing my scissors and tape. Duncan doesn't need a lot. The tape is mostly there to minimize the small chance he's got of hyperextension after the surgery, and it doesn't take me long. "In fact, just sit there and don’t even speak to me. Let me finish and go play your stupid fucking game."
"Whoa, whoa, what's got your panties in a bunch?” Duncan asks, and I stop, looking up into his eyes. There's a hint of the guy I sometimes saw during our workouts, when it was just the two of us and there was nobody else around—a real guy, not the arrogant, cocksure asshole he is around nearly everyone else.
"They're calling me PAT," I say with a sigh. "I didn't agree to this because I want to play Touchdown with you."
Duncan nods and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of those idiots. I didn't tell Coach to have you here because of that. I did it because you do a good job helping me get ready to play. Now, can we do the wrists, or are you going to leave the tape so tight I'll lose my thumbs tomorrow?"
I can't help it. I give him a little grin at his joke and finish him up quickly. He hops off the table to go back down the hall to the locker room. As he does, he pauses and grabs my arm, pulling me in and kissing me. His lips are amazing, and despite myself, I'm practically moaning in lust as his tongue finds mine, and we grow closer before I realize what the hell I'm doing and push him away. "Asshole!"
"Yeah, I've been called that too," Duncan says with a chuckle as he leaves the training room, whistling to himself.
After he leaves, I notice that we weren't alone, and that Chelsea Brown is still in the training room, trying to look like she hadn’t just seen something she wasn't supposed to. “What?”
"Nothin'," Chelsea says, grabbing the last of her towels and going to the door. At the door, she pauses and turns around. "Actually, there is something. If you just want him to rock your world, then go on with your bad self, but don’t get emotionally involved. That way, you won’t get upset when you’re his next cut-off."
“His what?" I ask, curious despite myself. A minute ago, I was hot as hell, ready to jump Duncan's body. Now, I was in chills but couldn't stop my questions short of being smacked in the head.
"His cut-off. He grows bored pretty easily and moves on. That man's a dog. If you want to ride that cowboy, go ahead, but make sure your heart's got bulletproof armor."
I nod and hear an announcement over the stadium PA. "We need to get to field level," I say. "Come on, it's game time. And Chels?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks for the heads up."
We get up to the field, and I'm pretty busy as the last of the pre-game festivities wrap up. Western's opponent looks pretty overmatched on paper, and I find out from listening to the scuttlebutt on the sidelines that they are. Most big schools like Western schedule a 'tune-up' game at the beginning of the season.
So it's with no surprise as I watch Duncan put on a clinic, catching three touchdown passes and getting over a hundred yards receiving. Western dominated the entire game, and when the clock ticked off the final score, the scoreboard read 77-6. A slaughter.
Watching Duncan put on a show was like watching poetry in motion—savage, hypnotic poetry that aroused your spirit for battle . . . and I had to admit, at the time, my spirit for passion. I was hard pressed to keep my mind on my duties during the game, especially when he tipped me a wink during the fourth quarter. Damn him.
I’m cleaning up the water tables when I feel a presence behind me, and I turn around to see Duncan standing there, his uniform soaked through in spots, turning the bright green home jerseys to nearly black. "Hey. How was your first game?"
"Interesting," I say, trying my best to not get angry. I can still feel his lips on mine from before, and inside, a little voice that doesn't get to talk much says it wants more. "You played well."