Once Upon A Half-Time 1(68)

“O-kay. I’m not sure what that was…but if you want to get eaten out, I’m game.”

God bless Jack Carson and the rest of the offense. I had no idea how Lachlan didn’t get lost on his way to the damn huddle.

But that only made me feel worse.

Lachlan was stressed and hurt. He’d come to visit me for comfort.

And here I was—trying to force a life-changing game of charades onto him.

I could have picked up my phone and texted I’m pregnant, you alpha-male blockhead. Somehow that felt…cruel.

I curled my finger, inviting him to the chair. He settled between my legs, more than ready to deliver on his promise. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss.

Just something little. Gentle.

Comforting.

It worked. Lachlan brushed my cheek with his hand.

“You don’t know how much I needed this,” he said. “You’re confusing me a bit now, but you take the stress away. The team. The camp. It’s…rough.”

I kissed him again. The hard bulge of his cock pressed against my leg.

Obviously he wasn’t that worn out from practice.

“You’re the best part of my day, Red. Well, except for what I do every morning in the shower, but, trust me.” He tapped his temple. “You’re always right there.”

That was…so sweet?

I just wished he’d admit that he needed help. I could see the strain in his eyes, feel the tension he carried in his shoulders and back.

Telling him about the baby would comfort me, but it’d do nothing to help him. Not yet. Not when he needed to concentrate on the field, the offensive plays, and his technique.

So I’d keep it as another secret. I collected enough things anyway, why not life-altering crises too?

The Rivets’ cheating.

My feelings for him.

Our baby.

In the fairy-tales, the princesses were usually the ones ensnared in danger. Most waited for their prince to rescue them.

Not this fairy-tale. I had to help my Charming anyway I could.

And I’d make sure that no one could destroy our happily-ever-after.





16





Lachlan





I expected my first exhibition game to go badly.

And it did.

But the second game was going worse.

I hadn’t learned shit since our preseason game—only that my body, knees, arms, back, and fingers would inevitably get crushed on the field.

And that was fine. I didn’t mind the pain. It was part of the game. Just another adrenaline rush, something to keep me moving, my mind on the play, and my feet planted in the grass.

But this was not like college ball. The players charged faster, the tackles hit harder, and the plays crashed over in seconds. Every snap became a game of Russian roulette, but instead of a gun to the head, I had cleats kicking my temple.

The second quarter blitzed faster than the first. I stared at the play clock.

Did the seconds speed up? How was I supposed to catch my breath?

I took my spot on the line of scrimmage, listening to Jack’s barked cadence. The ball snapped, and I rushed forward only a couple yards, just enough to block the linebacker’s timed charge through the line.

He hit me like a goddamned train, slamming through me. I dug my feet in and surged from my hips to keep the monster busy as Jack handed the ball off to Bryon. Our running back churned through the opposite end of the line for a four-yard gain.

The whistle blew. My opposing linebacker roared at me.

“Coming for you, rookie! I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll hand me that signing bonus!”

I got in his face. “Just say you love me and promise to cuddle.”

“You gonna eat those words.”

Caleb hauled me into the huddle. I blinked away the spots before my eyes, rubbing away the sweat. Nothing eased the ache in my muscles. I had to force my hands to clap at the end of the huddle.

This wasn’t exhaustion.

This was a beating.

We lined up again. Second down. Similar play. A run up the middle, and I was supposed to pick up the blitz.

I saw it coming—I could read a defense. But nothing prepared me for catching a three-hundred-pound prick as he thrust through the line and raced into the backfield.

I collided with him, our bodies crashing hard enough to twist my helmet and block my vision. He cut left. A fake-out. I lost a step as he spun to the right. I couldn’t stop him, but Bryon had already darted past the center and earned us another three yards.

Was this what it was going to be like?

A couple seconds of agony interspersed with a bone-chilling fear that I’d missed my block and let a defender past?

My entire fucking future rested on a split second after a ball was snapped.

Jack grabbed my facemask in the huddle. I panted, trying to fill unresponsive lungs with as much air as I could get.

“Step it up, rookie.” He patted my helmet. “This pass has got your name on it.”