Page 54 of Dirty Player
I jerked my head when I got to my car. She was still standing in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over her stomach like she was trying to shield herself from me again.
I didn’t think.
I hurried back to her, not caring that she jumped in surprise when I rushed her. I pressed my hands to her cheeks. My rough and callused palms scraped her soft and tender and fucking delicious skin.
I kissed her. I kissed her hard and long and shoved my tongue deep inside her mouth as she gasped in shock. Without words, using the only thing I could think of—my hands and my tongue and my sudden erection clamoring to get out of my shorts—I fucking showed her everything I was thinking and feeling.
The sudden onslaught of emotions, the thick desire to slam her into the door and fuck the daylights and brains out of both of us, had me pulling back, both of us gasping for breath, her eyes just as wide and feral as mine.
“What in the hell was that?” she asked, wiping across the bottom of her lip.
I followed her finger, pressing less furious kisses long her bottom lip.
“I don’t know,” I said, gasping for breath. “I don’t fucking know. I don’t know what’s going on, but that wasn’t goodbye. Don’t say that to me.”
I was desperate. Sinking and soaring. Falling and flying. Twisting and unraveling.
Nothing made sense except the taste of her on my lips and the feel of her trembling body against mine.
“I’ll see you later, Shannon.”
I let her go before I did everything I wanted to do to her.
But I’d see her later. I’d be drilling my cock deep inside of every inch of her, claiming her and making her mine before either of us realized it could be the worst thing we ever did.
***
“Ice your ankle, twenty minutes on, ten minutes off.”
“I know how to handle it.” I barked at the athletic trainer wrapping my ankle. I had no one to be pissed at but myself. And thankfully, it wasn’t sprained, just twisted and swollen. I’d be fine by next week, but the fact that I hadn’t been able to clear my head, focus on the game and the practice like I usually did still pissed me off.
Fuck, I’d gotten hurt in a practice where we didn’t even wear our pads.
Coach Pomville pushed through the door, slamming it so hard it banged against the windowed wall. “What in the fuck was that?” He shouted at me like I’d lost the Super Bowl.
I had no one to blame but myself, but I didn’t cower to the coach. Not anymore. I had too many years under my belt. Too many bad games and bad practices.
“I’ll get it together,” I assured him. “Just a misstep, is all.”
“‘Just a misstep, is all.’” He mocked my words and shooed the trainer away after he set an ice pack on the table. I was still in my shorts, although I’d ripped my shirt off before I was back to the locker room.
I looked Coach directly in the eyes as he stalked toward me.
“You know what we have riding on you this season? A fucking contract extension. You can’t pull shit like this. You can’t be distracted for a single fucking second. You understand that?”
I understood. More than he did. My five-year contract was up at the end of this season and I was getting old.
One bad game would be the difference between millions of dollars and retirement.
“I said I’ll get it together.”
“See that you do.”
He left as quickly as he had entered, already barking down another player’s throat, with the door slamming shut behind him.
Coach Pomville was an awesome coach. He knew when to motivate, knew when to kick ass and smack helmets. I admired him, had mad respect for him both on and off the field.
I’d been off today. I was still sore from last night’s game because the hits weren’t as easily shaken off anymore when men almost ten years younger and stronger than angry bulls charged at me.
