Get your head out of the gutter. It’s not one of those kinds of “meetings.” I actually have serious business matters to discuss.
Like how much you enjoyed being bent over your desk?
You’re shameless.
Delete these messages before someone finds them.
Look at you giving the orders for once. It’s kind of hot.
Did someone hit your head at practice or something?
Speaking of head…
God, have you been hanging out with October too?
Either way, don’t make me regret giving you my number.
* * *
A tall figureleaning against the doorframe of my office pulls my attention away from the computer. Fortune is standing there with his arms folded over his chest and one corner of his mouth pulled up in a small smile. He has got to stop showing up at my office with that distracting post-shower hair that looks like it was only combed through with his fingers. I promised myself earlier I wouldn’t get sidetracked by his cocky smile or the way I can see the outline of his dick when he wears his gray sweatpants.
“Fortune.”
“Lea.” He tips his head to greet me. “I see we’ve graduated to a first name basis now, huh?”
“It would appear so.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your bye week party, would it?”
I lean back in my chair, find him as he steps into my office and takes a seat across from me. I find it funny that the man who I once assumed to be quiet is now confidently strutting into my office like he owns the place. In such a short time, he’s grown so comfortable around me, and I’m noticing that comfortability is spilling over into other areas of his work life as well. He’s been chatting it up more in the hallways with his teammates, and I’m almost certain I overheard him crack a joke in the locker room the other day after a game.
I like this version of Fortune, and I hope he sticks around. But right now, I’ve got to keep it professional.
The thought of keeping it professional sends a sinking feeling to the pit of my stomach, subtly reminding me we still have a little less than half of the regular season to get through, and that doesn’t even account for playoffs. I’m certain we’ll make it out in the first few rounds now that our trusty quarterback will be out for the next few weeks, tending to the head injury he got from last night’s game.
Today’s been a shit show trying to keep up with all the articles coming out about October, and giving statements on the team’s behalf. My phone has been blowing up all day, and I’m almost certain that even if I worked straight through the night, I wouldn’t get to half of the emails sitting in my inbox. Right now, I want nothing more than for Fortune to break me out of my office, take me home, and fuck every ounce of professionalism out of my system.
I could use the distraction and stress relief after the day I’ve had.
“You’re tense.” Fortune eyes me from across my desk, and my skin flares under the heat of his stare.
A delirious laugh breaks free from my chest. “Not sure if you missed part of our game last night, but our star quarterback got injured, and I’ve got about dozens of people pestering me for statements I don’t want to give right now.”
Fortune hums, pushing out of his chair and walking around the side of my desk until he’s standing behind me. When his large, warm hands rest on my shoulders, I melt into him. He massages my neck with delicate strokes, and my eyes flutter closed as my head lulls backward.
All it takes is one touch from him, and the weight of the day lifts off me. As my shoulders relax, my mind wanders, pondering what it would be like if the two of us were actually in a relationship. Would we do this whenever I came home from work after a stressful day? How would I help cope with a bad loss?
Fortune gradually increases the pressure, using kneading motions with his fingers and thumbs work out the tense muscles in my shoulders. Warmth trails down my spine, spreading out across my skin. I push down a moan, threatening to shatter the silence. I’m relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours, but not enough that I don’t immediately snap out of the moment at the sound of someone’s sneaker squeaking against the floorboard in the hall.
“My door is open. We should stop,” I sigh.
We’re partially shielded by the door right now, since there’s only enough space for someone to stick their head through. All it takes is one person popping in to give a friendly “See you tomorrow,” for us to pick up on our charade. I’m doubtful there’s an excuse in the book that can explain why my coworker and I look anything but professional while he massages my shoulders after a long day.
Aside from the guilt that’s doubling in size by the day for going against my dad’s wishes, the worst part of keeping this thing between us a secret is the shame I feel whenever there’s a close call about someone finding us. The last thing I want to feel after every interaction with Fortune is regret.
Fortune’s hands leave my body and I slump down into my seat. I shouldn’t let him have this much of an effect on me, but it’s easier said than done. In another universe, there’s a version of myself who steadies her emotions whenever he’s around. One who doesn’t wonder what’s going through his head whenever his eyes burn against my back during meetings. Or long to spend more time with him outside of work.
Sure as hell isn’t this universe, though.
