Page 63 of Play the Last Card

A few songs from my pump-up playlist.

Call my mom and tell her which pair of socks she’d gifted me I’ve decided to wear today. She’d laugh, tell me where she’d found them, then wish me luck.

What? Tons of athletes were superstitious about shit like that. Mine just happens to be with my mom.

Then I’ll grab a small plate of whatever catering has out and catch up with my O-line. The offensive linemen have my back out there but I’m new to this team and for us to be a unit, to meld and play like we’ve been together for years, I need to know them. Toreallyknow them.

So I’ll ask about their families and their wives or girlfriends. I commit the information to my memory and I gain their trust, and in turn they’ll gain mine. The results of this will show on the field.

In time.

I’m passing the passage that leads to the coaches’ private offices when I hear her laugh.

My feet stop on their own accord and my pulse races.

Fucking hell, what is she doing here?

Ivy stands in front of Coach’s office with another woman and Coach himself. She’s wearing a mid-length pink dress that hits her mid-calf. It’s tight on her waist, flowing freely from under her chest and all it does is push her perfect tits up to be the main star of the show.

Fucking pink, again.

My cock hardens and I reach down to adjust myself. My suit pants are fitted and they don’t leave much room to hide anything let alone my dick if I get hard right now. Besides I was just trying to forget about her so this exact thing didn’t happen.

Impossible now.

Seeing her here, with her long hair curled down her back and the straps of her dress so thin on her shoulders I could probably recreate the same path I’d kissed last night without even removing them.

My body hums with the want to go over there and wrap my arms around her.

To bow my head and press my lips into her neck. To inhale her sweet, cinnamon sugar scent.

Then I want to drag her into one of these empty offices, lock the door, and sink right back into her. Messing up her hair and making her moan just like I had last night.

The need is so powerful, I almost do it.

Instead, I stay rooted to the spot as I listen to the voices carry down the hallway. I lean against the wall, hidden behind the corner from their view.

“I appreciate the offer but I really need to get home. I go back to work tomorrow and I have so much to catch up on already,” Ivy tells them. Her voice sinks into my skin like a soothing balm.

“Come on, Ives.” The other woman with them whines. “When was the last time you came to a game?”

Her laugh rings out and carries my way. It wasn’t as light, as musical as normal. She’s forcing it as she replies. “Not since I was a kid. You know that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to just watch from one of the boxes with Brooke? You can eat something and you guys can catch up, no watching of the game actually required,” Coach replies. Their voices are getting closer and closer.

Shit, are they walking this way?

“I’m good. But thank you. And good luck with the game.” Ivy’s voice is quiet and reserved as she answers him. Surely, she’s seen a game since she was a kid?

There is no way she can be a Booker and never watch football?

I’m still struggling to reconcile what I know about her family and her hatred for the sport.

I itch to turn the corner and beg her to stay, to tell her right now and ask her to watch me play. The cocky teenage boy in me wants to poke my chest out and show off. Show her what I’m good at, what I can do out on that field.

“Thanks Kiddo,” Coach replies, so close they must be just on the other side of the corner now.

“Bye dad. I’ll be back later, after we have lunch,” Brooke, Coach’s daughter I realize, says.