Ball Buster
Calder
Email. December 2, 2014. Afghanistan.
Hey Calder.
It’s getting hairy over here. You know, sand in my ass crack and too much down time and I don’t really want Lt Chavez doing his YouTube mockumentary about my chapped balls.
Listen, I don’t think Regina’s happy anymore. So you gotta take care of her when I’m not there.
By the fucking way, that care package, dickhole.
Gummy worms and a busty blow-up doll? The toilet paper was appreciated, you know, on account of the chafing and all. Still owe you a beat down for the other shit.
Play hard,
Chris
PS. Caught the Ravens game. Goddamn. I’m a fucking superstar because of you.
Present day
I SLAPPED MY PALMS together, cold breaths clouding around me. Rare afternoon flurries fell around us, little snowflakes melting on contact with our hot skin. Crowds in the stands of the Reno Ravens stadium jumped to their feet while we huddled during the timeout.
Our last play.
Another tight as fuck game nearing the end of the 2016 regular season.
After Rafe Macintyre’s beachside South Carolina wedding last week, we’d had no break. Poor schmuck hadn’t even gotten the chance to honeymoon with his wife, the Carolina Crush owner Peyton Fox, either. Didn’t know who the biggest ballbuster was: Head Coach D or Miss Fox-now-Macintyre. Then Brooklyn Holt had dropped the bomb about getting engaged to Delaney Jones of the Carolina Cougars after her harrowing abduction by her estranged husband.
Drama. Everywhere.
I strived for the unemotional. The uncomplicated. Hell, I was still on professional probation, pretty much fucking stunned I continued to rate as a fan favorite after I’d been briefly suspended from the NFL. For good reason.
My football comeback as the newly minted center for Carolina Crush refreshed me as much as the cold snow melting on my steaming skin.
“Run it or throw it, Malone?” Rafe, the star quarterback, asked.
“Putting the decision in my hands?”
“You know the Ravens better than anyone.”
That was right. Because I’d been kicked off the team after doping to forget the . . . to forget it all. I was busted for THC by the Ravens. Wasn’t I the lucky man? For once. Just cannabis showing up in the random piss test. None of the other hardcore junk I’d gambled my life on in hopes of outrunning the ghost I couldn’t lay to rest.
Playing against my former team served me one more slice of so-fucking-humble pie. I expected repercussions, hard shoves, sneers and jeers from all of them.
I deserved it all, but they hadn’t delivered the kind of hate I’d expected for letting them down last year. During every line up, I waited for the verbal beat down to begin. And it did, but only the usual taunts meant to throw us off our game.
Color me stunned.
Pulling down the grill of my helmet, I whispered to the huddled formation, watching as Rafe nodded and Brooklyn’s lips curled up.
“And that’s how we do it.” Brooklyn clapped my shoulder, almost shoving me off my feet, after I called the play that was so easy to execute hopefully the Ravens wouldn’t suspect the simplicity of it.
Brooks had been the man most there for me since Carolina Crush recruited me as the new center, #50. Not like he and I had a bromance going on or anything, but I’d spent Thanksgiving with Delaney and him and the giant linebacker nicknamed Bunyan. Replacement family for the one I’d burned by almost fucking up my career and my life entirely.
With the play clock counting down, we got into formation. In front of me, I stared down Dashiel, my former teammate, my glare as unflinching as his. As soon as Rafe called out hut hut, I snapped the ball so fast it was a blur. While he handed the ball to our best running back—hoping for a quick zigzag to the end zone—I lunged forward, pressing the advance.
Hoping to keep the RB safe and on track, my intent was to lead with my shoulders, pancaking Raven after Raven.
Unfortunately just seconds later, my plan went to shit. But what did happen was a play so unexpected, I didn’t even have time to think.
Dashiel—that fast fuck—recovered from my tackle and reached the RB before me. He forced the fumble. But I was right on his heels. Then jumping over his head. I snatched up the ball and hurtled toward the end zone.
The game was literally in my hands.
After the initial silence that always clouded my hearing at the beginning of any play, the full-throttle roar of Crush fans, the wild shouts of the cheerleaders, the booming voices of my teammates shuddered through me.
I held that goddamn ball with much more confidence than that goddamn bouquet that’d landed in my hands at Rafe’s wedding.
Zooming around downed tacklers, leaping off the ground when linemen dove for my feet, pivoting away from blockers the size of colossal statues, I dashed headlong toward the end zone.
Adrenaline roared in my veins, so much better than the quick thrill of molly, oxy, crank when things had gotten really bad. Yeah, I’d enjoyed the whole narcotics cocktail for a while.
Was never gonna happen again.
Sweat blurred my vision. Two yards to go, the Ravens defense clawing at my heels like hungry birds of prey.
Crazed shouts spurred me on. And I thrust my arm out, forcing off his feet the last footballer between the end zone and me. I crossed the line before he even landed on his back on the cold turf.
Carolina Crush for the win!
That adrenaline rush surged wildly, shivering all along my body as my shouts joined those of thousands of others.
“Fuck yes!” I spiked the ball, thumping my chest, that instant feeling of completion the one solid thing I had to hold onto.
Brooklyn raced up to me as soon as the whistle blew. He roared in my face. The tight end, only slightly bigger than me, grasped me around the waist then easily slung me up over his shoulder like a crazed caveman.
By the time he planted my feet on the field, the rest of the team and the coaches and Peyton surrounded us. Knuckle bumps, ass smacks, back slaps. I couldn’t fucking focus on a goddamn thing beyond the elation of the win winding through me like an electric current.
But when we lined up to do the good game routine with the Reno Ravens, I still expected an earful of recriminations from my former teammates.
I flinched as Dashiel reached out. He grasped my hand hard, looking me in the eye just like he had earlier on the line.
“Good to see you in top form again, Malone.”
Well, shit.
I couldn’t make my voice work to respond to him.
Then came the others, all my old friends I’d let down by getting tangled up in a royally fucked up situation.
“Damn good game, Malone.”
“Way to make a comeback, man.”
“Hope Carolina knows they scored one hell of a footballer, Malone.”
Even the Ravens’ head coach wandered over. My guts quaked as the stern-faced man with the military-precise steel gray hair peered at me with eyes that had once filled with so much disappointment.
“Coach.” I nodded my head, kept my voice steady, held out my hand.
“Not fucking shaking your hand, you big bastard.”
I chewed on the inside of my lip, gut churning even harder.
“Get over here, Malone.”
Before I had a chance to react, Coach grabbed me into a hug that made me swallow hard.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a better sight than you out there in your element again.” His gruff voice hit my ear.
Not the tongue-lashing I expected at all. I felt fucking wobbly all of a sudden.
He released me, grinning a little. “Even if you are with another team.” His hand clamped on my shoulder. “You toeing the line for Coach D?”
“Yessir.”
“Going to the meetings?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Keep that shit up, son. You made me proud, manning up like that.”
“Yessir.”
“Ass kisser.” Dashiel smirked, passing us, and I laughed as the knot in my stomach unraveled.
My former coach parted after another few words. And hell, that kind of acceptance was enough to bring a tear to the damn eye.
Raquel—the spunky guard for the Carolina Cougars—approached. She had gorgeous toffee brown skin, a sassy mouth, and mad skills.
She’d also made it clear she was very interested in me from the get-go. Swearing off drugs and alcohol had been hard enough. Swearing off women altogether, when a particularly gorgeous one kept making a play for me, was downright painful.
“Killer game, Calder.” She struck one hip out, drawing attention to the jut of her tits and the swell of her hips in her negligible uniform.
“Thanks. How’d you guys do during halftime?” I kept a good amount of distance between us, always kept it totally professional.
A man-eater of a smile spread her lips. “Killed it.”
The woman looked so ready for a tussle in the bed, but she wasn’t the one I wanted. I always tried to let her down gently, remain friendly but platonic, but turning down someone so hot over and over again was becoming more and more difficult.
“Calder! Calder Malone!” At the sound of that sweet, smoky voice, a jolt leaped down my stomach straight into my groin.
Raquel forgotten in an instant.
I turned slowly, steeling myself against the woman I was about to see.
“Who’s that?” Raquel asked, but her voice faded into the background, and my feet moved as if magnetized.
The woman who’d shouted my name sauntered toward me.
My palms started sweating.
My body vibrated.
Equal aches grew—one in my chest, the other down low.
God fucking damn.
She looked even more gorgeous. Glossy brown hair in loose bouncy waves. Dark soulful eyes framed by thick feathery lashes. Plump naturally red lips. The va-va-voom figure in fine shape, which made her an instant showstopper and one of the top showgirls in Vegas.
Regina. Reggie. Here. Jeeeesus.