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Calder

 

 

 

I’D BEEN INTENTIONALLY IGNORING the facts I’d lost that motherfucking throwing competition and my debut as a Carolina Crush cheerleader coincided with our last game of the regular season. Aaaaand Reggie had the sweet seats right next to one Frankie Burelli to witness my humiliation. Embarrassment-by-booty-shorts much?

I tried to rock that tight tiny uniform, but my cock goddamn hurt. Twerking? What the fuck was that? I didn’t do any backflips or splits, but I played my part, almost wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole . . . until Reggie jumped to her feet and started catcalling at me.

The Black Eyed Peas weren’t really my thing, but fuck it, if Brooklyn Holt could swish his ass onto the field to dance with the cheerleaders so could I. And by the time the song ended, everybody in the stadium pumped to their feet while I held two of the cheer girls on my arms.

Wished it was Reggie in my arms instead.

Did not wanna face the dudes in the locker room, though. Because I knew for a fact I was in for the nut-busting, ego-ripping, emasculating razzing of my life.

And I was right. Everyone else was suited up and game ready while I was wearing a practically plastered-on cheerleader replica that nearly shredded apart at the seams.

I yanked off the fucking short shorts, throwing them aside. “Christ. I feel like my cock was all the way up my throat in that get-up.”

“My balls have never been the same.” Buckley grinned, cupping his crotch.

“Yeah. You even sounded like your testicles hadn’t dropped yet for a few days after that shitshow.” Rafe snuck a mock punch to Buckley’s midsection. “Then again . . . you haven’t proved you’re out of your teens yet.”

“Eat me.”

“I don’t like sausage.”

“So you admit I’m a man.”

“Not until your voice drops along with your scrotes.”

I about busted through the tiny top to wrangle it off my shoulders, laughing with the other dudes as Rafe and Buckley—the two guys with the biggest beef—fucked with each other.

To keep the ribbing off me, I mentioned, “Think about how Girth Brooks felt.”

Brooklyn flipped his middle finger in my direction. More chuckles. I wiped a wet towel over my face and hair then quickly rubbed thick black marks on my cheeks before gearing up in hard cup, pads, pants, jersey, socks.

“But you looked so pretty as a she-man.” Bunyan—the second biggest linebacker—wasn’t about to let it go.

“Bullshit,” Akoni entered the fray. “He’d be the first contestant to get kicked off RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

All eyes swerved to the big Hawaiian with the even bigger heart.

“RuPaul?” Bunyan asked.

Akoni shrugged shoulders the size of boulders. “She makes me laugh. Besides, she sings too. And you all are bigger drama queens than the queens on his show.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that.” Rafe beckoned us all into a tight circle. “We ready to win this thing? Make it one step closer to taking the trophy home?”

“Fuck yes!” came back the resounding call.

I bounced up to join the group after lacing my cleats.

“One. Two. Three!”

“CAROLINA CRUSH IT!”

All laughter ebbed when we raced into the stadium just as pyrotechnics lit the field in blazing fiery reds.

Hazing officially over.

One of the most important games ever officially on.

And one good thing? All that goofy shit had loosened me up. I was ready, more than ready to take the turf after Akoni and Bunyan’s first move. The New York Dragons may have beaten us last month, but this time we were out for blood and glory.

The Dragons won the coin toss, but that shit didn’t matter one single fucking bit after the Akoni/Bunyan double-teamed blitz on New York’s first play. The two huge defensemen must’ve shared a hive mind because their strong-armed, stanchion play forced a fumble. A fumble intercepted by none other than Deacon Cross, the warhorse of our team.

Downing the football, Cross got us quickly in the game.

The offense rushed onto the turf, and I grabbed Cross’s helmet in passing, getting in his grill with a mean grin. “Way to go, fucker.”

“You better take it home now.”

“Crush it, right?”

The huddle was fast and dirty. Rafe “Mac Daddy” Macintyre was out to prove a point. The point was we weren’t about to get rolled over for a second time on home turf.

In place, I called out blocks. Our offensive line shifted positions accordingly, knowing I’d taken my read of the Dragons defense.

I leaned over, balanced on my toes and knuckles. Hamstrings stretching, I palmed the football.

Deep in New York’s territory thanks to Deacon’s fumble recovery, I snapped back, straight into Rafe’s hands. I led with my shoulder, shoving the first lineman onto his back. I followed up with a ruthless tackle on the next man. Clearing a path for our running back to dance practically halfway to the end zone before he ate dirt, the football tucked in his arms like a newborn baby.

Fast huddle. No time to think. This was Rafe’s show. He was out to own it for our team.

Two more plays brought us closer and closer to a first touchdown, and in between moves I barely had time to breathe, let alone think.

Energy sizzled from my hands on the ball to the balls of my feet, and every time I looked up to the stadium, Reggie was right there, cheering us—cheering me—on.

That first touchdown caused a dizzying roar. Whistles blew. Fans charged to their feet.

Marquis caught the ball on the tips of his fingers, and I saw him mouth to Brooklyn, “Velcro, muthafucka.”

The Dragons had finally met their match, and this time they were going down in flames.

That was five minutes in. A mere motherfucking five minutes.

We raced to the sidelines where Coach D touched each of our helmets like he was blessing us like a Catholic priest. But to us he was more than a priest. He was a fucking god of football, and to get his benediction meant the world to me and every one of the other men.

By the end of the second quarter we were up a total of 21 to their 7. Call Carolina Crush stadium the slaughterhouse.

Akoni. Bunyan. Cross. They blazed up the field on defense. Rafe. Brooks. Marquis. They completely owned the offense.

I blocked. Saw every defensive move from the Dragons before it happened and made sure it didn’t happen.

And every time I sprinted to the sidelines, I sought out Reggie. Her cheeks flushed. Her soft brown hair swept over her shoulders. Her gaze pinned on me. And Frankie Burelli right next to her. I wondered what secrets he’d been sharing. But at least he was gay, so I knew he wasn’t after my girl, and I was glad she had a seatmate.

One who could potentially do lethal damage against anyone who dared cross her.

Lethal damage. Exactly what we were committing against New York.

After halftime, we steamrolled through the third quarter. Only problem with our spirits running so high, we started getting a little sloppy.

The point margin narrowed significantly at the start of the fourth quarter when the Dragons managed to strangle two touchdowns out of us while stopping our O-line from scoring.

Coaches D, Frank, Sam, and Mark just about rammed their fists down our throats when they reamed us a good one during our final timeout on the sidelines. GM Lou was probably shitting bricks up in the Sky Box. And I didn’t even wanna think about what Peyton would do to our collective hides if we lost. With the score at 35 to 28 we still had the lead, but by the skin of our teeth, and anything—anything—could happen in the final seconds against a team as determined as the Dragons.

Rafe got in my face the next time we closed in on the end zone. “What do you think?”

Fuck. This was the second time he’d asked my opinion. The first time, against the Ravens, the only reason we’d come up golden was because I’d recovered a fumble for a TD.

“Shotgun formation. Spread wide,” I uttered.

“Nice.” Rafe agreed.

Glaring at the hulking blocker who crouched down in front of me, I got in position to hand off the football at Rafe’s call while he stood a good five yards behind me.

The arena was cold, but I was drenched in sweat nonetheless. I spit on the ground then shoved my mouthpiece back in, sending a nod back to the Mac Daddy of our team.

At his guttural call, I took the long snap, hoping my aim stayed true and the football zeroed in on his hands.

I didn’t take the time to check, crashing right against the colossus coming my way.

Overhead, the pigskin whizzed past.

Headed for Brooks.

I ran downfield to throw more of New York’s defense off, following the ball’s trajectory. Marquis rode up beside Brooks just in case. And I fucking ping-ponged through a wave of blockers when Holt sprang up to catch the ball.

Racing ahead, I cleared a path. Grunts shoved from my throat while hands of the Dragons’ blockers thudded against my chest. Clearing a route, electric energy coursed through me, and I beat motherfucking feet to create a tunnel for Brooklyn.

At the last moment, one yard left, I pushed on the heat and jumped on a tackler aiming for his feet. I pumped up in time to see Brooks land in the end zone.

He bellowed out a laugh, spiked the ball. When I made it to him, he thumped his chest against mine so hard he almost sent me sailing into the sky.

We easily scored the extra point. 42 to 28. A good lead. But that didn’t make me worry any less as our defense took the field.

Two more minutes on the clock. Jesus Christ. Talk about a heart attack in the making.

Dragons in possession. And our fans were fucking possessed. On their feet. Shouting wildly. Stomping. Chanting. Whistling. Clapping.

I looked at Reggie, touched my fingers to my lips then my heart and pointed at her.

Her cheeks flushed even brighter, and from the distance I saw her lips part as if I’d just kissed her.

Now all we needed was the win.

Too bad New York made steady progress into our territory. I didn’t think at this point they had a chance in hell of grabbing the game out from under us but . . .

Then, with my heart beating frenetically, I watched in awe as motherfucking Deacon Cross leaped up out of nowhere to snag the football from the air.

Interception!

Unbelievable.

The dude was a rockstar.

Everything went insane all around in that moment.

But my sole focus was on Cross as the entire team urged him on in his wily zigzagging race back downfield toward the end zone.

When he crossed the final line, the whistle blew. Game over and holy fuck we’d really done it.

Carolina Crush made it to the playoffs. Potentially gaining a spot at the Super Bowl.

A surge of pride so powerful it almost knocked me to my knees, rocked me to my bones, flashed through me.

Throughout the fanfare and the handshakes with the other team as we walked down the line, during the fireworks above the open-air stadium, I kept watch on Reggie. She stood with her hands clasped to her chest, a smile on her lips, staring straight at me the entire time.

I got waylaid by reporters, as did Brooks, Marquis, Rafe, and the others. They asked if I was the brains behind the offensive line.

“Maybe the balls. But not the brains. I leave that thinking shit to Macintyre.” I hooked an eyebrow to laughter all around.

“Malone, how does it feel being the dark horse of the NFL?”

“Hey, I’m still a fan favorite, as you can hear. I consider myself a knight in shining armor at this point.” The crowd was still chanting my name. “But I’m trying to make amends for my fuck-ups. Hope you can bleep that in time.” I winked.

Deacon Cross was mobbed by the press, too. Cross, the veteran player who’d been put out to pasture before his time. He’d been rejuvenated by Carolina Crush just like I’d been rehabilitated by the team and my time here.

By the time I broke free of the swarming reporters, Reggie was already gone. Her seat empty. For once I admitted to myself I wished I’d asked her to stay behind and wait for me.

My balls ached from more than just the fucking booty shorts earlier. Reggie had my body in knots day and night. The sexual heat between us unrelieved and building higher day by day.

I couldn’t wait to get home to her, but my plans to have her all to myself didn’t exactly pan out.

****

I stomped up the steps of my house a couple hours later, still brimming with adrenaline. I slammed open the door, booted it shut, and burst into the living room where Reggie sat on the couch with her phone in hand.

Walking straight to her, I shucked out of my jacket. I set her phone aside, clasped her hand, and pulled her up.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“What?” Her beautiful brown eyes flipped to mine.

“Apparently Peyton hired out an entire country-and-western bar to celebrate.”

“Tonight? But you guys must be exhausted.”

“Hell no.” Swinging her off her feet, I caught her in a hot fast kiss full of tongue. “We just made it to the playoffs, sweetheart. I don’t think I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

“A honky-tonk bar? What exactly am I supposed to wear? I don’t—”

Setting her on her feet, I looked her up and down.

I rubbed my shadowed jaw. “Huh. Good thing I stopped somewhere on the way home then.”

“You—”

I presented her with a bag.

She took it hesitantly. “How’d you know my size?”

“Sizes. And do you really think I haven’t been paying very close attention to your incredible body.” In fact, I’d paid such close attention my dick remained hard 24-7.

Pretty sure she got that as she watched my greedy expression.

“You’ve been snooping in my lingerie drawer.”

My jaw dropped. “I will in a second now that I know you have a drawer dedicated to lingerie. Jesus.”

She licked her lush lips and her lashes flickered down flirtatiously. “You wouldn’t be disappointed.”

Groan.

“Yeah. You better go change before I rip your clothes off you.”

“Promise?” she asked archly.

Grunt.

I balled my hands to keep them off her.

I rubbed my neck. My voice dropped. “I uh . . . I hope they fit though. I’ve never bought clothes for a woman before.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit with a golden glow.

“Really, Reggie.” I swept a finger across the crest of her cheek to the corner of her lips. “Only you.”

When I started backing away, she grabbed my wrist. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, cowboy.”

“I may be up for a ride, but I ain’t no cowboy. You got me confused with Brooks.”

“I just wanted to say I enjoyed the cheerleader dance.” She grinned.

“Fuck my life,” I muttered, my face heating. “You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are you?”

“Maybe if you give me a repeat performance in private.” Her sultry tone curled around me like a soft fist around my cock.

I swatted her on the ass. “Yep. Go get changed, trouble.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’d switched clothes, gobbled a huge sandwich, and downed a glass of water while checking the Crush Twitter feed.

Some funny shit on there. And some awesome shit. #CarolinaCrushIt. Lots of fan pics and videos. Soundbites from all the coaches and Peyton. Social media was lit up after our performance tonight.

But none of that mattered when I heard Reggie enter the kitchen behind me.

The hair on the back of my neck rose, and of course my cock followed suit. I didn’t even have to see her. Just the sense of her, the scent of her, in the same room did it to me.

I turned slowly, pocketing my phone.

Then I swiped my hand across my mouth in case drool started to escape. Like I hadn’t seen her nearly naked, eaten her pussy, watched her dance in sensual teases of costumes . . . But this time she was wearing something I’d bought for her. I wanted to give her a lot more than just clothes.

I wanted to be able to give her my heart, and put a damn ring on her finger.

The silky cream-colored western-cut shirt clung to her tits, and she’d left enough buttons undone a tiny peek of cleavage showed. Her glossy hair swung around her shoulders. Dark makeup made her eyes even more captivating, and that lick-me-red lipstick needed to be smeared all over my dick.

I scanned lower. The tight black jeans she’d worn the other day paired with the top I’d bought her along with the new boots just purchased. Low-heeled so she’d be her natural height when I held her against me.

I roamed back up. Stopping at her tits.

Did I see a hint of her nipples?

Fucking hell.

I wanted to ravish her on the spot.

My cock lurched in my jeans.