Ball and Not Chain

Calder

 

 

 

Email. December 12, 2014. Las Vegas.

Hi, Calder.

I haven’t heard from Chris in a couple weeks. I’m getting worried. I’m trying to be that tough tomboy you met first, but I’m a woman now, and I’m not sure how much more silence I can take from him.

 

I really don’t fit in that well with the Air Force wives’ club anymore, not since I went back to work, back to dancing.

 

I’m sorry to bother you. I know you love him as much as I do. If you hear anything from him, will you be a buddy and let me know?

 

Please take care,

Reggie

 

Present day

I DIDN’T WANT REGGIE anywhere near the guys. So far I’d kept my secrets—my past—separate from my new team. I’d kept myself occupied with training, playing, meetings, keeping my nose clean, and my cock clear of all pussy.

She sauntered up to me and straight into my arms.

Goddamn her scent. Her sinful body. Her lips she pressed briefly to mine. Despite the name, Reggie was pin-up sexy. Wanna-instantly-wrap-those-plush-lips-over-your-cock sexy. She was beautiful, bright, talented . . . a temptress.

Pure lust I could never act on.

“How come they let you on the field?” I drew back.

“Special pass. You know I have my ways when I really want something.” She lifted the tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too.” I swallowed roughly, hands dragging away from her.

She playfully knocked me on my shoulder, taking in my stained uniform before peering up at me with a hint of that darkness she and I shared in her lustrous eyes.

“Even if you keep ignoring my phone calls?” she asked.

My mouth bent. “You know why.”

A quick glimmer of tears dampened those coal-dark irises. “I only wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

I knew. And that was why I hadn’t answered any of her calls. Because what I felt for her burned so much deeper and was too completely wrong to even contemplate.

An awkward silence thickened between us—a stretch of unease that hadn’t been there before . . . before everything went to shit.

Reggie took my hand in hers, her fingers so slim and small between my larger rougher ones. “Are you going to visit your parents while you’re here?”

“C’mon, Reggie.” I tugged away from her, a flash of self-inflicted anger curling inside me. “You know better than anyone why I can’t do that.”

“No, actually, I don’t.” The sudden flare of temper heating her cheeks just made the curvy woman even more gorgeous—like a hot fuck that could last all night and all the next day.

But I couldn’t afford to think of Reggie like that. She was the ultimate forbidden fruit. There’d always been a barrier between us. It was gone now. He was gone. And even thinking that made me feel dirty and disgraceful.

I’d known returning to Reno was dangerous. Not like I had a choice. I was back on a team, on the roster every game. Between practices and workouts and NA meetings . . . I just wanted to find the thing that made me completely alive again.

“They don’t wanna see me.”

“That is such utter bullshit, Calder.” Reggie stomped her foot.

“Easy, girl.” I hid my guilt and shame with a grin aimed at her.

“Don’t call me girl. I’m a woman, and you damn well know it.” She shimmered in front of me on the sidelines of the field while the rest of my team funneled toward the locker room.

They shot curious—AKA nosy-bastard—looks at Reggie and me.

I rubbed two hands down my face, smudging the thick black marks high on my cheeks. “We’re flying back home in two days. Practice tomorrow and then some sort of team surprise tomorrow night. Then we’re gone. I don’t have time to see the ’rents.”

“I know you haven’t called them either.” Reggie wouldn’t back down.

“I can’t, Reggie. Please.” My voice came out hoarse.

Nodding sadly, she wrapped her arms around me . . . briefly. “Just think about it.” She lifted damp eyes. “For me? You’re not the only one hurting. We need you no matter what you think.”

I kissed her forehead, squeezing those last moments into my memory.

“Will you pick up the phone next time I call?”

“I gotta go, Reggie.” I backed up, wanting to sprint hard and fast and as far away as I could from everything she dredged up.

She snagged my hand, and I could’ve pulled free if I wanted to. Instead I turned my palm to hers, brushed her knuckles against my cheek.

“I’ll answer.”

Letting her go, I rushed after the team, huge breaths burning my lungs. I only glanced back once to see her walking away, just like I’d walked away from everything in my past. Thinking it was the only way I could survive.

I busted in on the usual locker room antics. Akoni and his opera. Rafe and Marquis—with his pink shower cap over the long dreadlocks—playing toss the slippery soap, Bunyan whipping the end of his towel against Deacon Cross’s ass.

I stripped off, threw my gear onto a bench, almost sank into a hot shower.

Spray pinged into my eyes, and I wet my hair before shampooing up with a harsh lather.

“How’d it feel bringing the pain against the Ravens?” Brooks doused his head under the shower next to me.

Like the past will never die.

“Told you. Those dudes don’t owe me anything. I owe them everything.”

“What about us? Don’t we rate, Malone?” Paul Biggs/Bunyan soaped up.

“Dude, we been here before.” I shook water from my face. “And winning always feels goddamn good. You know it.”

“’S’what I like to hear.” Coach D had entered and paced through the steaming shower block, ball cap pulled low over his bald head.

He gave us five more minutes to luxuriate in the hot, massaging showers before calling us front and center in the locker room.

Guys dripped water. Huge bare feet padded on the tiled floors. Towels slung around our hips. Our swank suits were all hung in garment bags, shirts ironed, shoes polished for the Walk of Fame we’d take down the halls through top-tier fans and the bullpen of sports reporters sticking mics and cameras in our faces.

So much better than my Walk of Shame away from Reno Ravens last year.

“We don’t have many games left this season. More wins, needed.” Coach D handed his clipboard to Coach Frank.

The father of football crossed his hands under his pits. “Now, I know Rafe’s gonna gun for the Super Bowl for Peyton.”

“Fuck yeah, I am,” Rafe avowed.

“Brooklyn’s after the win for Delaney.”

“Damn right, Coach!”

“What are the rest of you men playin’ for? Family? Wives? Children? What you got down deep inside?” His eyes landed on me, locking in. “What do you need to prove?”

“I’m worth it, Coach.” Even if I didn’t think I was. Not in those haunted dark corners of my mind.

I firmed up my stance nevertheless. I put my fist in the ring, surrounded by muscle and brawn and a team I believed in, even if I don’t believe in myself.

“One. Goal!” Coach bellowed.

We echoed his yell.

“One Team!”

“One team, Coach!”

“One chance to win!”

“ONE CHANCE!”

“Super Bowl!” Coach D’s deep voice vibrated from his chest.

“THE TROPHY! THE RING!”

“Good.” Coach pulled back. “The drill. You know it.” He did the Yoda thing with a speech we all knew by heart: no fraternization—hahaha—no fucking around.

Especially not me even though I’d been clean for twelve-plus months. And they had my weekly urine samples to prove it.

Before he hit the door, Coach D rubbed his pate one last time as he slapped the baseball cap against his thigh. “Like I told you earlier, I got somethin’ special planned for y’all tomorrow night. After a practice that’s gonna make you wish you had another bye week.”

Groans.

The door slammed behind him, and Brooklyn dressed beside me, getting his tie all tangled the hell up.

“Your folks in the stands today?” He scowled at the knot he’d made then started over again.

“Don’t think so.” I wasn’t the type of son parents could be proud of.

I’d basically self-exiled myself from my family. Too scared to go home. Too ashamed to call home.

I expertly tied my blue tie, straightening my collar. My brother had taught me, once, a long time ago.

“Who was that fox you were talking to after the game?” Luke Buckley, the Cornhusker, had a habit of going all big mouth right where business didn’t concern him.

“Yeah, haven’t seen you give any chick the time of day since you joined the team,” Bunyan asked, smacking Brooks’ hands aside to fix his tie.

“And fuck knows, Raquel’s practically jumping on your johnson,” Brooks added.

“It’s not like that. Not with Raquel. Not with . . .” Reggie.

She deserved so much better than me. She’d already had so much better than me.

I closed off. Shut down. I only turned the grin and swagger back on to field questions out in the corridor, to sign photos and pose for pictures.

Being back where it’d all ended dug way deeper into me than I’d thought it would.

But I’d fought for my career. I’d made it through the worst. I wasn’t gonna fuck it up now.

The next day brought the hurt just like Coach D had threatened. Mid-December. The season almost over. We still had a shot at the Super Bowl. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting up on the drill sergeant routine.

Sweat.

Blood.

Tears.

Buckets of more sweat

Physical exertion delivered me to a higher level where I didn’t live inside my brain. Didn’t hide from every single impulse. Wouldn’t want what I could never have.

Dressed to the nines and groomed once again, we shuttled to Las Vegas for Coach D’s surprise night off. The evil man probably set us up for Gladiator-type competitions or some such shit.

As soon as the luxury bus pulled up outside The luxurious Venetian on the Vegas strip where massive lit-up signs pimped out the Rouge chorus line—the site of the city’s highest-ranking show, which Reggie just happened to perform in—I gripped the seat’s armrests in my hands.

Oh shit.

Fuck my luck.