Clash

“That man has such a stare-worthy, needs-to-be-grabbed-onto-in-handfuls ass,” Holly said, gazing a little dreamily at Jude’s backside. I would have been jealous had it been anyone but Jude’s childhood best friend. Holly, and only Holly, could make an honest observation about Jude’s ass without me going all jealous girlfriend on her.

“I mean, that’s something a girl could hold onto in bed,” Holly added, munching on a piece of popcorn.

A flash of heat flushed my cheeks, assigning a picture to that statement.

Like he could feel our eyes devouring his backside, Jude shifted his arm back and gave it a smack, throwing me a quick smirk over his shoulder before huddling up with a few of his starters.

Jude Ryder was all kinds of cruel.

“So,” Holly began, elbowing at my side, “you guys…?”

I glared over at her from the side.

“That was a firm no,” she muttered, hiding her smile behind the hot chocolate cup.

I watched as Jude and the guys took the field after the kick off. Number twenty-three’s name caught my attention. Where “Hopkins” had been stenciled in his jersey the entire season, tonight’s jersey had the word “Douche” written in black sharpie on a piece of duct tape. Jude took his payback seriously.

“Well, it hasn’t been for lack of trying,” I said, turning in my seat to face her. I was comfortable talking with Holly about Jude’s apparent inability to sleep with me because Holly was the epitome of nonjudgmental. I doubted she would have raised a brow had I divulged I had some sort of toe sucking fetish. “On my part, at least,” I added.

“You know it isn’t because he doesn’t want to, right?” she said, looking over at me. “Because the man wants you so bad he’s about to explode in his pants. He’s just hell bent on doing this whole thing right by you. He doesn’t want to screw anything up, and if you’re Jude, you believe that screwing up is in your nature.” She paused, nibbling on a piece of popcorn as Jude lined up behind his offensive line. I hopped up with the rest of the fans. “Just give him some time.”

“Much more time, and I’m going to implode and then whether it’s right or wrong to sleep with me won’t matter,” I responded, holding my breath as Jude crouched into position.

“Honey, I know the feeling,” Holly said. “This mare has been taken out to spring pasture since before little Jude.”

“God, Holly,” I said, almost choking on my kernel of popcorn, but then the center hiked the ball and I froze. Jude feinted to the side, then the other, arching the football back as Tony charged down the field. Jude’s arm blurred, the ball arching into a praise worthy spiral, ticking off the yards until it landed in Tony’s cradled arms at the fifteen.

The crowd exploded, pom-poms shaking, foam hands bouncing, fanatics chanting; it was more intense than any rock concert I’d attended.

“Damn!” Holly shouted over at me, after whistling through her teeth, “that boy isn’t only out there for ass candy.”

“He can play,” I said, underemphasizing. “Ass candy is just an honorary title.”

Holly smarted something back, but Jude was back in position and I tuned everything else out. This time, as soon as Jude caught the ball, he ran it. Dodging a couple of players that slipped by his line, he blazed a path past the ten, past the five, and the last few yards were wide open.

And we were on the board with six points less than a minute into the game. I knew there was no J in team, but those points were almost all thanks to number seventeen, Jude Ryder.

Gripping the rail in front of me, I jumped, hollering out at the field. Holly was screaming too, although hers was punctuated by “ass candy” every other word.

Jude dropped the ball in the end zone, having long abandoned the theatrics of scoring a touchdown after his first game. Something about running a ball into the end zone one to two times a game had a way of making theatrics a bit lackluster.

However, there was one opening touchdown tradition he hadn’t let die. I was already leaning over the railing before he’d jogged over the ten. It felt like half the dome’s eyes were on me because if any of them had been to a game, they knew why Jude Ryder was sliding his helmet off and who he was smiling at.

I’d never been one for making a scene or partaking in public displays of affection, but when it came to Jude, I’d take him anyway he offered himself to me. No matter if we were alone or the focus of thousands of crazed fans. When we were looking at each other the way we were now, everything faded into oblivion.

Shouldering a hole through his teammates slapping him on the back as he passed, he dropped his helmet before leaping into the air. His hands caught the top rail of the front row and, performing the hanging from the side of a barricade equivalent of a chin-up, he lifted himself up.

Leaning over farther, I grinned down at his sweat beaded face. “Show off,” I whispered, so close I could almost taste the salt of his skin.

His smile curved higher. “Come here,” he ordered, dropping his eyes to my lips.

Dropping my mouth to his, I tasted the salty sweat of his skin. And then I kissed him. The crowd exploded again, loving the show their star quarterback was giving them. But we weren’t doing it for them. This, we did for us. Everything we did as a couple we did for us.

He didn’t let me break away when I moved to. Instead, he somehow managed to hold himself with one arm while the other grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me back at him. He kissed me harder, so I couldn’t breathe and the stadium was spinning and, as expected, everything except for Jude faded away. I had totally and completely faded into him.