Kick (Completion Series) (2 page)

News is what someone wants suppressed. Everything else is advertising. ~
Katharine Graham

Advertising. That’s what I worked on every day.
It was safe and kept me in a perfect, closed box. Yes, I had dreams. I knew that one day I would lift my head and be ready to tackle the world again. Nowhere in those dreams was there room for a jock, or multiple jocks. To me, sports were a lower rung on my dream ladder than classifieds. Professional athletes were a waste of good air and they were the reason I lived the way I did. No, scratch that. I was the reason. I was a self-diagnosed male muscle nymphomaniac. The scientific world should study me and write books about my affliction.

I started laughing and it felt good. I should have majored in drama because the woe
-is-me mental breakdown I was bringing on myself was entirely over the top. If my best friend, Tyson… okay, only friend, were here, he would stuff me in the trunk of my car and throw away the key. I really should research nymphomania and see if you could even have the disorder after more than two years of celibacy.

I took a deep breath.
Now that I had myself past the onset of a melodramatic panic attack, I realized I was stuck writing a series of articles on athletes while children around the world starved. This was supposed to be a make-it-or-break-it moment for my career. Could I bring a positive light to something entirely useless in humanity’s struggles? I didn’t know. If athletes switched pay with teachers and police officers, our world would be a better place.

I didn’t think I could fake my
mental dislike of jocks or my body’s lust for them. I could see myself salivating at their muscles with a sneer on my face. I’d sat brooding for so long, my screensaver popped up. I hit the “enter” key and clicked on Google. Two hours later, I was more confused than ever. The terminology alone had my head aching—scrum, maul, ruck—where did they come up with this shit? My frustration had me Googling Van Stelson because nowhere on my documentation was his brother’s name mentioned.

“Great,” I muttered aloud when
Van’s face flashed on the screen.

Gorgeous and a
playboy. His father, a retired movie mogul, helped buy the team for his sons and supported their wild bad boy escapades. At least Van’s. The other brother, Joel Stelson, stayed out of the limelight, but I couldn’t imagine him being any better than his brother. The most surprising thing I discovered was that both sons were key players for the team. The Slam, the team’s name wasn’t a surprise; it was exactly what I suspected—violence, dirt, and sweat. A dumb jock’s wet dream.

Several pictures of Van showed his great body,
blue puppy dog eyes, and cocky grin. God, he even had a square jaw and dimples. Ugh, how stereotypical can you get? Oh, shocker… Van was named as a leading magazine’s most eligible bachelor. Vomit rose in my throat. I ate a spoonful of warm yogurt to hold it back.

If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. It was the most apt cliché I could think of. All at once I was terribly homesick.
Taking out my older model cell phone, the monthly bill paid by my parents, I called my mom.

She answered on the second ring. “Hi
, dear, we’re headed out for a board of supervisors’ meeting. Is everything okay?”

“
Yeah great, I just wanted to hear your voice. I got my first break at the
Journal
and I’m flying to a small town here in state tomorrow morning.”

“Frank, Frank, she got her first break,” my mom yelled
, making me move the phone from my ear and smile.

“Congratulations
, baby,” my dad said after picking up the extension.

“Thanks
, Dad. You too, Mom. I love you both. Drive carefully and I’ll call once I’m settled. I might be there for several weeks. Love you.”

“We
love you too, baby. Make us proud.”

“Frank, you know we’re already proud.”

“She knows that, Patty, it’s an expression.”

“Drive safely, love you.” I clicked off my phone
smiling at their bickering. There weren’t two people alive who loved each other more. Someday, I’d find someone who would love me like that. I would never settle for less.

My dad retired from the Forestry Service and my mom from the school district
after thirty years as the principal’s secretary. I spent my entire childhood in Downieville, Ohio, a very small town in the southern part of the state. The population remained just under three hundred. I received a full-ride academic scholarship to Ohio State and only went back to Downieville for holidays. I took part-time jobs to help with my expenses not covered by the scholarship and made a life away from my parents. I loved them and missed them, but, as an only child, they smothered me with worry. By living away from them, I could hide my idiosyncrasies and lessen their concern.

When I was a child, I didn’t attend the local schools where we lived. M
y mom worked out of town at a large county school. She took me with her each day because she felt the county school district had more to offer an extremely bright, precocious child. Our modest home in Downieville was located on a barely drivable winding dirt road five miles off the main road. This left me with no friends in my area and little to do but read and watch TV for entertainment. I became increasingly addicted to news programs as I grew older, though romance novels remained my favorite light reading.

At school
, I was horribly shy, gangly, and kept my face buried in a book whenever possible. I had a few girlfriends that were on the Academic Decathlon Team with me. We won state all four of my high school years.

I went to a few
football and basketball games and dreamed about the popular guys who never looked twice at me. I was a late bloomer, and it wasn’t until the summer before my junior year that my breasts decided to explode into a solid D cup. For the first time in my life, I had the attention of the school’s elite jock club. While I walked through school the year before with my head down, now I watched as the boys took notice of my chest. I knew I was pretty. Not gorgeous or stunning, but pretty. My long blondish-brown hair was thick and naturally wavy. My facial features nice, with a small nose and large eyes. With a newfound sense of power, I traded my glasses for contacts, changed my loose-fitting wardrobe for tighter, skimpier clothing, and the biggest difference—I lifted my head. I don’t think my poor parents knew what hit them.  

The schoolboys took notice, and before I knew it I was on my first date. He had grabby hands and sloppy kisses, but I still had a good time. I hooked up with another ball player the following week. Keeping them from going up my shirt wasn’t easy. I let them touch my breasts over my clothes, but that was it. This went on until the football team’s captain took me out. Conner acted different. He did nothing more than give me a kiss on the cheek after our date. For the first time, I wanted to go out with the same guy again. Conner took his time, and a few weeks later, my shirt and bra were completely off. He became the love of my teenage romantic life. He was the one—his hand in my back pocket when we walked through campus, hot kisses, and eventually backseat sex. We talked about attending the same college and getting married after we earned our diplomas. Even our names were the perfect match… Conner and Cami.

He played three sports and I attended every game. No
, I wasn’t cheerleader material because my coordination wasn’t the best. I still enjoyed learning the cheers while I drooled over Conner’s body on the field or court. Yes, he was still a growing teenager, but he lifted weights and had bulges in all the right places. I would lay with my head in his lap, running my fingers over his abs. They turned me on like nothing else. His biceps came in a close second. All he had to do was flex and I was a wet panty goner. I was the luckiest girl alive.

A
t least until the end of my junior year.

Leaving school late one evening after a
n ACADEC meeting, I noticed Conner’s truck parked in a dark area next to the gym and I walked over. His practice had ended an hour earlier and I figured he was waiting for me. What I discovered was my future fiancé in the cab of his lifted truck having sex with the head varsity cheerleader. I was devastated and began yelling at him, calling him every name in the book. This activated a side of Conner I’d never seen. I’ll never forget what he said.

“You’re the locker room joke,” he sneered. “Half the team has slept with you because of your big tits. Now I’ve had you too. Written on the locker room wall is ‘For big tits and a quick fuck, call Cami,’ and under it are all the names of the guys who took you up on you
r offer. You’ll find my name at the bottom of the list and I’m sure next week another guy will add his.”

Through my tears
, I realized Conner hadn’t even known I was a virgin. I ran to my car crying, vowing to never return to school.

There was no way I could tell my mother the truth and she refused to allow me
to stay home with the weak excuses I gave her. At school the following day, I asked one of the guys I previously went out with if it was true. He blushed and nodded his head, unable to look at me and answer.

The hardest thing I ever did was
finish my junior year there. I switched back to baggy clothes and covered my eyes with glasses again. No one spoke to me. I had allowed my ACADEC friends to fade away during my stint with popularity and they weren’t forgiving. I heard the whispers in the halls from boys and girls. The words “slut” and “whore” were the most common. I kept my head down and tried fading into the background.

That summer, my constant b
egging finally paid off and my parents switched me to the much smaller Downieville High School for my senior year. The girls at my new school wore cute spaghetti strap shirts with their colorful bra straps showing and the shortest shorts and skirts they could get away with. I hid large white bras with concealing clothes, talked as little as possible, and buried myself behind books again. Sadly, the rumors followed me to my new school. I refused all requests for dates, didn’t go to my high school prom, and kept to myself. If there were a yearbook caption for most boring student that would be me.

I dreamed
every night about breast reduction surgery. Eighteen was the magic age, but the cost was prohibitive unless a doctor felt my breasts caused back problems. At seventeen and eighteen I wasn’t that lucky. I began wearing sports bras in a size too small. They were cheap and mashed my boobs down tight.

I
swore off muscled jocks forever.

In
college, and for the first time in almost two years, I made a few friends. Courtney, my roommate, was the best friend I’d ever had and she pulled me into her inner circle. I actually confided to her about what happened in high school. Like most women our age, we talked about guys. I told her I had a thing for man muscle and we scoured the Internet for hot-bodied jocks. Even with Courtney’s constant harping about my clothes and lack of eye contact with those around me, I remained shy. She began dragging me to assorted ball games and had me lusting after the exact guys I knew were the worst.

I managed to keep myself hidden from college men until
Maddux. He was a soccer player, and somehow, he saw straight through my rumpled appearance and quirky glasses. I held out against dating him for a month. His persuasive tactics included lots of flexing muscle that drew out my wild muscle-crazy side. The man excelled at making shirtless look like a fashion trend. A few weeks later, I was flat on my back in his bed. I enjoyed the sex more than I had with Conner, but still, something was missing. That sizzling something other girls talked about when it came to sex. I didn’t get it. Sex was fun, but not earth shattering.

Maddux loved my boobs and paid them constant
attention when we were in bed. Outside of the bedroom, he was glad I kept them hidden because he didn’t want his friends taking an interest in my chest. His obsession with keeping me modestly dressed was a clue. I was in love and completely blind to the warning signs that Maddux wasn’t who I thought he was.

A year
after our relationship began, I found Maddux in bed with Courtney. Maddux’s jealousy and keeping my body hidden came from his own infidelity. I dumped him without the war of words I suffered from Conner, but the damage was done. There would be no more wild Cami. I locked her away forever.

The following day, I
found another semi-part-time job. This allowed me to move into a quad apartment where I had my own small room. I avoided my former best friend and was no longer in her circle of friends. Eventually, I became good friends with one of my quad-mates, Tyson. He was as far from jock material as a heterosexual male could get. Tall and skinny to the point of emaciation, just by looking at him you knew he was a total geek. We attempted a very short friends-with-benefits relationship before deciding the benefits didn’t work for us. He was the second person I confided everything to. Maybe it was because I knew he would never sleep with my boyfriends if I ever changed my mind about hooking up. I told him every painful detail, even about my fascination with man muscle.

Tyson
had seen me naked and knew what I did to hide my breasts. Other than trying to convince me I was beautiful, he left me and my constrictive bras and baggy clothes alone. He managed to bug me enough that I lifted my head and made eye contact with people. We remained best friends even after his move to the East Coast post-graduation. When he left, it was easier to return to my shyer self, and my old habit of avoiding people took over.