Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (23 page)

“Baby…”

“Tell me, honestly, how many?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He’s growing frustrated, irritated, turning in a second with that Jekyll and Hyde routine I know so well now. “Fuck, Scarlet, can you give me a break for once? So I sleep around. So fucking what? We fuck, what, once a month now? That’s not good enough. I’ve got needs.”

I cannot believe what I’m hearing. “Are you kidding me, Josh?”

He remains firm. “No.”

“You think you can do better?”

“Maybe I can.”

So this is it. “Okay. Why don’t you try it out then?” The tears have dried, my skin stiff and acrid.

He keeps his eyes pinned on mine. “Maybe I will, find myself some real hot ass instead of a moany, whiney bitch like you.”

That’s it. I walk past him and this time he doesn’t try to stop me. “Goodbye, Josh,” I tell him, throat burning as I open the door.

I turn, one final look, and take in his sad, deflated dick. “You know what, Josh?”

He doesn’t reply, but stands there with hands on his hips exactly like he did when Jensen scored that goal.

“You might be all Mr. Playmaker on the field, but you never made me come, not once.”

He watches me, but I can see it’s a bullseye right into that over-inflated ego balloon he calls a head.

I turn and slam the door behind me, hurrying to my car and backing out of there as fast as possible. I notice a set of black skid marks running up the street.
Guess I’m not the only one who wanted to get out of here in a hurry tonight.

I shift into first and drive away, one eye on the front door of Josh’s place. It remains closed. It’s not until I hit the highway, still sitting there in my bra and panties, the tears come again, great hulking sobs wracking my body and causing the wheel to shake in my hands. I don’t even know why I’m crying, why I’m letting him make me feel this way, like I’m worthless, second rate.

I think of him and immediately I think of her—on top of him, sucking him off, begging him to do her in the ass, her stupid damn tattoo and piercings and… God, I’m crying so hard the road’s nothing but a blurry mess before me, watery blobs of black and white.

I pull into a rest stop and slump over the wheel, let my tears fall to the tops of my thighs and roll down into the upholstery.

It’s done.

It’s over.

Somewhere in there, among all the anger and sadness and self-loathing, Oprah-Walters perches herself by my ear and whispers,
You’re free, honey. You’re free.

JENSEN

Coach leans against the lockers. If the ugly stick exists, poor guy copped the brunt of it. He smiles, two teeth gold, two silver. Rumor is they got knocked out after he slept with a teammate’s wife when he was in Manchester FC. He’s never confirmed or denied it, though I’ve always felt for the girl. I can’t stand the guy personally, but I’m not here to make friends and sing Kumbaya. I’m here to fucking well win.

“You’re pretty proud of yourselves, huh? Good game and all. Couple of shots down at the club,” Coach preaches, arms crossed over his gut.

I look around. There is some mutual agreement amongst the team that yes, we did play well against the Silverbacks. We did win, after all… thanks to me.

“Bullshit!” he shouts, sending more than one player lifting from the bench. “I saw so many fifty-fives out there I’m surprised most of you know what a fucking ball is. Two lost spot-kicks? My ninety-year-old mother can play better soccer than that.”

He searches the room. Everyone tightens. The last thing you want is to be singled out and sent to the bench next game, not here in the big league where every second on the grass counts. The only player who doesn’t look concerned is Josh. In fact, he’s been looking rather distant all day.

Coach finds his mark. “Lewis.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“What the fuck was with that bicycle kick bullshit? You think you’re in the circus?”

“No, Coach.”

“You’re damn fucking right you’re not!” comes the bellowing reply. “Too busy playing the five-fingered flute to actually put in the hours and improve your game. Don’t think I’m not watching. When you’re on the field, I’m watching. When you’re sitting on the sofa and playing X-Cock or Playstiffy or whatever the fuck it is, I’m watching. When you’re taking a dump, I’m watching. I. Am. Fucking. Everywhere. You feel me?”

I can’t help but laugh. He’s onto me in a second.

“You got something to laugh about, Collins? I thought I made it clear Josh was to take that position, but no, you decided to swoop in, leave the left open, take the glory. It’s that kind of dick-pulling play that’s going to wind you in trouble, my lad.”

I throw my hands up, keep my smile tight. “I just do what I do. Can’t help it I’m the best.”

I see Josh look away.

Coach rolls his eyes. “Jesus wept. Now off to the gym, all of you. You look fit as Fleet Street hookers.”

I let the others take the machines. I’m more into bodyweight routines—dips, rows, pull-ups, calisthenics, just like our old man. Pops back in the day? Not a girl on God’s green who wouldn’t have gone there. Weights, pulleys? All for the fucking posers.

I run an extra set of reps, feel the burn in my thighs and arms from the squats and rows, my core activated and tight, ready for more. Kind of gets my dick hard.

Josh drops down off the bars, reaches for his towel. I make my way over, the sound of metal-on-metal making it seem like we’re stuck in the middle of a foundry.

I sling my towel over my shoulder. “Don’t think I’m letting you off for the other night.”

Josh flexes, lifts one pec and then the other. “Letting
me
off?”

“I heard it all through the door. Made my goddamn stomach turn. You better hope and fucking pray I don’t tell Scarlet about your little run in with Miss La-Vida-Loca.”

Josh kicks at the mat with his foot, laughing with his head down. When he brings it up he doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest by my threat. “She already knows.”

“That you’re cheating on her?”

“That I’m seeing other people.”

I tighten at the news, surprised my brother’s suddenly being so candid about the whole thing. “You’re telling me you broke up with her?”

He smiles, smug. “I did.”

“You sure it wasn’t the other way around?”

“What do you want me to tell you, man? It’s over.”

“Just like that?”

He speaks slowly. “Just like that.”

I knew eventually this would happen, but now? It doesn’t make a lot of sense, not that these things ever do. Possibility blooms before me, but I squash it down.
Easy.
“If I find out you hurt her…”

He laughs again, toothy, drawing up his towel and holding it behind his neck. “Hurt
her
? What about
me
?”

“You?”

“You think she’s so fantastic, don’t you? That sunshine spills out of her ass, but I’m telling you, she wasn’t worth it in the end. I wasted a lot of time when I could have been living it up like you, my little brother.”

I’ve had just about enough of this conversation. “I’m going to talk to her.”

Josh starts to walk away. “Do that. Tell her I’ve moved on to greener pastures.”

Prick.

Like you’re any better.

Coach pulls up beside me. “Everything good between you two, Collins?”

I put on a smile. “Rosy, Coach. Just rosy.”

*

I don’t know why I wait to get in touch with Scarlet, but every time I reach for my cell or think about heading out, I pull back. I can’t work it out. The path is clear now. It shouldn’t be so hard.

Days pass. Another game, another win, but I’m distracted. I scan the stands, but Scarlet’s MIA. I finally find my balls and call her, but it goes straight to voicemail. She obviously doesn’t want to be disturbed,
which is exactly when you should go to her.

By the weekend I’m getting concerned. I call her friend Polly, but even she knows nothing, didn’t even know her and Josh had broken up, surprise, surprise.

I think and dream about her twenty-four seven. She’s a special kind of torture, always there tugging at my head and cock, the thought of her too much to take. I want to tell her she is fucking gorgeous. I want to sink my cock inside her and never take it out.

Go to her!
my head shouts. So, finally, I do.

*

I remember the day Josh and I helped her move into this apartment. Back then it was far from the best neighborhood in the city, a veritable gangster’s paradise. Now? Hipster heaven. Every well-trimmed man and his miniature dog want a piece of the action, no less than three tiny cafes opening up downstairs complete with fancy organic coffee and ‘raw’ cakes, whatever that means. The only thing I like raw is fucking.

I knock on her door and wait, a lazy sun setting at my back and turning the door’s latest coat of white into a soft peach.

I get a sudden pang of panic, turn to walk away as the door opens.

She stands there in a black tank top and khaki shorts. Her platinum hair’s messy, a sort of bird’s nest-cum-tumbleweed. Her eyes are bloodshot, ringed red like she hasn’t slept in days. She’s not wearing any makeup, not that she ever does. She probably think she looks terrible, but I’ve never seen anything hotter in my entire fucking life.

I actually stand there gawking, searching for what to say. “You look…”

She turns, hair falling over the side of her face. “Like a mess.”

“Beautiful, actually.”

She peeks back through the curtain of hair. “You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

I put my hand on my heart. “It’s the truth. Scout’s honor,” and it is. Scarlet has always had a natural beauty most girls would kill for, but she never uses it, never flaunts herself like the women I’m used to. It’s part of the reason I’ve always found her so attractive—the shy, sweet girl next door stuck in the body of a supermodel.

“Josh told you then.”

I nod. “He did.”

“Look, you didn’t have to come around. I’m fine, really.”

I hold the bag in my hand up. “But have you eaten?”

She looks at the bag quizzically. “What’s that?”

“Chinese, made with the kind of oil you could run your lawnmower with, packed full of MSG and probably ten different diseases, but it’s the best in the city, take my word for it.”

She smiles, and damn it’s beautiful. I want to take her face in my hands, kiss her, make her mine, make her forget I even have a brother, but not yet. No, this is one time I’ve got to play with care, get into the right position before I make my move. It has to be perfect, clean. “Let me in. What’s the worst that could happen?”

She seems reluctant at first, but I keep smiling. It’s not hard to do.

She breaks. “Fine. Come in, but be warned, the place is a disaster.”

“You should see mine. CSI would have a field day.”

I close the door behind myself and place the takeout on the table while she gathers plates from the kitchen, her pug springing up from her bed and attempting to climb my leg.

“Wow, Won Ton remembers you,” she calls from the kitchen.

“Most girls do,” I quip, so used to squeezing out lines like that but knowing this is not the moment. Sometimes I don’t even bother with small talk. I just drop my pants. That usually shuts them up.

“
She
is a boy, actually.”

Good memory, asshole.
“Oh.”

I try to change the subject. “You’ve still got all these Babushka dolls, huh?”

She places the plates on the table. “I’m sentimental, you know. They’re all I really have left from Dad.”

I pick one up. It has a Victory Jersey painted on. “He bought one every time he went to Europe, right?”

“Found himself a new family there, too.”

I put it down. “I remember. How’s your mom these days?”

“She gets by.”

“Still single?”

Scarlet gives me a look of disapproval. “I don’t think you’re her type, sorry.”

“The panties I get in the mail would suggest otherwise.”

Scar laughs. It’s good to see her happy. “Panties? What are we talking about here? Lacy, cotton, printed? Briefs, g-strings?”

The idea of Scarlet in a g-string causes my cock to twitch. I move closer to the table, use it to try and hide the ice-breaker of an erection I’ve got going on. “All kinds.”

“So I hear.”

I let it go. My ways with the opposite sex are well known, but the last thing I want to do is get railroaded down that path now. I turn the conversation back to her, taking a seat at the table while Won Ton continues to paddle at my leg. “I guess you don’t want to talk about it? Don’t be fooled by appearances. I’m a surprisingly good listener.”

She sits herself opposite me. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about it.”

I reach for the bag. “Your call.”

She bites her lip and smiles. “Got any fried rice in there?”

I pull out two DVD cases hot from the food below. “I do, but as for dessert, take your pick—Gosling or Tatum?”

Her smile grows. I want it to grow forever. “If I recall, you hate rom-coms.”

I lean over the table. “You want to know a real secret?”

“Hit me.”

“I’ve never seen one.”

She reels back. “Hold the hot sauce. You’re telling me you’ve never seen a rom-com.
Something About Mary
?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“
Knocked Up
?”

“Knocked what?”

“Wow. What
do
you watch?”

“Anything with muscles and guns.”

“So you like watching other buff guys run around half-naked?”

“Did you just say I’m buff?”

She starts to blush. Goddamn it, if she gets any cuter I’m going to bust a nut right here under the table. “Maybe, but we’re getting off-topic. I’m going with Gosling.”

“Good choice.”

“You think?”

“Guy’s sexy as fuck. I’d do him.”

She really chuckles at this, throwing her head back, even Won Ton yapping away to get in on the joke. “Oh, man. I just got the weirdest visual.”

“Was there chocolate underwear and a big ol’ bottle of lube involved?”

Her cheeks are burning up. “How about you dish up dinner and leave the daydreaming to the professionals?

*

The movie’s actually not bad. Metacritic came through. The remnants of dinner remain on the table, a smoky, wok hei scent lingering.

Scarlet’s couch is small, a three-seater at best. We’re close, but there’s still a good foot between us. May as well be a mile, I’m so fucking nervous.

I mean, Christ, what the hell is happening to me? This is where I shine, in for the kill, but I know exactly what’s happening. I had nothing to lose before, and Scarlet I only get one shot at. She
is
the one, always has been. I cannot fuck it up. This is more than a one-night deal. It has to be.

She places her hand down. The gap between us closes, the air electric. The movie’s reflected in her eyes, Gosling’s smile bouncing around the starburst pattern of her cornea. Does she even know I’m looking at her? I start to shift my hand closer. Everything stops—my breath, my heart.

What next, the ol’ yawn-arm-around-the-shoulder?