Tackle (7 page)

I turned and laughed. "Luck? Who needs that when you look like this?" I replied, indicating my new suit. I turned to the redhead and clicked my fingers like I was rudely summoning a waiter. She jumped to attention, puffing out her chest and pouting.

"Hey!" Rodrigo protested. I ignored him.

I flipped my hand around and made a come hither motion with my thumb and fore finger. The redhead made a play at resisting, but it was only for show. She walked over to me, sashaying her hips.

"Hey," she began seductively, batting her eyelashes. As I looked at her, all I could think was that she wasn't Diana, nowhere close. Oh, what I'd give to see Diana in a bikini…

I leaned in, resting my hand on her hip. She thrust hers forward subconsciously, leaning into me. "You see my friend over there?" I asked, quickly adding, "Don't look!"

"The sexy one? He plays soccer, doesn't he?"

"He's good," I agreed. "I want you to give him a good time, okay?"

She pouted, leaning closer toward me. She was wearing a floral scent, but it wasn't what I needed – Diana's spicy scent. "Are you sure you don't want to take me home?" she almost begged.

"Not tonight." I grinned, shooting a look back at Rodrigo's red, furious face. She let out a quiet, frustrated moan, but a smile on her face reappeared the moment I patted her on the ass and sent her towards my friend.

"Have fun," I called back, smiling to myself. By the time I looked back at the happy couple, their lips were locked together and Rodrigo's champagne flute was resting on her hip at a dangerous angle…

I shook my head. I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me. Any other day, on any other night, that redhead would have been in my bed, no matter if my friend liked her or not. She was exactly what I wanted – in a hookup, at least.

I sat down on a sun lounger, kicking off my expensive Italian shoes, and relaxed into the feeling of alcohol seeping through my veins. I'd been training like mad for the past fortnight to make an impression, and I reasoned that I deserved this. All work and no play, after all, made Alex need a woman's touch…

I closed my eyes, but within a couple of seconds, I felt a presence hovering over me. "Can I get an old-fashioned, please? Scotch, not bourbon," I asked without bothering to open my eyes.

It wasn't a waiter.

"I don't know," a familiar voice breathed huskily over me, "can you?" My eyes flicked open, only to find that the girl in the black dress from earlier on had managed to ditch her friend and come looking for me. I smiled – I'd expected as much.

She perched beside me on the sun lounger. "Pleased to see me?"

"Where's your friend?"

She pouted, quickly adopting a faux frown. "You like her, do you?"

I grinned, experienced enough to know not to mess up a sure thing. "Not at all."

That seemed to placate her. "What are you doing here?"

"Lying down, you mean?"

She set down her champagne flute, stretched, cat-like, and lay down next to me. "Yeah. Budge up!"

I did as she asked, noticing that there was nowhere near enough space for us both to lie down without touching each other. "Long day," I said. "Guess I'm just tired."

She curled up on her side, resting her hand forthrightly on my chest. "Training?" she said sympathetically.

"Training," I agreed. "You know who I am?" I asked, surprised.

She raised her eyebrow. "Please," she said archly, "everyone in the city knows who you are."

She started stroking my chest. I didn't complain – it felt nice. "What should I call you, then?" I asked. "It feels like you know an awful lot more about me than I do of you."

"Portia." She smiled, her hands trailing dangerously down towards my belt. "Nice to meet you." She grinned. I studied her carefully. She looked like the kind of girl who always got her way – sexually and otherwise. I wasn't surprised, she was objectively gorgeous. I looked around the party and noticed men staring at us, green with envy at the fact that I managed to attract the most attractive girl on the rooftop without even having to sit up. And yet, even though her hands were now dancing around my cock, I felt nothing.

She leaned in, eyes closed, for a kiss. "Portia," I said, placing my index finger on her lips.

She looked up at me, surprised – as if no one had ever turned down a kiss with her before. Looking at her, I wouldn't be surprised if that was in fact the case. "What is it?" she asked, snaking her hand around my cock more aggressively. "You don't like it?"

Honestly, the answer was no. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I'd have picked her up right then and there, walked downstairs and booked into the hotel. But nothing was happening downstairs. "I can't," I replied. Her eyes filled with hurt – she was a girl who definitely wasn't used to being turned down.

But she wasn't willing to take no for an answer, not with the chance of sleeping with a Barcelona soccer player on the line. She pushed her hands under my belt and went for the meat of my cock itself. I grabbed her arm firmly. "I said no," I repeated forcefully, sitting up.

I pulled her hand from my pants and stood up, pulling on my loafers. "What did I do wrong?" she asked tearfully.

"Nothing," I grunted, grabbing her champagne flute and downing it in one. "Just not tonight."

I fumed to myself the entire cab ride home. What the hell was the point, I mused, of being able to attract girls like that if I wasn't going to do something about it? I tipped the driver a hundred and stumbled back into the villa.

My iPad was lying on the antique four-poster bed that sat in the master bedroom I'd chosen to sleep in, its sleek white surface contrasting with the dark, varnished mahogany floor. I knew exactly what I was looking for, and I hated myself for it. I typed in the web address for a porn site that I hadn't used since I was a teenager – hadn't needed to use, since every girl I ever looked at had gone weak at the knees for me. I typed in: "blonde hair, green eyes" and pressed the search bar for the first time in years.

The iPad's screen quickly populated with girls in varying states of undress, performing a variety of depraved, disgusting sexual acts. I felt my cock begin to stiffen, and started scrolling through the thumbnails.

I was suddenly turned on, electric. I scrolled through page after page of videos, but couldn't find what I wanted – what I
needed
. I threw the iPad down on the bed in frustration.

"Fuck!" I groaned aloud. Once more, Diana's pale, freckled face drifted into view in my consciousness. Her soft, supple blonde hair was bracketed by her piercing green eyes – eyes which seems to gaze into the depths of my soul and judge me for what I was doing.

But I couldn't help myself – I needed this. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on her beautiful face, tried to visualize her body, to undress her in my mind's eye. She floated, tantalizingly, on the edge of my vision.

"What the fuck are you doing, Alex?" I groaned, furiously undoing my thick, heavy leather belt and freeing my pants. My massive cock made its presence felt, flopping out in style – I never bothered to wear underwear. I felt like a horny teenager, unable to control myself. I could have had a girl here with me, but no girl could stand in for Diana. My hand closed round my cock, and I groaned with frustration yet again as Diana's face blurred in my mind.

I desperately scrabbled for the iPad, gently stroking my cock with my right hand. It took no waking – the thick appendage was stiff and on fire – tingling and sending shooting butterfly sensations up into my stomach. I unlocked the tablet, quickly navigated to a search engine and typed in "
Diana Lopez
".

The first page that came up was on the WBC Sports site – Diana's profile. I sank my head back as the page loaded, chastising myself for acting like a pig. It didn't matter, didn't change my opinion, or what I planned to do. My cock already felt ready to blow, as though this was merely a formality, and though I tried to hold myself back, I couldn't stop my hand from stroking the thick penis, massaging it, allowing my fingers to concentrate on the sensitive head, and the palm to do the hard work.

Diana's face flashed up on the screen, and my breathing quickened. "Oh my God," I groaned as the pressure built between my legs. I was close, so close that I could barely hold myself together. I didn't know what was happening – I'd never once blown in less than fifteen minutes, not once.

This time, it took only seconds.

And it was to a picture.

I exploded, a thick stream of white cum shooting out of my engorged cock and landing on my leg. It was hot, and as it cooled, I knew one thing.

This wasn't enough. In fact, this was pathetic. I didn't know what this girl was doing to me, but I had to put a stop to it.

I needed her.

I needed to fuck Diana Lopez, to ravage her, to hear her begging me to enter her, and then to blow her mind.

And I needed it soon.

I
held
the microphone to my mouth. "It's ninety degrees and hot, hot, hot for Barcelona's first open training session of the year." Tim's lip curled as though he was holding back a laugh, and the camera shook ever so slightly on his shoulder.

"What?" I asked, dropping my hands to my hips. "It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it – the
hot, hot, hot
bit."

Tim lowered the camera to the ground. "Kinda…"

The metal superstructure of Barcelona's huge training stadium – a facility that was bigger than many grounds in Spain's lower divisions – towered over us, sun glinting off its exposed steel beams. I sank to my haunches in frustration. "Okay, let's try again."

I straightened up, and Tim heaved the heavy broadcast camera back onto his shoulder. It was no great surprise, I mused, that he was so well built and obviously fit, because though his equipment must have weighed somewhere north of fifty pounds, he threw it around like it weighed no more than a feather.

With shoulders like that, I wonder what he could do to me in bed
…

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the thought. This was Tim – my cameraman, a guy I'd known for months, not some magazine pinup. What the hell was coming over me? I knew what – I just didn't want to admit it. It was the fact that I hadn't got laid since arriving in Barcelona – and if I was being truly honest, the fact I hadn't been laid since I left college.

And it was more than that. I wasn't just horny, I was infatuated. I had a crush on the one man who I absolutely, positively couldn't sleep with.

Alex Rodriguez.

"It's ninety degrees at lunchtime, and we've got clear blue skies over Barcelona's training ground for the first open session of the year. With the first serious test of the season coming up with the game against Madrid this weekend, the club reports that they're currently injury free, though backup goalkeeper Florian Wagner, the French international, has been ruled out with an infectious cough. Join us later on WBC Sports for a full roundup of today's action."

I plastered a hundred-watt smile on my face and held it as, in front of me, Tim counted off the seconds on his hands – holding up three fingers, then two, then one. The red light on the front of the camera blinked off.

I dropped the grin, massaging my strained facial muscles. "How was that?"

"Much better," Tim assured me. "Anyway, it's just B roll – for the website."

I jabbed him in the arm. "
Only B roll
? I thought that was good…"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch." He grinned. "I said it was
better
, not
good
!"

"Oh, shut up." I grinned. I looked around, noticing that the flow of excited fans into the ground – mainly mothers with their kids at this time of day – had stemmed, and that only a few latecomers were still trickling in. "Hey, we'd best get into the stadium. We don't want to miss anything."

"Sure thing," Tim agreed, "but I need to get some filler shots from up in the stands. Meet you down by the field in," he looked at his watch, "let's say half an hour?"

I rolled my neck, stretching out the tension caused by being forced to stand with less than perfect posture to look good for the camera. "Sounds good. I'll see you there."

I tossed Tim the microphone and strolled into the stadium, flashing my press pass at a bored security guard sitting on a white plastic chair in front of gate four – the entrance reserved for press, players and staff, and which led directly pitch side. He barely paid it any attention.

The players were running gentle sprints to warm up, and I searched for the only one I really cared about – Alex. I tried to kid myself that I was searching for him for professional reasons, but it was a fiction. Truthfully, I wanted to see him in his training kit – ripped arms exposed, and his thick, powerful legs bulging in a sprint.

I spied him laughing at another young teammate on the other side of the pitch – Rodrigo, if I remembered correctly. The kid was squatting down on his haunches with his head in his hands – he looked ill.

"Rodrigo!" the coach shouted. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, coach. Just…" He was interrupted by Alex laughing. "Just a headache, that's all."

"Do I need to send you to the medical team?"

I grinned as Rodrigo jumped up like a jack in the box – that was the last thing he'd want, because that way he might have to miss a game. "No, coach. I'm good."

"Then join in with the warmup. You, too, Alejandro," he barked.

They ran lengths for a few minutes, and I couldn't help but notice Alex and Rodrigo lagging behind – Rodrigo significantly further back than even Alex. Either they were coming down with the bug that had laid the backup goalkeeper low, or, and I suspected this was far more likely – they were both hungover.

I rested, out of view of the pitch, against a concrete pillar. The entire squad formed up into small teams of five players apiece, and I surmised that they were going to play a short tournament against each other. It was smart, I guessed – the coach wouldn't want to give any tactical information away, given that the whole world was in attendance, and this way he could still focus on building the players’ technical skills.

Alex was in the first match.

His touch was diabolical. There was nowhere to hide in a five-a-side game – even the goalkeeper was playing as an auxiliary outfield player, but every time Alex received the ball, it seemed to bounce off his foot and end up three yards away from where he wanted it.

The coach blew the whistle dangling around his neck. "Rodriguez, what the hell's wrong with you?"

Alex gasped, already seemingly out of breath. I raised my eyebrow in disbelief. "It's nothing, coach, honest."

"It better not be," the coach barked. "If you want to have any hope of playing on the weekend, you're going to have to buck up your ideas, son."

"Got it, coach," Alex wheezed.

The game restarted, and Alex ran through, clear on goal. He received the ball from a player who was twenty yards away and impressively bounced it off his chest. When it came to kicking it, though, his touch deserted him. The ball bounced off his foot and flew directly upwards, straight into the stratosphere, missing the goal by miles, not inches.

The whistle blew angrily. "Rodriguez! Off!" the coach barked, jabbing his finger at the side of the pitch. Alex stumped off angrily. I bit my lip, imagining what he'd be thinking. His jersey hung against his body, slightly sticky with sweat, and outlined his outrageously defined stomach. I began to dream of lifting it over his head and kissing my way down to…

"You ready?"

I spun guiltily. "Tim!"

He looked at me with surprise. "Expecting someone else?"

I got my breathing under control. "No, of course not," I stammered, leaving an awkward silence in the air.

He shook his head, as though despairing of the entire female sex, and spoke to me like I was a lost child. I couldn't blame him; I was acting like one. "Shall we go pitch side?"

"Definitely," I agreed hurriedly.

"You been watching our boy?" Tim asked conversationally as we walked side-by-side towards the coned-off area reserved for the half dozen or so media outlets who had made the journey down to the training ground.

My voice suddenly sounded high-pitched, even to me. "Alex? No, why?"

Tim stopped, and I overshot him by a couple of yards before halting and turning to face him. "Have you got a little thing for Mr. Rodriguez?" He beamed knowingly. "I think you do…"

My face felt red hot. "No! What makes you think that?"

"Uh huh," he grinned, "you can keep lying to me, or you can tell me the truth."

I turned on my heel and started walking – anything to escape the situation. "There's nothing to tell," I called over my shoulder. "Nothing at all."

"You keep telling yourself that, Diana. We both know it's not true…"

To get to the media box, I had to walk past where Alex was sitting, smoke coming out of his hungover ears. He turned his head fractionally, and his eyes popped with a minor, but noticeable, double take as he saw me stride past.

Behind me, I heard Tim cackling.

I did my best to ignore it, but I couldn't help but study Alex out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting up straighter, and every so often he'd sneak a glance at me. Every time he did, every hair on my body stood on end, my nipples tingled and an electric shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. My god, I wanted him worse than I'd ever wanted anything in my entire life.

Tim sidled up to me and set his camera equipment on the ground. "Looks like someone's noticed you, too…"

"Shut up, Tim," I squeaked. "There’s nothing there."

He hoisted his camera to his shoulder and fiddled with a variety of switches and knobs. "You can keep saying that all you like, Di, but I know true love when I see it."

I stamped my foot on the ground and my knuckles turned white with frustration. "Aargh, you couldn't be more annoying, you know that, Tim?"

The whistle blew in the background, but in the depths of my rotation, I wasn't really paying attention to what was happening on the field.

Tim chuckled. "Funny – that's just the word my sisters use. Hey, look," he pointed, "lover boy's back out on the field."

He started shooting footage, and I imagined that both the network and Alex's new agent would be pleased that we were getting
this
segment on camera, not the disastrous, abortive few minutes earlier on, because this time he was playing out of his skin.

"Rodrigo!" Alex called loudly and confidently, pointing to a spot ten yards ahead of him. Rodrigo played a defense-splitting ball, and Alex ran forward, on to the ball, showing no signs of the alcohol-induced malaise that had afflicted him so shortly before. He took one touch, killing the ball's momentum, and it stuck to his foot like glue. Another touch rolled it gently three paces ahead of Alex's run, and the third put it past an astonished goalkeeper into the back of the net.

The kids in the crowd roared their appreciation and chanted, "Ale-jandro, Ale-jandro, Ale-jandro!" He bowed jokingly in appreciation, waving at the crowd of future fans.

"Did you get that on camera?"

Tim turned and shot me a withering glance. "
Did you get that on camera?
" he repeated jokingly.

I raised my hands in apology. "Okay, okay – I'm sorry."

"I've got what I need, to be honest," Tim said at the precise moment that the crowd roared in appreciation as Alex pulled off a sublime trick. "We'll only get twenty or thirty seconds of screen time tonight, and I've already got hours of footage. I need to cut this into something usable."

"Okay. Do you need me to shoot an outro?"

He nodded, tossing me a microphone. "Keep it tight. On three?"

I adjusted my hair. "Got it."

"Three…"

I straightened up, raising the microphone to my lips and cleared my throat. In front of me, Tim held up two fingers, dropped one, and the red light flickered into life on the front of the camera.

"All in all, it was a mixed day for Alex, but he finished strongly, and he's looking a shoo-in to start on Saturday. That's all from WBC Sports in Barcelona. For more exclusive clips, check out our website…"

Tim gently dropped the camera to the floor and started packing away the equipment into his lightweight black travel case. "And that's a wrap."

I met his outstretched hand for a high-five. "Good job, crew."

He zipped up the case and picked it up, carrying it briefcase style. "Coming?"

I cleared my throat. "Uh, I think I'm going stick around and watch…"

He grinned and raised his eyebrows knowingly, and I felt compelled to reply. "The game, you ass!"

"Whatever gets you to sleep at night, Di."