Seduced by the Game (38 page)

When the song ends, she
leads her friends over to us, and the guys all welcome the female presence.
George introduces me to five new girls, but I’m having a hard enough time
remembering all the new people I’ve met here in Dallas so I instantly forget
their names. It’s not like I need to remember them anyway.

The guys are all laughing
and drinking, generally having a great time and forgetting about the game. I’m
drinking my beer but sipping it slowly, and I pretty much stare at my phone the
whole time. I’m quiet, but I usually am. It’s much worse, though, because I
don’t feel comfortable around these guys yet. I start to try to think of a way
I can leave early without seeming rude or antisocial when George appears in
front of me with a shot in each hand.

“Do you dance, Bryan?” she
asks me, downing one shot and sliding the other across the table at me.

I accept it and drink it
quickly, feeling the burn. “No. Definitely not.”

“Oh, come on. It’s a good
time, I promise. Probably just what you need.”

Peering out at the floor,
I see a bunch of her friends with some of my new teammates, and they’re all
laughing as the guys misstep and stomp on some toes. It looks painful. “Uh,
no... I don’t think so...”

“Bartender! We need more
shots over here!” Then George turns back to me. “There’s a point when someone’s
had just enough alcohol to get out on the dance floor but is just coordinated
enough still to learn the moves. I guess we’re going to find out what your
number is.”

“It’s going to be high,” I
warn her seriously, but it doesn’t faze her.

Instead, she quips, “Do
you think it will be 22?” George makes a pun off my jersey number and cracks up
over her own joke, but true to her word, she keeps the shots coming—and matches
me gulp for gulp—until dancing suddenly sounds like a really, really good idea.

* * * *

Bryan’s eyes are just a
little red and glassy when he finally accepts my hand and I’m able to pull him
behind me on the floor. I’m surprised it took as many shots of Jack as it did,
but I couldn’t stand to see him look like that anymore. It’s like his eyebrows
sag a little too close to his eyes, like a sad puppy. Between that and his
perpetual lack of smile, all I want to do is remedy that. Drinking and dancing
always work for me, so I bring him out on the floor with me. I just wanna make
sure my Comets are happy.

He moves like he’s never
danced before. The guys cheer as Bryan stands beside me, watches my feet, and
tries to mimic my movements. The alcohol’s making my vision blurry and my
mobility hazy, and Bryan and I end up bumping into each other over and over
again like we can’t maintain our balance long enough to stay on one foot when
we need to. He’s smiling but not laughing, but it’s an improvement nonetheless,
and I think he’s in a good mood—if not at least better—now. He deserves to be,
after all. Bryan had a great debut with us even if the team didn’t win.

I don’t know how long we
dance for, but by the time we make it back to our seats, we find that a lot of
the team and several of my friends are gone. Adam’s lingering around with
Allison, practically hanging on her, and somewhere in the back of my mind I
wonder if she does plan on giving in to him.

When I look away from them
and glance back at Bryan, the smile’s gone again. He checks his phone and even
frowns. So I stand right next to him and place my elbow on his shoulder so I
don’t have to talk too loudly. “Bryan, are you happy that you’re here? I really
think you should be happy to be here.”

“Yeah, I think in the long
run it’s a good move for me,” he says, but it’s not in a way that I exactly
believe him. “It just takes time to get adjusted.”

“I’m telling you that this
is definitely good for you.” If my speech is slurred, I don’t notice it,
because my brain is moving just as slowly. And Bryan seems to be following
along just fine, but that also may be what my brain is thinking that that’s
what my eyes are seeing. “You shouldn’t need to adjust too much.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see
when I get a practice under my belt.”

I shake my head. “You were
so good tonight, one of our best players. You passed so well, nice breakout
plays. Bryan, you’re going to be great here. Just go with it. You belong here.”

He nods tentatively and
chuckles a little bit. “It’s okay, George. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I
just, I want my Comets to be happy and successful, and you’re my Comet now,
too. You played so great with Justin. Just please, Bryan, be happy to be here.
You can do so much more here than you ever could in Carolina. See that. Know that.”
Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hug him as I try to
offer comfort and encouragement. This is definitely something I don’t usually
do, but I feel like Bryan needs the special treatment. All he does in return is
pat me on the back awkwardly.

Adam comes up behind us
and interrupts us with a laugh. He teases, “Jesus Christ, Comstock, what did
you put in her drink?”

Allison giggles and adds,
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen G this drunk. Not even on her twenty-first
birthday.”

That makes Bryan smile—a
real smile. “That’s because she tried to keep up with me. She’s a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” I order,
pushing against his arm. All the boundary lines are blurring. “You’re drunk,
too.”

He raises one shoulder in
a lazy shrug and then slurs out, “Maybe.”

Adam waves his phone in
the air. “Well, don’t worry, kiddos. I got it covered and called us some cabs.
They should be here by now.” He was optimistic and ordered three—one for me,
one for Bryan, and one for himself and Allison. However, Allison won’t buy into
that, and she takes one for herself to head home alone. Adam looks at Bryan and
me. “Okay, so who’s gonna split a cab?”

“Bryan and I will,” I say,
figuring in my head that the team townhouse is at least in the direction of my
apartment, whereas Adam lives on the opposite side of town. “Go home and cry
into your pillow that Ally ditched you. Again.”

“Shut up, George,” he
grumbles. “She wants me. She’s just playing hard to get.”

“Whatever,” I reply in a
singsong voice, mocking him. Bryan and I get into a yellow cab, and I rattle
off my address, thinking that Bryan can handle the rest of the trip on his own.
However, he’s practically falling asleep against the windowpane, and I’m afraid
that if I don’t do something, he’ll never be able to make it home safe and
sound. Lord knows I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to
him. So I coax him out of the cab with me when we get to my place. “It’s okay,
Bryan, you can sleep on my futon.”

When we get inside, he
looks tired and drunk, but there’s something else there, too. He looks drained,
defeated, and sad, like the day has finally caught up to him, and his travels
as well as the game and the mental effort have totally exhausted him. My heart
feels for him; I may not really know him yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be
empathetic. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk and my inhibitions are lowered, but I
reach out for him again. It’s not that I don’t touch the other guys, because I
do—but most of those are playful arm punches or nudges, the same way I treat my
two older brothers. Something in Bryan calls out to me, calls out and begs me
to comfort him, and alcohol has numbed my ability to think that maybe, quite
possibly, this isn’t exactly appropriate.

His body is toned and
firm, and I can feel how strong he is. When I touch him, the heat he throws off
warms me straight to my core. I fit up against him, like my body belongs right
next to his.

I don’t see a problem with
this until it seems like Bryan misinterprets my gesture. As I wrap my arms around
his middle and lift my head to say something to him, to say those magical words
that I’ve been diligently searching for all day since I met him to erase the
misery that’s written across his face, he puts my lips to use in a different
way. He kisses me.

* * * *

I don’t know if this is
something instinctual because I’m seeking a feel-good moment or if this could
possibly be something else—something more. But when George puts her arms around
me, I kiss her. It doesn’t involve any thinking whatsoever; I just do it. Only
after my lips touch hers do I realize that I’ve made that move.

Or maybe George has made
the move, because she’s the one hugging me. She’s been close all day: picking
me up from the airport as the first friendly face I saw in Dallas, arranging
everything she could for me to help me transition to the Comets, and then just
generally being a constant calming influence on me throughout the day with her
presence, especially at the bar where I was sulking. When I met my new
teammates and coaches, I felt like they were sizing me up and analyzing my
every move. George wasn’t like that. She’s been encouraging, like she can
already see my strengths and how I’m going to improve the team—because I will
improve the team. She’s sure of it, which makes me kind of sure of it, too. Or
at least it makes me want to be sure of it.

Once we start kissing, we
don’t stop. There’s no awkward pause in which we pull back and look at each
other like we’re making sure that this is something we mutually like and want
to keep doing. We just do it. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her without
considering any potential consequences, because my brain doesn’t care about any
of those silly things. All my brain cares about is forgetting where I am and
what I’m doing here. And as I feel George’s body pressed again mine, the only
thing I’m thinking about is how good it feels, how I want to do it some more,
and how to take this further.

As far as I’m concerned,
there are no negative consequences. I’m consumed by the way I feel. It’s been a
shitty two days, with getting the news of the trade on Monday and then
traveling on Tuesday and immediately having to play, and my life has been
completely turned upside down by the brutally few words it takes to deliver a
devastating blow:
“You’ve been traded.”
So the fact that I can feel
remotely okay, like my world isn’t crashing down around me, is a miracle in my
eyes. If this is what it takes to make me feel human again, then I’ll do it.
Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex or had something sexual initiated
that wasn’t routine and boring, which is a whole other ball of wax but no less
motivation to see where this takes me.

Her fingers knead into my
back as I run my hands up from her ass to her soft breasts. The more I feel
her, the more I want her. After all the stress of the day—packing, flying,
playing, dancing—my body feels renewed and ready for anything. George grabs a
handful of my dress shirt and pulls me in the direction of her bedroom. I guess
I won’t be sleeping on her futon tonight. Which is great, because I don’t
really like uncomfortable futons anyway, and my new bed at the townhouse isn’t
exactly the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on either.

It takes longer than
expected for our drunk fingers to unthread buttons and disengage zippers, but
we get each other naked. I’m so hard that it hurts. I reach between her legs
and feel between her folds, and she bucks against me. George places her hand
over mine and manipulates my fingers so I’m touching her how she wants to be touched.
She presses the pads of two of my fingers against her clit and applies firm
pressure. I like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand
it. She moans and writhes, so I know she’s enjoying herself. Once I get the
hang of it, she lets go of my hand and grabs my cock again.

That’s foreplay enough for
me. I pant out, “Are you ready?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Do you have a—”

“Here,” she says, reaching
into her nightstand and producing a condom. I take it from her and roll it on.
Then I push her down on the mattress, ready for the next phase. As she pushes
herself up onto her hands and knees, I crawl up behind her and grab her hips.
George sticks her ass out, and that’s all the invitation I need. I take my dick
in one hand and aim it right toward her center.

It feels so good once I’m
inside her. She feels so good. Everything is just really, really good. When I
mumble her name, I know I can’t call her by her nickname, because it would feel
too weird to call out the name George when I’m inside of that person. And G
just doesn’t feel right either. So instead I call her by her full name.
“Georgiana.”

“Bryan,” she whispers
throatily, and it’s the best thing I’ve heard all night. Better than the shouts
of my new head coach, better than the announcer introducing me to the team in
the arena, and way better than the country music being played at the bar while
I tried to learn to line dance. When I hear her say my name like that, it makes
me wanna go all night and rock her world, but the alcohol has made me lethargic,
and instead I want to gain maximum pleasure with minimum expenditure of energy.

While I slide in and out
of her and concentrate on how great she feels, so warm and wet and tight,
George reaches down between our joined bodies and touches herself. I like that,
because I want her to take her pleasure from this, too. In a matter of strokes,
she’s panting and moaning and arching her back like she hasn’t had sex like
this in a long time. She’s calling out my name, over and over again. I feel
like a stud.