Sidelined: A Wilde Players Dirty Romance (9 page)

Fletcher

Cassidy will be my forever girl if I can only convince her I’m her guy. Stubborn as old Mr. Rafferty’s mule and hardheaded as the rock mountain they blasted through to create I-40, it won’t be easy. But I’m not going to give up until I win her over. Last night at her house surpassed any of my expectations. Never did I imagine she would allow me to spend the night. Poor Brady and Boomer were bustin’ a bladder to go out this morning, and Cass gave me hell about that, too.

“What were you thinking, leaving those poor pups inside all night?”

I don’t dare tell her I never thought she’d offer for me to stay over and no way in hell was I turning that invite down. I’ll just clean up dog pee if I have to is all there is to it. Or buy new floors for Mom and Dad if it’s that bad.

But I don’t have too much to be concerned about. They almost knock me down to get out, though, and I’m pretty sure they pee for ten minutes. Then they kiss me for like a half hour without stopping. Next time Cass is coming home with me.

As I feed the dogs, I think about what we did, what I did to her, and my dick springs back to life. Damn, I’m going to have to temper those thoughts, or I’ll walk around with a fucking stiffie all day. And I won’t see her again until my appointment this afternoon.

Checking the time, I know it’s too early, but I send the text anyway. I’ll eat what she dishes out at lunch, after I buy, of course.

A few hours later, I walk into the cute little deli on the outskirts of town, the one I didn’t think Cass would come to for lunch because it was too far from her work. My “date” is waiting for me.

“So, how’d it go?” Gina asks.

My mouth has been turned up all day. “Great. Not perfect. But it was awesome.”

“You knocked yourself off a piece then, did you?”

“Jeez, Gina, this is Cass you’re talking about.”

“So? She needs to get laid just like the rest of us. I take it you did my girl good then?”

Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t quite know how to answer that.”

A sly grin spreads across her face. “You just did. I bet you two got into some kink, didn’t you?”

I fish-mouth several times and then look at the white ceiling, trying to think up a clever reply. But she saves me by tapping my arm and saying, “I’m proud of you, Fletch. You’re really living up to your name.”

“My name?”

“Yeah. The Man with the Hands. Isn’t that what they call you?”

“No, it’s not.” I rub my hand over my head. “They call me Wilde Hands—as in my last name.”

She waves a hand and says, “Same difference. I kinda like that. Wilde Hands, huh?” Then she giggles and leans in. “How wild did they get?”

I lean in and say, “You’ll have to ask Cass.”

“Dang it and she won’t tell me a thing.”

Her disappointed expression reminds me of a Beagle puppy.

“You’re terrible. What’s next?”

Both of her hands grip the table as she pushes back. “You mean to tell me she still isn’t on board?”

“Like I said before, she won’t ever be convinced because she is of the mindset that we’re destined to be apart. I have to convince her otherwise, and the only thing I can think of is to figure out a way where we’re somehow thrown together.”

“I can’t fake-stand her up again. She’ll figure that out,” Gina says.

“Is there a night she usually shows up at the bar?”

“Yeah, on Thursdays, but that’s not always a given.”

“How about this? Call her Thursday and apologize again and ask her to come in to catch up since you didn’t get to last night. I’ll show up then.”

“I could do that.”

“In the meantime, I’ll try to come up with something else.”

“Sounds good. Now, what are you buying me for lunch?”

“Whatever you want.” And I’d get her a new car if that’s what it is, as long as I get my girl back.

PT is brutal that day, as it usually is. Cass puts me through hell, but I keep telling myself it’s all for a good cause, and it seems to be working. It’s hard to believe the improvement in both my knee and shoulder. She really knows her stuff when it comes to sports rehab. Getting back on the playing field by training camp is the goal, but is that cause as good as it once was? Football has been my life for as long as I can remember. I’ve lived, breathed, slept, and dreamed about the gridiron, about catching the snap and turning the ball so the laces are just right to throw that perfect spiral, and now I question if this is what I still want. Being here with Cassidy has muddied the waters, turned my black and white world into a landscape of solid gray.

My mood continues to deteriorate as I drive home, and when I open the mailbox, there’s a letter addressed to me. I don’t pay too much attention to it, but then my phone rings, and it’s my agent calling. He’s the last person I want to talk to, but to avoid him wouldn’t be good.

“Leo, what’s up?”

“I called you earlier, but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh, I was in therapy. Must’ve missed it. What’s so important?”

“Yeah, they want you back here.”

“I thought we discussed that,” I say, exasperation and annoyance coloring my tone.

“We did. But this is to evaluate your playing potential. They want to make sure you’re roster-worthy.”

“What? My rehab isn’t close to being finished. I won’t be ready until July like we discussed.”

“Look, Fletcher, I told them that, but you know, they’re covering their asses. If you can’t play, they’ll need to replace you.”

“A lot of faith they have, huh?”

“It’s all about the money. You know.”

Yes, I do. And Leo is also about the money. This call isn’t just about the coaches, manager, president, and everyone else who has a stake in the financial pie. It’s about him, too.

“When?”

“End of May.”

“Fuck.” I’m not even sure that’s possible. This will be my career-ender if I can’t throw by then.

“Fletcher, you know you pissed them off when you didn’t come back here.”

“Fuck off, Leo. It’s not like I had much of a choice. I have other responsibilities outside of the team.”

“Whatever. You look at it one way. They look at it another. You could’ve hired a dog sitter and someone to watch your parents’ house. Let me know when you’re getting in. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“Yeah. Fine.” I end the call and throw my phone across the room, scaring the shit out of the dogs.

“Goddamn cock sucking assholes. Take them to the playoffs how many times, not to mention to the Super Fucking Bowl and this is the thanks I get.”

I toss the letter onto the counter and don’t bother opening it. I know what it says. And then I take back all the thoughts I had before Leo called. No matter what, and even though Cass is the love of my life, I have to prove to them that I can do this. If they think they can take me out like some old wounded dog, they have another thing coming. But fuck, if this doesn’t scare the shit out of me because I’m not sure if it’s even possible.

The liquor cabinet and Jamison shout my name, so I head over and pour a glass. Before I know it, I’m four deep. Then I hear the gravel crunching as a car pulls up and the dogs start barking. Who the hell is that?

The door swings open, and a vision of loveliness rushes in.

“Are you okay? I tried calling, but it kept going to your voicemail,” she says.

Shit. My phone. It’s on the floor somewhere.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. What happened?” She crouches next to the recliner I’m sitting in.

My palm rubs over my hair, and I blink, trying to pull up the right words to tell her.

“You’re scaring me, Fletcher.”

I point to the counter. “There. In the kitchen. A letter. Just read the damn thing.”

She walks over, and I hear paper tearing. After a couple of minutes, she asks, “Can they do this?”

“Oh yeah. They can pretty much do whatever the fuck they want. My agent called, so I don’t have until July after all. Apparently, I pissed them off when I stayed. Fuck them.” The whiskey was making me slur my words, and my thick tongue was getting the better of me.

“You don’t mean that. But I’m worried if you try to throw too soon, you’ll injure yourself. Can I write you a note?”

“A note to lose my contract, and then get let go from the team, you mean?”

“Okay, let’s think about this. We have almost another four weeks. Your mobility is much better since we began. Your knee is still troublesome, but you’ll have to keep wearing the brace, and all they want to see is your throw, right?”

My good shoulder lifts up. “You know what, I don’t know what the hell they want. I think they want the team doctor to examine me while I’m there.”

“Can I go?” she asks.

“You’d do that?”

“Well, yeah.”

She stands there in her work clothes, looking as beautiful as ever, so I rise to my feet and wind my arms around her. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me and what you’ve done? I don’t … I can’t even begin to thank you. I would’ve been a miserable battered piece of shit if it hadn’t been for you. God, you smell good—just like vanilla cupcakes. You wouldn’t happen to have one in your pocket, would you?”

“How much of that stuff did you drink before I got here?”

“I dunno. A few glasses, I suppose.”

Her body shakes as she says, “That’s what I thought. Have you eaten this afternoon?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Come on.” She tugs me into the kitchen and whips up some kind of tasty omelet. She serves it with toast and potatoes.

“Oh, God, this is the best food I’ve ever had. You should consider becoming a chef.”

She laughs. “Is that a fact?”

I point my fork at her. “It is. You could open up a breakfast place and serve these omelets and that vanilla cupcake you’re hiding from me. Where is that thing anyway? I want my dessert.”

“Fletch, I don’t have any cupcakes. It’s my shampoo you smell.”

“What? No cupcakes. I’m crushed. I was all set on having a cupcake. Hey, do you think we can bake some? Are they hard to make? I’ve never made cupcakes before.”

She rummages through the freezer and comes up with a container of ice cream. “How about this instead?”

“Okaaaaay. I guess it’ll have to do. But will you make me cupcakes tomorrow?”

She shakes her head. “You and your cupcakes.”

After dishing out a big bowl of ice cream, she sets it down in front of me. “What, no chocolate syrup?”

Her eyes move toward the ceiling, so I look up there to see what she’s looking at. “What’s up there? A bug?”

“No, Fletch. Forget it. Here’s your chocolate,” she says, pulling it out from thin air.

“Awesome. Wanna bite?” I hold up the spoon loaded with some of the cold creamy stuff. She opens her mouth, and I decide to be funny and play airplane. I swoop the spoon around, and somehow it misses and lands on her shirt, right over her boob. “Oops.”

“You did not just play airplane and drop that on me.”

“I thought that’s what I did.” I wear a sheepish look, or at least that’s what it feels like. I touch my face just to make sure.

“All right, Fletch. Finish up. It’s bedtime for you.”

“You gonna read me a story?” I ask.

“Only if you’re good and finish your ice cream real fast.”

In record time, that bowl is empty, and she helps me get into bed. But the sad thing is, when my head hits the pillow, I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to hear her story. The last thing I remember is feeling her soft lips touch my cheek. God, I love her lips. The best things ever.

Cassidy

His eyes are closed as his mouth merely murmurs the words. But my heart soars like one of Fletcher’s perfectly thrown passes when I think I hear him say he loves me and that I’m the best thing he’s ever had. I’d seen several of his games as a professional player before I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. He has the million dollar arm he’s known for, which only reminds me of what I have to do to get him back on the field even if it means he will leave me brokenhearted again.

His soft snores give me the will to say the words I’ve been holding inside.

“I love you, Fletcher.”

In his half-drunken state, he manages to snag me around the waist and murmurs back, “I love you, too.”

If only love were enough. The hold he has on me is firm, but not at all uncomfortable. I allow myself to settle in, fully dressed as I am, and drift into sleep.

I dream of a house with mountains in the background with kids’ voices coming from somewhere behind me far in the distance. Then it shifts, and his hands are on me. Damn, if he’s the only guy to know how to touch me and where. Waking to find his mouth between my legs, I have no time to be self-conscious as an orgasm shatters through me before I can even say good morning. And then he’s inside me, and that’s when I realize I’m naked. When had the man undressed me? Truthfully, though, I’m not at all mad. He’s slow, passionate, but relentless as he works me into oblivion.

Later, much later, I get him back with a bazillion punishing reps as he lifts low weights to retrain the muscles what they need to do.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Sweat pours off him, and it’s so damn sexy and not at all gross.

The sweet smile I give him isn’t so sugary as it is tart when I reply, “If that’s what it takes to get you back on the field.”

He groans while we work for another hour until we both reach our breaking points. His eyes are hungry, and I want to feed him. But I dash out of the door with a hasty goodbye instead. As much as I crave his touch, I need an escape. I’m starting to feel the early signs of dependency, and I can’t allow myself to get that close. He’ll be leaving before I know it, and the life I’ve built is here. And there’s no way I would ever ask him to stay.

The rest of the week, I play dumb and coy, anything to keep things light yet business-like between us. I sense his growing frustration and try to keep my own at bay. Continuing to have sex with the man is like a drug I don’t want to give up. So I’m avoiding it as a way to stop myself from falling any deeper with him than I already am.

It’s late Friday evening when I have him flat on his back as I do therapy on him. I bend his thigh to his chest, flexing his knee as far as it can go without hurting him or his chances of recovery. When I let go, I stand straight.