Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (29 page)

I go for a jog, catch up on my shows and struggle through a stack of bills and paperwork I’ve been putting off for weeks. The whole time I’m thinking about him, watching the clock on the wall for the moment he’ll come through that door and we can start again.

Won Ton’s watching the clock too. He’s grown increasingly fond of my new man. Josh? Couldn’t stand dogs. Wanted to throw Won Ton out the window one night when he wouldn’t stop barking. For a second I thought he was actually going to do it.

Won Ton cocks his head.

“You too, huh?”

Jensen arrives around six with a pizza and a fresh stack of DVDs. We’re working our way through my A-to-Z of romantic comedies, from
Annie Hall
to
Zelig
. Tonight we’re kicking off with
Enchanted
and I know that nothing is going to give me as much satisfaction as seeing Jensen’s testosterone evaporate before my eyes when Amy Adams busts into that first number.

Amy barely gets a glance. By
Happy Working Song,
I’m half naked, Jensen lifting one of my ankles over his shoulder. By
That’s How You Know,
I’m two orgasms down and quickly rising to a third.

The credits roll and we lie sweaty and exhausted on the sofa, arms and legs and who knows what else tangled together.

“You hungry?” questions Jensen.

“I don’t think I can go again. My poor vag will catch fire or something.”

He laughs. “No, I mean I’m actually hungry. Food, remember that?”

I roll over, facing him. “Right, what were you thinking? Bit late for takeout.”

“I’m in the mood for candy.”

“What are you, twelve?”

“Fucking sue me, Scarlet Strict Diet. I like my candy bars. What can I say?”

I snap up. “Sue
me
? You guys are the ones who can’t eat carbs, methodically measure out your chicken and activated almonds. I felt like I was dating Jenny Craig instead of Josh sometimes.”

“True, true, we watch what we eat. I mean, we’re elite athletes, after all.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t have some Skittles on my cheat day.”

“Today’s your cheat day?”

“Thought the pizza would be a giveaway. Why, what’s your favorite candy bar?”

I shrug. “Never had one. Mom was pretty strict about all that. I didn’t try Coke until I was twenty-one.”

“Not even a Kit Kat, a Baby Ruth?”

I shake my head. “Nada.”

He shoots up from the sofa. It happens so quick I collapse to the floor, struggling to my feet. “You all right there?”

He points to the door. “To the corner store, rapido!”

*

We’re at the corner store down the road at 1 a.m. running down the aisles.

Jensen’s having way too much fun. He selects a bar, holding it up for me to see. “This is a Butterfinger, originally made by Curtiss Candy before the company was acquired by Nestle in 1990.”

I put my hands up. “Whoa, you know way too much about this. You’re freaking me out.”

“Pops ran his own corner store, remember? Never did figure out Josh and I were stealing all his stock.”

He selects another. “Snickers, a milk chocolate-covered bar of nougat, peanuts and caramel the Mars Corporation claims to be the biggest-selling candy bar of all time.”

The basket I’m holding is already loaded with a who’s who kind of processed horrors.

The store door sensor dings in the background.

“You’re telling me you eat all these candy bars and still manage to look like that?”

He lifts his shirt and slaps his granite abs. “Everything in moderation.”

He presses me against the shelf and kisses me, our tongues moving together and my hand automatically moving around his neck. A shocking bolt of want makes my clit tingle. I angle my head, kissing him back, starving for more.

I drop the basket, but it’s followed by another sound as soon as it hits the floor.

We both hear it at the same time. The sound stands out over the solitary hum of the fluorescents above—a camera shutter.

I look over Jensen’s shoulder and right into the lens of a DSLR raised above the drink aisle. The shutter snaps again, running continuously.

“Jensen!” I scream. He turns, sees it, and bolts for the end of the aisle.

I leave the basket and dash after him.

Someone pauses at the end of the aisle. A rock drops down my throat. It’s Angela, that sleazy skank of a reporter, camera in hand and face alight as she stands there smiling, has the actual gall to snap another few frames of Jensen running towards her before she darts out of the door and throws herself over the back of a waiting bike, the cursed thing giving a
brum! brum!
of throttle before whisking her away into the night.

Jensen runs out into the street with his hands on his head.

He stays there, crouching, before turning back towards me. We both know what this means.

Whatever privacy we had is gone.

Our secret’s out.

JENSEN

“Blonde bombshell? Former model?” That b—”, but Scarlet can’t bring herself to say it, even though Angela Barnet
totally
deserves it. “It was a Sears catalogue. I was twelve.”

She shakes the newspaper in her hands, the banana bread from the café downstairs cooling fast on the table.

We’re front-page news. It’s bad. Real bad.

I sit on the sofa cracking my knuckles. “I’d call her worse. She’s a fucking c—”

Scarlet puts her hand up. “Don’t. It’s offensive to vaginas. She’s scum. I mean, when did newspapers become gossip rags? When did headlines become clickbait? You ‘stole’ me from Josh. What the hell’s with that? She’s painting you out to be a complete prick here, and me? I’m the sex-crazed vixen who seduced you into betraying your brother. It reads like
50 Shades
for crying out loud.”

She’s right. This isn’t an article. It’s a giant middle finger to the both of us, and all because of that one time I got in Barnet’s face and made her leave Scarlet alone. Clearly, she hasn’t let it go and now seems determined to bring the both of us down, which is fine, but she has the pictures to prove it. In them, my hand is squeezing Scarlet’s ass. I don’t even remember that. We’re in a deep kiss, and I mean
deep
. The caption reads, ‘Call a plumber: Jensen Collins out on the town with taboo new fling.’

Scarlet throws the paper at the wall. “Come on!”

I stand, surprisingly reasonable given I’m the one being made out to be the villain here. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t let it get to us?”

My phone’s going off like a firecracker on the kitchen counter. Probably Mom… Josh. The last thing I want is to deal with him right now.

Scarlet slumps into a chair, looking to the door. I think we both expect Angela Barnet to blow through it with microphone in hand. She’s probably under the bed right now.

Scarlet’s eyes zone in on me. “I know, but now it’s happened, like
this
. I don’t know. I’m worried.”

I stand and crouch in front of her. “What are you saying? That we should cool it for a while?”

“At least until it all blows over.”

I can’t help the look of offense that crowds my face. “You don’t want to be with me, just like that?”

“Of course I want to be with you, but the timing is terrible. Surely you can admit that.”

She
is
right. We need distance, not extra fuel to pour on the fire. I can’t keep my hands off her when she’s near.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jensen, but you’ve got a big game coming up, and I’ll be back on shift. We stay away from each other and say nothing, let social media squabble over it. When the time’s right, we come out.”

“Will it ever be right?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

We both turn silent. The best course of action is to let the storm pass. I’m used to the press, as is Scarlet to an extent, but this isn’t a puff piece about Josh’s favorite type of ice cream. No, there’s a vindictiveness in these words I’ve never seen before. “We’re both going to have to watch our backs.”

She nods. “I will. No texting or calls, okay?”

I stand, gather my things, can’t believe I’m about to walk out like this, but knowing it has to be done. “Fine. You’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be at the hospital. Crazed ice addicts should keep my mind off things.”

“Be careful,” I tell her, “and I’m not talking about the hospital. The paps are going to be everywhere. Keep your curtains closed and your door locked. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Any sign of trouble, you call the cops, and if the cops won’t play ball, you call me.”

“Okay.”

She’s standing there, and all I want to do is gather her in my arms and keep her safe, take us both to that bedroom, lock the door and never emerge again.

I reach for the door, a “wait” coming from behind me.

I turn, hopeful.

“You should probably use the window.”

*

“What the fuck, Collins? Get your head out of hemorrhoid inspection and back into the fucking game!”

I can’t blame Coach for going off. Two days out from the clash with the Dynamo and I’m all over the place. I’m making easy mistakes, fumbling the ball like it’s coated in silicone.

Coach shakes his head. “If you give that ginger-head Dynamo attacker an inch, he’s going to take a mile, Collins, paste your ass all over this field. You going to let those Houston ass-kissers into our stadium and take our glory?”

“No, Coach,” I reply, creating a divot in the grass with my boot and wishing I could somehow dig my way back to Scarlet’s place, anything to get away from this field where nothing makes sense any more.

Coach comes close, his gut kissing my jersey. “I never thought I’d say it, but your brother’s showing you up, son.” He lowers his voice. “Less pussy, more perfection, hey?”

“Yes, Coach.”
Fucker.

I spy Josh drilling by himself near the penalty area. Coach isn’t kidding. He looks better than ever. Far from the breakup sending him into a spiral of depression, it’s kicked him in the ass. I’ve never seen anyone work so hard, myself included.

He spots me, nods, and gets back to it. I thought he’d have something to say about the article, try to knock me out or worse, given how we parted in the alley, but all he’s given me is space, always at the corner of my vision, swooping behind me in the locker room, a dark look of determination on his face. If he wants to hurt me, he’s biding his time.
Come at me, cocksucker.

His reaction has only deepened my confusion. If he came out swinging, I could handle it. It’s what I expect. This, this cold-shoulder routine. It’s thrown me off. For Christ’s sake I’m staying at a fucking hotel, the swarm around my apartment is so thick. I can’t take a piss without some reporter or pap squeezed up against the window.

And Scarlet? It’s been days without a call or text, but that was the agreement. Thing is, I can’t take it much longer being without her. I’ve had a taste of heaven and now the doors have been slammed shut. If it keeps up, I’m going to snap, and right now I need to be completely focused. This game is crucial. I fuck it up and we’re in a bad place on the ladder. It will be almost impossible to climb back to the top.

You’re part of a team.

I look around at the others. I don’t know what Josh has said to them, if anything, but it’s clear I’m not in their good books. Maybe they read the article, but that’s it. They don’t know the story. In fact, I’m betting Josh hasn’t told anyone they’ve split up, all too eager to play the sympathy card, no doubt.

You do that, big brother.

The stress is balling at the base of my skull, all of it becoming too much—the pressure, the catcalls from people on the street, the stares and constant questions. The game should be all that matters—me, the ball, the goal—but it’s not. For the first time in my life I’m slipping, and it’s a deep fucking hole.

*

The recent cold has caused the turf to deteriorate. It’s patchy under my boots, far from the soft give of the artificial turf so common in Europe now.

This should be home, where I feel welcome. Right now it’s like I’m standing on another planet.

I see the ball drift towards the box, the Dynamo defenders on the back foot. I take a deep breath and lean forward, filling my lungs as I drive hard down the left. I scoop the ball over the head of a Dynamo mid-fielder and power on, feet whistling below.

I spot another Dynamo dickhead about twenty yards off, but he’s slow. I’ll send this puppy point-blank before he even makes it to me.

Josh thunders down the right, a fucking blur of speed, setting himself right up in the corner of the box unguarded and open.

The path ahead is clear and we’re one down. We need this. I could pass to Josh, easy, but I’m not going to let him fuck it up, not when it’s me who needs to claw back some respect.

I bring my leg back, welcome the mild burn in my quads that builds right before the fatal blow. My hand comes out, finger letting the Dynamo goalie know I’m coming in hot.

Wake up, asshole. Special delivery.

I lean in, the air, the crowd, everything pushing me towards the kick.

I’m bringing my foot down, swinging it for the center of ball when something takes me out from below.

For a second I’m weightless as the ball continues to roll ahead. I spin in the air—sky, ground, sky, ground—smashing hard back to earth with my shoulder. The pain runs like a knife gutting my side as I spin on the grass, hands outstretched and sliding to a stop just in time to see the turnover, the ball sailing over my head in return and the Dynamo heading fast for another goal.

I get to my feet, wincing, but the pain distant.

The Dynamo defender who took out my legs winks as he runs past me. “You fucking blind, Collins? My dead grandfather could have seen that one coming.”

I shove him. “Fuck you,” but he jogs away laughing.

A box-to-box gets it to the Dynamo number ten, the kick wide enough to slip past our goalie and seal our fate. There’s less than a minute left. We’d need the Almighty himself to descend and don boots to have a chance in hell of coming back.

A highlight reel runs through my head in vibrant color. I’m ripping through a thicket of defenders, a golfer lining up for a putt and slotting the ball neatly home, the net like a sail set in squall. ‘What a goal!’ comes the cry from the commentators. I see my college games and every win, all those smiling faces and shaken hands. I see the girls that followed, their bodies, but I don’t seem
them
. They’re the same.

I see Scarlet, clearly—her eyes, her platinum hair and soft breasts. I see her like she’s standing beside me.

It’s not to be. I should have my eye on the Dynamo CF, I should be channeling fucking Ronaldo, but instead I’m off with the fairies. I let him slip by without a tussle as if he were an apparition, and he practically floats down to our box for another run, the resounding groan in the stands marking the Dynamo’s third and final goal.

The horn blows and I’m stuck looking up at the board: 3-0, the giant numbers mocking me.

“Collins!” shouts Coach. He looks furious.

Josh is smiling as he walks past. “Way to go, superstar.” He spits at the field and continues on while I stand there cold with shock. I’m on a battlefield that’s just been the scene of a massacre. The blood is on my hands. That was an easy pass to Josh. I should have seen that defender. I should have been in the game, not stuck in some fucking limbo world holding my cock.

I pound at my head with my fist. “Fucking idiot. Fuck, fuck you!”

I’m tight, no give at all in my body.

You’re slipping. You’re fucking slipping, and soon there will be no return.

I search the crowd, but every face tells the same story of disappointment.

All except one.