Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (8 page)

BLAKE

Tears are streaming down Billy’s face. If he laughs any harder he’s going to pop an eyeball.

He holds his chest. “Holy shit, bro. You look like an actual ball sack.”

Tia stands back, admiring her handiwork. “Chewbacca is not a ball sack, Billy-boy”

I look down at the costume comprised of a jumpsuit, glue and a shitload of fake hair from the dollar store down the road. With the builder’s utility belt it actually looks rather realistic for a last-minute costume she slapped together.

Billy keeps firing. “Your mom’s vag is less hairy than that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him. “You do realize you’re insulting
our
mother.”

Tia clicks, looking between us. “Whoa, whoa, back up. You guys are
actual
brothers?”

Billy snorts. “You don’t think I call him ‘bro’ for fun, do you?”

“But—” starts Tia.

“We don’t look anything alike,” I finish.

“Well, yeah.”

“I still think he’s adopted, milkman’s son or something,” Billy adds. “I mean, look at that fugly cheek-line, those dimples.”

I give him a wry smile. “Thanks.”

Tia’s shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

Billy nods. “My reaction too.”

I lift my overly hairy arms up. “Can we get this thing over and done with?”

Tia smiles, reaching over to the table and picking up the papier-mâché head. “And now for the
pièce de résistance
.”

Billy loses it entirely, falling to the floor in hysterics.

Tia’s smile couldn’t be any bigger as she slips the helmet-slash-mask-slash-oversized armpit over my head.

I look out at the two of them through the eye slits. “Well?”

Tia crosses her arms, nodding with approval. “We did it. You’re Chewbacca.”

“Do it,” laughs Billy, barely able to speak.

I’m getting pissed off. “Do fucking what?”

“The sound,” he continues. “Please, god, do the sound.”

I huff. “Fine.” ‘Arrrrgggghhhh’ I moan, in Chewbacca’s voice, beating my chest.

The two of them stand there in silence for a second, stunned… Right before exploding with laughter.

I pick an apple out of the fruit bowl and throw it in Billy’s direction. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

He has his hand out, struggling to breathe.

Tia collapses against him crying, wiping away tears. “Says the human pubis.”

*

A guy in green face paint is bowing before Tia. “May the force be with you.”

“And you,” she replies, every bit the space princess with her hair up in twin buns. I have to admit, it is kind of adorable seeing her in her element—‘adorkable’ even.

Star Wars plays on a giant projection screen at the back of the room, the place surprisingly packed. They’ve all come out of the woodwork for this one.

It’s easier than I expected. If I stay in character I only need to respond to people with grunts and random chest-beating. I don’t even have to show my face.

A pixie-like girl I’ve seen around the place comes running up to us. Her hair looks suspiciously like the American flag. “Tia, hi!”

“Lacey!” Tia beams, hugging her. She turns towards me, arm in arm with her new friend. “Chewie, this is Lacey, the gymnast.”

I give a grunt. ‘Gymnast’ rings alarm bells. I thought I’d been through the entire team, but not this girl. Ethan maybe.

Lacey raises her eyebrows. “Not much of a talker, are you, Blake?”

Fuck.

Tia looks confused. “How did you—”

“The eyes,” Lacey points. “It’s always the eyes.”

I put my hands up, dropping the act. “You got me.”

Lacey swipes a neon blue cocktail off an alien robot with tray passing between us. “So, Johnson & Johnson, what brings you to the wildlands? Shouldn’t you be at The Trophy Room in your natural element instead of slumming it here with the weirdos?”

I’ve really been missing out if all weirdos are like Tia and Lacey. “I’m a big Star Wars fan. What can I say?”

Lacey’s not about to let that fly. “Would you rather be a Jedi or a Sith?”

Little does she know I’ve done my homework. “A Jedi, naturally, specifically part of the Jedi Sentinel Class given they’re more covert and technologically advanced than the Consulars and Guardians.”

Lacey spits out half her drink. She squints. “Who are you and what have you done with Blake Johnson? And ‘covert’? The last thing you are is covert. What about the time you and that girl from—”

“Drink, Tia?” I interrupt, starting to sweat a little more than I should in this fur ball.

“Sure,” Tia replies, allowing me beautiful, sweet release to get out of there and find the bar.

Han Solo nods as I approach it, cleaning a glass. “There you are, Chewie. What’ll it be? Rancor blood? Settov Hammer? Wookie-wango?”

I shake my head. “Just give me a beer.”

Han winks. “You got it, big boy.”

*

After a couple of bantha milk cocktails, Tia’s in a galaxy far, far away, skipping around Lacey and I as we head back to the apartment.

“As Tia’s newly acquired BFF, I have to ask,” says Lacey, “what are your intentions for her?”

“My intentions?” I scoff, thankful to be free of the Chewbacca head at least.

“You going to pump and dump her like you do every other girl on campus?” It seems Lacey’s filter-free too.

“She’s Coach Reed’s daughter. She’s a no fly zone.”

“And when has that stopped you getting your dick wet?”

Whoa.
I take a deep breath. “Coach Reed’s done a lot for me. I’m not looking to fuck that up. Besides, she’s not my type.” Even as the words leave my mouth I know they’re bullshit. She’s more than my type. She’s smart, funny, and honest. I almost think more about her smile than her ass, which is, truth be told, kind of strange.

Lacey, however, is far from convinced. “Guess we shall wait and see, won’t we?”

I point between us. “We haven’t… have we?”

She laughs out loud. “Fuck no. I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t want a warehouse for a vagina anytime soon.”

“You look familiar.”

“What’s that?” Tia calls, bounding up the path ahead, one of her buns undone, her mocha hair spilling down to her shoulders on one side.

“Nothing,” I shout.

Lacey jumps in front of me. “I’m small, but I can be mean when I want to. Fuck with my girl there and I don’t care how big your dick is, it’s coming off.”

My manhood’s copping an awful lot of threats lately. I salute her. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“Good,” she says, firm, but I see the smile lingering there.

*

I shake the lump under the quilt. “Wakey, wakey.”

“Go away,” comes a squeaky voice.

I’m about to pull the covers off when I realize it might not be the best idea. She might sleep in the nude for all I know. My cock stiffens thinking about it.

I lift the covers back enough to see a beautiful, tangled mess of hair and soft, bee-stung lips peeking out of it below. “Few too many cocktails at the Mos Eisley Cantina last night?”

Tia yawns. “What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?”

I look to the bedside clock. “Four-thirty.”

“In the afternoon?” she says, hopeful.

“Morning. Time for training.”

“You can take your training and—”

Right on cue the alarm clock goes off. She sits bolt upright, her night shirt hanging off her shoulder and the top of a breast visible, pale and perfect. I want to fill my hand with it, hold onto it while I dive between her legs, but no.
Never going to happen.

She slaps at the clock, finally collecting it. It topples onto the floor and cuts off.

She puts two hands up to her head. “Why does it feel like I’ve been sleeping in a cement mixer all night?”

She sees her top is down, pulling it up and blushing. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I hand her a glass of orange juice and two aspirin. “For the cement mixer.”

She takes them, fingers like silk. “Thanks.”

I stand, not that I want to leave. “See you in five?”

“If I can find my feet.”

*

I’m used to shaking off hangovers in the pool. The water’s good for that, for physical
and
mental health, though I’m typically thinking about my last lay instead of my next.

I deliberately get Tia to swim ahead of me, focusing on the way the globes of her ass press and roll, her smooth legs and tiny feet kicking. With that sight in front of me I could swim the Pacific Ocean and back.

The only problem is trying to get out of the water when you’ve got an iron bar bent in your swimsuit.

I wrap a towel around myself, standing sideways and tucking my cock down as much as I can. I’d have better luck tying it in a knot. Tia sits on a diving block catching her breath, hands on her hips.

I take a seat on the block opposite.

Outside, the sun’s lifting in the windows, backlighting the mist rising from the surface of the pool, every wall and pane of glass golden.

I lean over my knees, pressing the towel down between them to hide my monster boner.
Talk about drag.
“How’s your head?”

She pulls off her cap and googles, hair spilling out. She shakes through it with one hand, diamond droplets falling to the floor. “Better, thanks.”

“Nothing like a bit of physical exertion early in the morning.”

She rolls her eyes. “So Lacey tells me.”

Fucking Lacey.
“
What
exactly did she tell you?”

“She says you like company—
a lot
of company. I mean, I don’t blame you. You’re an attractive guy.”

Compliment noted.
“I am, am I?”

I know I should tell her she’s attractive in return. Hell, I’ll call from the rooftops she’s the hottest girl I know, but I think of Coach and keep my mouth shut. I thought the bastard tortured me in the pool, but this is a new, creative kind of cruelty.

She licks her lips. “You’re in great shape, clearly,” she says, gesturing to my arms. “Most guys would kill for a body like that.”

“If you want to stroke my ego, you’re going about it the right way.”

She laughs, wrapping her hair around the side of her neck and ringing it out with two hands. “I think your ego gets stroked more than enough without my help.”

“Lacey tell you that too?”

Her eyes have turned honey in the light. “Lacey told me to stay the hell away from you.”

“And you always do what you’re told?” The line comes out automatically. I’m powerless to stop my own charm.

She lifts her leg up, swimsuit pulling tight against her crotch. “Most of the time.”

Jesus. This shower better be sub-zero.
I’m not joking. If my cock gets any stiffer I’m going to get brain damage from the blood loss.

I’m looking at her and she’s not the girl at the bar, the pole-vaulter or track chick, the ass or rack or whatever it is I feel I need to tick off my list. She’s different.

And she’s completely untouchable.

I stand, trying to bunch up the towel a little between my legs. “See you at the food court?”

“Greasy burgers that look like they could kill a bear? Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she smiles.

TIA

We hit The Trophy Room late. Cutter, Magnus and Billy are there. Judging by the empty glasses, they’ve been there a while.

Blake high-fives Cutter and rubs Magnus’s ginger mop. “Fuckers, what’s new?”

Billy leans back against the bar. “Chillin’, brewin’—you know how it is.” I sense Billy wants to make a comment about Blake and I arriving together, but he holds his tongue.
Good boy.
“You guys been… training?”

Blake takes a stool. “We’ve been checking out Carver’s finest.”

Billy smirks. “That pole-vault chick? Because I mean, damn, she can vault my pole any day.”

Blake leans forward and shoves him. “No, you idiot, burgers from the food court.”

Billy looks to me. “So he’s shown you his special meat. Guess that means you’re part of the inner circle now.”

“We’ll see,” I wink. “Now, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

I’m guessing the answer is ‘not very much’.

*

I’m three shots down and feeling the effects. I hardly drank a drop of alcohol back home and here I am headed for AA.

I send a quick message and look up, Blake with his elbow on the bar watching me carefully.

I glance up. “Can I help you with something?”

“Just ’mirin.”

I erupt with laughter. “God knows how you get any when you talk like that.”

He puts his hands up with mock gangster signs. “Why you got to be buggin’, girl? Can’t you see I’m the Mack Daddy around here?”

I place my phone back into my bag and turn to face him. “You’re whiter than Mitt Romney in a snow storm. How about you leave the ‘buggin’’ to the real gangsters.”

The others pick up on this, standing and replying with an “Oh!”

Billy shakes his head. “The burn, bro. She’s lighting you up.”

Blake smiles back, studying me. “Easy coming from a skinny-ass cracker like you.”

I laugh. “Pity you’ll never be the man your mother is.”

The squad guys explode.
Gotcha.
“Day-um!” one of them shouts. “She’s got you there.”

Blake steps right up to me, fronts me real good. “Looks like your face caught on fire and someone tried to put it out with a fork.”

Another “Oh!” from the crowd, a few outsiders picking up on the dis battle.

I press myself up against him. “If you were twice as smart, you’d still be stupid.”

Moderate laughter. That one might have been a bit high-brow for these bozos.

Blake nods, crossing his arms. “Guess you must have born on a highway given that’s where most accidents happen.”

“You’re a failed abortion whose birth certificate is an apology from the condom factory,” I retort.

“Why don’t you take that mask off? Halloween isn’t until October.”

“What died on your neck? Oh shit, it’s your head.”

“You’re so stupid you’d drown in a Mexican wave.”

“You make blind kids cry you’re so fucking ugly.”

We’re smiling at each other, everyone in hysterics. It’s sort of cool being part of the crowd. I didn’t even know I had this in me.

Blake puts out his hand. “Truce?”

I take it. “Only if you buy me another drink.”

I hear the
vroom vroom
of a motorbike revving outside. I look through the windows. It’s Ethan, right on time.

Blake looks through the front doors, sees the bike. “What the fuck is
he
doing here?”

I gather my things and down the last of my drink, standing.
This isn’t going to go down well.
“He’s here for me, actually.”

The look of shock on Blake’s face is so fantastic I almost wish I could carbon-freeze it for posterity.

The others look equally bemused.

Blake gestures out the door. “You’re joking, right?”

I start walking away. “Got to go, sorry.”

“Tia!” he yells, but I’m already through the doors slinging one leg over the back of the bike.

“Ready,” nods Ethan, watching the others with a sly grin.

“Ready,” I reply, the bike burning away in a cloud of dust.

I look back to see Blake crash through the doors, two hands on his head like the situation’s so unbelievable it might just pop clean off.