Page 9 of Sideline Play

“You know, you’re the only one who calls me that,” she whispers.

Stroking my thumb across the back of her hand, I murmur, “Good. I like havin’ somethin’ of you that’s all mine.”

I hear her intake of breath a moment before she takes her hand back and steps away from the table, banishing my newfound insanity. Clearing my throat as she turns away from me, her hip bumping into her cart and a soft euphemism for swearing leaving her lips at the sharp contact, I try again.

“So how do we make this work?”

“You mean with your physical therapy?”

I want to tell her no—that what I mean is, how do we make this work between us? How do we navigate whatever has been drawing us closer these last months and act upon it without it imploding on us? Is there a world where the issues that comefrom her dad being the manager of the team and her brother being my teammate are not insurmountable? Would she jump into this with me if I ask?

Instead, I remember her comment that lumped me in with Roman and remind myself of the awkward age difference that puts me nine years older than her but also only nine years younger than her dad and say, “Yeah. Jennings said you could finish your semester remotely, but do you want to?”

Dipping her fingers into one of the tubs, she scoops out some of the solid cream and begins to heat and liquify it in her palms, announcing, “I’m going to start down at your calf so you can get used to my touch and we can slowly work out an ideal pressure. From there, I’ll work my way up and announce each new touch. If you need me to change anything, if anything hurts beyond a slight discomfort, or if you change your mind about me, please, speak up.”

Never, baby girl, floats through my head, choking off any answer beyond a simple nod.

Smiling at me, Scarlet hums, “Perfect,” her fingers beginning to knead the area surrounding my shin, my cock thankfully behaving, at least for now.

“As for what I want,” she circles back. “I want you out there playing, Remi. You’re too good for this to be your end, and I’ll go wherever, do whatever is needed of me to get you back out behind that plate in February. In twenty-one years, I’ve attended a traditional school environment for less than six. If anyone can manage and thrive with distance learning, it’s me.

“I’m going to move up to your thigh. Let’s softly bend your knee so I can reach your hamstring. It’ll be sweeping motions down to your calf, alright?”

Following the gentle direction of her slick hands, I groan the moment she begins on the underside of my thigh.

“Fuuuuck… that feels amazing.”

“Told you. I’m very good at what I do.”

Moaning as her knuckles begin to roll and push deeper into knots I didn’t even know I had, I ask, “What about friends? Boyfriend? Girlfriend for all I know.”

“Remi, part of your job is to watch and read people,” she quietly hums. “I know you see the dynamic with my classmates. What makes you think I have friends who aren’t on this team or the wives and girlfriends of those on the team?”

“And a boyfriend?”

She laughs at that. Actually laughs, the sound full yet self-deprecating.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Seriously, where would I find one of those? In high school I was painfully shy and awkward, not that it mattered with Roman around. Those Brentwood boys were all too afraid of him and the ones that weren’t, well, I don’t want to be anyone’s trophy.

“I actually didn’t go on my first date until college. It was nice. Reeves picked me up at my door—I mean I lived in the house with him but still. He gave me flowers, which was the first time someone I knew other than Roman and our dad did that. We went to play minigolf and had dinner afterward. Stayed out even longer walking the campus and having ice cream before he brought me back home and kissed my cheek, wishing me goodnight in the kitchen before going to his room.”

Listening to her wistful words, I feel punched in the gut. A deep ache and longing coming to life within. Of all the things I had thought about her and her life over the years, the idea that she didn’t have a single friend who wasn't somehow tied to her dad and brother hadn’t crossed my mind. The cameras and magazines make it seem like she lives such a charmed existence, but hearing her talk about her life away from the sport it almost seems… lonely.

Clearing my throat, I asked, “Was that your only date?”

“No. We went out quite a few more times. Football games, movies, picnics in the bed of his truck. He was always taking me somewhere or to do something. But things never progressed past those kisses on my cheek or holding my hand. It was all very sweet and wholesome but…”

Drifting off as her hands continue to work, she announces her progression up my thigh and towards my groin, choosing to remain quiet and keep whatever precious thoughts she was about to say locked inside her head. With her gaze firmly fixed on a spot on the wall, I settle in to counting the strokes of her touch, surprised by how soothing even her deep tissue work feels. Watching her, feeling her, it makes the rigidity I’ve been holding on to melt away.

Circling up with her palm.

Sliding down with her elbow.

Fingers kneading each sinewy thread and tendon.

With every pass of her hands, I drift further and further. Floating away to the elusive relaxation she had insisted I needed. The languid feeling coursing through my body in stark agreement with her assessment of me. I’ve been carrying more tension than I thought, not taking care of myself nearly well enough. And in a moment of lapping relaxation, my guard against her begins to drop. With each passing minute, a little bit more falls, allowing room for my response to her to grow.

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