Page 13 of My First and Only Crush

I’ve lived my entire adult life doing what I should instead of what I want, because that’s the trade off for playing pro ball.

So I have almost two decades experience shoving down my personal desires and stacking something heavy on top of them.

Once upon a time, it was my social anxiety.

This past year, it’s been my obsession with her.

I didn’t see them smashing into each other like freight trains tonight…I feel damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Go back to the hotel with Jeff and risk running into Sin when I’m with him? Go out with the guys and feel like I’m crawling out of my skin the whole time?

Fuck. Me.

Jeff misreads my torn silence as tired agreement. He pushes me toward the showers, promising that there’s a car immediately on the other side of me washing off the celebration.

* * *

It takes a while to actually get to the hired SUVs with the blacked out windows. We get caught up in the rest of the team also heading out of the stadium, and fans find us, so we pose for photos and sign autographs.

Once we’re in the car, I lean back against the padded headrest and close my eyes.

Immediately, I see Sin pushing up on her toes as I pin her against the wall. My cock thickens and my brain spools out a fantasy, completely uncaring that her father is sitting a foot away from me.

I shift myself so my arm presses down hard on my dick.

My brain substitutes that pressure for a mental picture of her tight, off-limits cunt grinding against me in the shadows of that alcove as I praise her for being Papa’s pet, such a good girl…

“How are you going to celebrate?” Jeff asks from beside me.

I grunt. He means in the off-season.Unloading a playoff’s worth of seed into your daughter’s bare little pussyis the wrong answer.

“Will you head home to the ranch after the parade?”

Because winning tonight isn’t the end of my job for this team. The fans will want to celebrate with us back home. There will be a parade and maybe a visit to the White House. Appearances on late night talk shows, although I’ll go with a teammate who can do most of the talking.

And then it would be a reasonable assumption that I would head home to Wyoming.

The joke on the team is that I hibernate all winter, chopping logs for my wood stove and packing on weight. I show up at spring training every year like a furry bear who just lumbered out of his den for the first time in months.

“Might go there,” I say, noncommittally.

The truth is, I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do. I feel desperately at loose ends, and the ideas spinning through my head aren’t fucking possible.

Like moving to Sinclaire’s college town in California, just to be nearby. In case she needs anything. Or in case I need a secret hit of her sunshiny laugh. I can see myself hulking behind the library stacks like a pervert.

So, Jeff, I’m actually thinking of stalking your daughter in my retirement.

The car comes to a stop and the hotel doorman greets us. “Congratulations,” he says, and then he hesitates.

“You want a photo, man?”

He gives me a wide grin. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” I can take photos with fans all day. Somehow that’s different than giving a speech.

Jeff takes the guy’s phone to take the picture. “That’s more words than he said to anyone else all night, you should feel honored.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

My first stop is the concierge desk, where I ask them to put in a room service order for me. Then there are few more pictures and handshakes in the lobby, and finally we’re in the elevator.

---