Page 71 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Anal. Bondage. You like bondage.” She pokes me in the chest for emphasis, and I yelp. “And choking. It’s supposed to be a thing. Yvonne said so.”

Boom. Boner gone. Nothing like a picture of your sister’s sex life and choking to kill an erection. I croak out, “I didn’t know you were into that.”

“I’m not, but you are.” She snuggles into me and purrs. I can’t help but laugh and press a kiss to her hair. It’s past three and practice is early, but my body’s in full rebellion. I will my cock into submission.

“I was going to lick you off like a lollipop, you know,” she mumbles against my skin.

Damn it, the uprising in my boxers is back.

I swallow. “Oh yeah?”

“And now I won’t get to do that,” she says petulantly.

I hug her tighter to me. “Aww, my poor little Chicklet.”

Right before she lets out another snore, she corrects me with a slurred, “Sweets. I’m your sweets.”

“Yes, you are…”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

AMELIA

When my alarm goes off,my first foggy thought is if corpse brides also go for bloody lingerie, and my second is a whimsical, if somewhat risqué, image of Oompa Loompas presenting me with a magic ticket to an endless chocolate fountain. It’s pouring outside.

My skin is clammy. I swallow convulsively, old booze sloshing in my veins to the beat of the marching band that’s taken over my head. Hangovers are the devil’s photo filters for bad life choices.

Every thud in my skull unveils yet another image in the non-curated slideshow aptly titled “Dear God, Why?” of last night’s antics. The costumes. The dancing. And then, the drinking. Oh heavens, the drinking. And something about rescuing a whale?

And then there was Jake.

My eyes flit about. Unless my booze-blitzed brain developed the ability to summon paracetamol, a glass of water, and a Jake-scented, Jake-sized indentation on the bed beside me, he spent the night.

Plus, there’s a vague recollection of him kissing me goodbye and saying something about practice in a voice rough with sleep.

Sex? I test my limbs gingerly, seeking the telltale tenderness between my thighs, the post-orgasmic oomph I’ve come to associate with Jake. Nothing. Instead, my body feels like it’s hosted a dance-off that was more jitterbug than sexy slow dance.

The man was short changed. Though my hazy recollections have me believing I did my best to ensure he didn’t go without, Mr. Superstar Football Player had to be a perfect gentleman, letting me make a fool out of myself, blathering on about blow jobs and Milky Ways before putting me to bed and supplying me with painkillers, which was rather lovely of him.

Groaning, I shove my face into the depths of my pillow. I’ll have to thank him for babysitting my sotted arse after apologizing profusely. I do a quick breath check. Yep, amends are definitely in order.

Cautiously, I rise and skirt around my bloody bridal gown, now draped incongruously over the back of the chair, and my insides lurch again. I toy with the idea of ringing in sick, because more fuzzy images lurk in the far corners of my brain of people watching me depart with Jake. I swallow. Still, everyone was drinking. I can’t imagine I was the only one who made questionable decisions. No point dithering. The real world beckons.

After attacking my post-Halloween sallow with a good layer of foundation and another motivational pep talk, I get to the office right as Terri’s in the middle of complaining about last night’s hookup being sub-par. Rani responds that hers wasn’t bad, except her date kept calling her “darling” all night in homage to her Edna Mode costume. Things took a turn, however, when he declared he didn’t want to put on a “super suit,” aka a condom. That’s when she had to show him the door—no gear, no go. The woman drank at least double what I did,but doesn’t look any worse for wear in a sharp pantsuit that channels Jessica.

“Morning, sunshine! I see you got home okay,” she chirps, catching sight of me.

Bollocks. She did see me leave with Jake. My eyes scan the room. Who else did? Am I going to lose my job because I acted unprofessionally? Just as I’m about to spin some kind of tale that might explain it away, Rani’s already off on a different track. “Got me details for your tours?”

“My tour—” Oh. Bloody. Hell. Those foggy memories? Crystal. Clear.

Before I can say more, she barrels ahead. “Did you settle on Verse Ventures or Song Striders? Not that it matters—I’ve registered both domains. Someone’s always ready to rip off a good idea. I also emailed my cousin. She’ll be happy to tag along on one of your tours sometime and help with photos for your site. She’s stoked, says it’ll be a killer addition to her portfolio.”

I’m still processing when the unmistakable hum of Marge’s wheelchair fills the room. “People, we need more shots of the players. Mud-slicked muscles always seem to get us the most eyeballs, and we have ads to sell and money to make.”

“Now?” Rani’s incredulous gaze flits to the window. It’s almost impossible to see the field for the rain.

Margie eyes her, unimpressed. “Unless you’re secretly melting material, I suggest someone gets out there.”

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