Page 15 of Catching Feelings

MILES

Well, doesn’t that suck. I’ve never been jealous a day in my life. Not even of the top draft picks every year. While it’s a cool title to add to your resume, it means shit in the long run. My eye was never on that prize. Never about playing for a certain team or how many zeros my agent could add to my contract.

Surviving and supporting Julia and Lynn have been my only priorities, and I’ve done well for them in the nine years I’ve been in the NFL. But hearing Rowan talk about her date tonight? That left a sour churning in my stomach, which has me more confused than Tampa Bay’s defense.

Their defensive coordinator was on point last year, and I sucked at breaking free from the D-ends who were tight on my ass all game, but that’s a confusion I can get on board with. It challenged me to think on my feet and find a new path to the end zone.

Funny. I hadn’t thought Rowan McDaniels was my end zone. Is she hot? Fuck, yeah. Is she funny? Adorably so. Is she easy to talk to? So fucking easy to talk to. I had a hard on for her the first time I met her. Over the next year, my hard on simmered, but not because I found her any less attractive.

The opposite, in fact. Other than my teammates’ wives, I’ve never spent so much time with an attractive woman and not been solely thinking about sex. I mean, sex is always on my mind when I’m around Rowan—and even when I’m not—but I think about other things too.

She’s the kind of woman you plan outings with. Hiking, biking, swimming—fuck, she’d be hot in a bathing suit.

No doubt romantic comedies are her favorite, but I can see her humoring me by watching an action flick. I imagine us sharing a tub of popcorn—extra butter—and our hands meeting over the buttery snack. Cheesy, but adorable. That’s Rowan.

Fuck. Who knew I’d go for adorable?

I kick my sweaty clothes aside and step into the shower, fisting my cock as the cold water rains down on my sore muscles and dirty thoughts.

As often as I imagine taking her on dates, I also imagine what her moans would sound like with my face between her legs. What words and noises she’d make when I bury myself balls deep in her pussy. If she likes her tits gently massaged or her nipples tweaked and bitten.

“Fuck.” Not even a six-mile run around the park calmed my cock.

There’s no reason for me to be jealous of her date tonight. We’re just friends. Barely. But damn if I don’t want to change that status, which freaks me the fuck out. I’ve never dated a girl. Not even in high school. Shit, I was that horny bastard of a teenager who got his dick wet at every opportunity presented. And there were a lot.

Hitting puberty young made me the tallest kid in middle school. There weren’t too many six foot twelve-year-olds. But there I was. The playing field leveled out a little by the time I was a junior in high school, but by then, I’d pretty much worked my dick around the school.

I was a man whore and proud of it, and things didn’t change when I went to Florida State. Girls were all too willing to sleep with a star football player. Especially when there was talk of him getting drafted into the NFL, thus becoming awealthyfootball player.

Why settle down with one chick when I had a buffet of pussy? I cringe thinking back to my punk-ass attitude.

Rowan is the sweet girl next door. No way in Hell she’s going to fall for a man slut, not that I am anymore. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve fucked a woman, even longer since I’ve been out with one on what could be considered a date.

Could be why my dick is so hard in my fist and my balls are pulled up tight with tension. I tip my head back and let the water stream down my face as I imagine Rowan in here with me, soapy suds cascading down her curves.

“Fuck.” I tug my cock with one hand and lean against the cool tile with the other as a stream of cum shoots from my cock.

It’s not the first time I jerked off to thoughts of Rowan, and it won’t be the last. For nearly a year, I didn’t allow myself to imagine the possibility of us being together. Not when we’re as opposite as football and ballet. Beer and milk. Classical music and death metal.

But something shifted between us. Maybe it was her bandaging me up at Riley’s fundraiser a few weeks ago. Her touch was gentle and nurturing, but that’s Rowan. It had nothing to do with her feelings for me.

She treats everyone like they’re her best friend, not focusing on herself but making sure everyone around her is cared for. Agreeing to go shopping with me was as natural for her as catching a football is to me.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if maybe there is a possibility she’d agree to a real date with me instead of some schmuck she’s never met before.

I finish washing my body, then dry off and change into another pair of running shorts. Downstairs, I make myself a chicken fajita to snack on while my chicken parm bakes in the oven.

Auntie Lynn was adamant Jules and I learned to cook, especially since she couldn’t always be around to make us dinner. She also gave me wise advice to batch cook some of my favorite casseroles and freeze them for those busy nights when I get back from practice late.

Training camp doesn’t start for another week, so I have time to stockpile the freezer. Tonight, I don’t feel like making anything decent or ordering out.

I sink into my corner couch and set the plate of fajitas next to me while I power on my gaming system. Nothing like shooting bad guys to release the pent-up tension jerking off couldn’t help me with.

Thirty minutes later, after I’ve died eight times, the oven timer goes off. I serve myself a healthy portion—although some may say it’s unhealthy—and shove the food down my throat, barely registering the garlic and cheese flavors.

After cleaning up, I glance at the clock and wonder if Rowan is back from her date yet. She seems like the kind of gal who would call it a night at nine o’clock.

I could text her, but that could come off as stalkerish. I could drive by the restaurant they were going to, but that too could cross the line to stalking. Not that I know where the douchebag took her.

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