Page 4 of Protecting Player #73
“You’re a disgusting pig.” Her hands touch my chest as she shoves me away, and I suppress a shiver while biting my tongue so I don’t unleash a moan that will give me away. Thank god for my groin cup, or she’d really see how much I want her.
“Maybe so, but I can make it worth your while.” The girl storms off after I suggestively lick my lips. I don’t bother hiding my admiration of her pert ass, which I’d like to grab two fistfuls of while pounding her from behind.
I’m so damn fucked.
Not only will Alex kick my ass if she finds out I’m lusting after some chick working for the team, but Coach will have me running suicides until I die. Never mind the fact that I’m already kicking my own ass for how I spoke to her. I can’t allow her to get into me, though. Falling for someone when I’ve already screwed up so badly won’t help anyone with anything, and I don’t want to fuck my future with the team because I can’t keep my dick in my pants.
“Weston! Let’s go!” Defensive Coach Ryan Becker slams the door shut as quickly as he opened it.
“Coming!” I respond, but he’s gone and likely would have ignored me anyway. I’m in shit with the entire team right now, and I don’t blame them one bit. My fuck up screws with the look of the entire team, not just me.
I need to do better. To be better. And remember the reason I’m here. The reason I want to continue to be here.
Grabbing my helmet, I head out to the field through the tunnel and into the sunshine on what feels like it should be a gray and cloudy day. Whistles assault my ears as the sounds of bodies slamming together clash in the quiet afternoon.
The echo of a smile graces my lips as I remember my mom cringing every time she heard the sound of shoulder pads clashing. She always described it as a slow-moving car accident that made her ears ring. When I was in pee-wee football, she would inspect my body as though I had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Sometimes there would be bruising, other times nothing at all, but each time, she would treat me like fragile glass. Especially after a concussion.
With the risk to my brain, I’ve gotten better at avoiding hits to the head. I can’t play football forever, and I’ll need a career when I retire. My brain is the way to get me there.
“Well, look who has decided to join us.” Coach Ryan crosses his arms in disapproval.
“Three hundred suicides. I’m on it.” Laying my helmet down, I move my ass.
“Make it five hundred.” He lifts his chin in challenge, daring me to argue. Instead, I smile, nod, and hustle my dumb ass.
Chapter 4
Brea
“Asshole.” I mutter the word under my breath over and over until I’m on the field, preferring to yell it in his face. But like so many other women, the stupid jerk rendered me speechless because he’s too handsome for his own good.
That thick, slightly longer hair on his head, those piercing chocolate eyes that see inside your soul, and those plump, kissable lips surrounded by a layer of facial hair. He’s probably left more than a few scuff marks on the inside of thighs and sides of necks. I hate my jealousy.
The man is sex on a stick, with hands of pure gold, and a body built for sin. “Shut up, B.” Sexualizing him won’t do me any good.
As the sun’s warmth hits my face while walking around to blow off steam, earning curious stares from the team, I smile as I look up at the gorgeous blue sky and close my eyes. The sunrays have always helped settle my turbulent thoughts.
For a long time, I’ve struggled to accept my overall personality. Being a little more carefree, a little less rigid, and a whole lot of girly, many people have labeled me as flighty andunreliable. And sure, I can sometimes be those things. I rely entirely too much on my phone for the calendar and reminder apps, but there’s so much I want to do in my life that sometimes, I get carried away, forgetful, or overwhelmed. Nevertheless, I’m determined to be the best.
So, as I wait for the team meeting to finish, I sit on one of the benches and edit the locker room video from before Tate Kelly Weston decided to accost me. I’m still ashamed of my reaction to him–getting tongue-tied while a million words raced through my head but wanting to shoot back something acerbic to scold him for his intimidating attitude. I also longed to kiss him but couldn’t because I had signed a contract strictly prohibiting me from interacting with players or coaching staff in a sexual manner.
No hookups, no relationships, no doing anything inappropriate or that could reflect poorly on the team.
It works for me because I’m not interested in being involved with a married man or, in this case, a self-affirmed playboy. I want that forever kind of love. I want someone who is as invested in me as I am in him. And sure, playboys can change their ways, but I don’t particularly want someone who has always treated women like a toy instead of a partner.
Spotting Kace Walker, the team’s best kicker, walking towards the opposite end zone alongside the Special Teams coach, Leroy Davids, who’s holding a kicking tee and a freshly pumped ball, I swap to camera mode and begin recording, deciding to immediately post this with the team’s entrance song, “Legends” by The Score.
Kace warms up by running in place before stretching out his back, shoulders, and hamstrings. He and Leroy have a quick conversation before setting up the equipment, readying him to kick.
Kace sails the ball through the air and right between the uprights. Perfect conditions for the perfect kick. As he turns around, he spots me recording and gives a goofy little dance before refocusing his attention on Leroy.
I’ve always admired the accuracy of a solid kick and how well Kace plays. Many people think the team’s kicker is the weakest link, but I don’t share that belief. I’ve always viewed them as focused and dedicated. Sure, they don’t play as much as the others on the field, but they’re an essential member of the team and always bring their A-game.
Catching movement from the side, I spot T.K. sprinting from the tunnel and watch him while pretending to be busy on my phone. His head tilts up to the sky, the same way I do every time I’m in the sun, and an odd kinship forms before he’s yelled at by his defensive coordinator, Ryan Becker.
I cringe at the thought of five hundred suicide sprints. I’m lucky if I can do thirty. He needs better-than-average stamina to complete that many, but takes it in stride. No arguing, just sets his helmet on the bench, sheds his jersey and shoulder pads, and spends a few minutes warming up and stretching. I covertly admire the flexion of his muscles, the sinew of his body, the way he so easily moves, given his size.
T.K. Weston is six feet two and nearly two hundred and forty pounds of finely sculpted muscle. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. Makes sense why he’s got such a cocky attitude. Why girls and women are always all over him.
