Page 73 of Just Playin'
Hearing my command, she pushes off her feet with a grunt, her sprint down the sideline remarkably fast for how hard she is panting. When she’s a good distance from me, I lean back and send the football sailing through the air. I don’t throw it with as much force as I usually use, but my accuracy is perfect.
The look on Willow’s face when she catches my throw is priceless. She stops frozen in the middle of the field with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.
She snaps out of her trance when I cup my hands around my mouth to yell, “Run, Willow, run!”
Her lack of footballs skills can’t be missed when she races back my way. “Not this way. That way.” I point to the end zone behind her. “We’re on the same team.”
“Not anymore, we ain’t.” Holding her arm out like Foster does any time a linebacker is charging his way, she sidesteps me. “Oh, did you see the skill? Underwood outplayed Carlton. She’s making a break for it. Stand to your feet, ladies and gentleman. We’re in the midst of greatness tonight.” She sounds just like the commentators do when I’m charging down the sideline. . . until she picks up that I’m on her tail. “No, E, no!”
“Less talking and more running, rookie.” I catch her on the twenty-yard line. Her squeals come out with a giggle when I band my arm around her waist, hoist her from the ground, then charge for her end zone like she’s my football.
“Boo-yah! Touchdown!”
After slamming down the ball on the orange-painted ground, Willow wiggles out of my hold so she can imitate the moonwalkleg kicky chest whackything Foster does every time he crosses the line. Through a hearty bout of laughter, I mimic the noise of a boisterous crowd. I swear I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. My gut is cramping, and tears are leaking from my eyes.
Willow shakes her ass from one side of the field to the next before regathering the football in her hand and moving to stand in front of me. She is red-faced, but the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. “Alright, next?”
“Next?” I’m truly confused.
She angles her head to the side and spreads her free hand over her cocked hip. “That wasn’t championship play, Carlton. I want to see the magic. The intensity. The plays that will lead to you getting a championship ring on your finger.”
She stops when I interrupt, “I’d rather make out.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll do that as well.” She awards me a frisky wink before tossing the ball into my chest. “After you’ve shown me every play I’ll miss next Sunday.”
The truth smacks into me like a freight train. She danced so I could see her performance without needing to attend the recital, and now she wants to watch me play ball so she won’t miss any of the action. It’s not the same as it will be in front of thousands of people, but more special since we get the exclusive, never-before-seen material before anyone else.
I jerk my chin up. “Step back; I’m gonna show you a few tricks.”
She tugs her dress back into her panties before bending down low and raising one hand into the air. She’s got the play all wrong, but before I can tell her that, she charges for me. Her body’s impact with mine is the equivalent of a drop of rain hitting my shoulder, but I pretend it’s more.
With my arms flailing, I fall backward, taking her with me. I angle my body to ensure she lands on top of me without injury. Willow comes out of our exchange okay, but my crotch isn’t as lucky. It didn’t endure a reckless knee or the ball lodged between us. It’s fighting to ignore how good it feels having Willow grind against it.
I’m not the only one noticing the shift in the air. Willow’s bouncy curls fan her face as she stares down at me with dilated, needy eyes. Her prolonged glance changes our exchange from playful to greedy in under a second. Hands slither over sweaty skin as lips collide. Our kiss is hungry and ravenous, an embrace that reveals how attracted we are to each other.
I could stay in this moment forever. . . if we weren’t interrupted by a stern cough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Presley
As play-by-play of Willow’s response to Coach James busting us making out like teens flows through my brain, I stroll down the nearly isolated corridor of 69er Stadium. My strut is so cocky, my hips are swinging as much as the Elvis car air freshener Willow gifted me for my birthday. Usually, I’d scrunch up anything Elvis-related and toss it into the trash within a second of the gift-giver leaving my presence, but since this gift was from Willow, it’s hanging off my rearview mirror, rocking and rolling with every bump in the road.
I clutch at my chest to keep my heart in its rightful spot when Danny unexpectedly steps in my path. He nearly gave me a damn heart attack. I’m more surprised by his unexpected arrival than I was Coach James’s last night. He threatened to bench me, but I know he didn’t mean it. No coach in the history of coaches would bench his star player a week out from finals.
“Sorry.” Don’t let Danny’s apology fool you. He’s not the faintest bit sorry. “You looked spaced out, so I thought I’d give you a kickstart.”
He fiddles with the collar of my shirt before attempting to lick and spit my hair into submission. I say “attempt” as my glare freezes his spit-loaded hand an inch from my recently washed hair.
“We’re good?”
I nod. “We’re more than good.”
He hears something I didn’t want to relay in my tone. “You said you were keeping it PG!” He wiggles his finger in front of my face. “This isnotPG. What is this?”
He leans in close and sniffs me, like he can smell indiscretion on my skin.
That’s exactly what he accuses me of when he takes a step back and drops his jaw. “Presley Wilson Carlton.”
