First Down: A Nerdy Virgin Meets a Badboy Football Player Romance Page 4

  Who the fuck turns down a god?

  I start the car and head home, confused and frustrated and horny as fuck. I know she felt the connection between us just like I did. There is something powerful that draws us together that I've never felt before. Something that reminds me of my parents' relationship. They'd met at a party one night and were drawn to each other immediately. And they were married only a few months later. And they had the best and happiest relationship of anyone I've ever met.

  Not that I have any plans or interest in marrying anyone anytime soon, much less a woman who despises me and what I do.

  Pulling up to my home and into my parking spot, I stomp up my steps, setting the alarm of my car behind me.

  Inside, I head straight for the bathroom after tossing my keys on the side table and setting the house alarm. I've learned the hard way to keep everything set up with alarms. Fans can be a little on the crazy side.

  I turn only the cold water on and strip from my clothes before getting into the tub and showering under the chilly spray, trying to scrub her scent from me. Fuck, she smelled good. Like vanilla and whiskey. Like Christmas fucking morning. The cold water and my own confusion cools me off, my red hot lust turning to frigid anger.

  Turing the water off, I get out and towel off, turning my skin red with the force of trying to get her off me. Standing naked, I brush my teeth and wash her taste from my mouth with mouthwash, watching it drain down the sink once I spit her out.

  Apparently, all our talks of books and writing and Harry Potter has put me in a metaphorical mood. I try to shake it off, putting the sorceress out of my mind as I leave the bathroom and pour myself a drink from the sidebar I keep by my bed. I knock back a whiskey, enjoying the burn that slides down my throat to my stomach. I pour another, the slight buzz from the Never Have I Ever game long gone. Worked off between Tara's silky legs.

  If I didn't have practice tomorrow, I'd drink myself to oblivion. Between this shit with Tara and the stress over my dad, I need a break. But my best bet is to pour all my frustrations into the game. That's where my focus is supposed to be.

  I have too much riding on it to fuck things up now. Without my money, Dad will be screwed and we won't be able to continue the treatments. I can't afford to start playing like shit and end up traded, or worse. Fired or injured.

  I wonder if Tara would understand if I'd told her about my dad. Not that I'd be doing anything differently if my dad was perfectly healthy. I love football. I love the camaraderie and bravery of my teammates. I love the challenge. I love the smell of a freshly cut and painted field. I love getting to knock guys even bigger than me flat to their backs on the ground. I love the cheers of the crowd from the stands. I really, really loved winning the Superbowl this past year. I love it all.

  All except the paparazzi and tabloids. All except seeing my performances scrutinized on Sports Center. Or by that annoying white guy on Pardon the Interruption. I try not to ever watch that one, it always pisses me off.

  We've been lucky so far, keeping news of my dad's illness under wraps. But it won't last forever. Someone will find out. Someone will let it slip. I've been doing everything in my power to keep that from happening. Making sure I'm out in the public eye every time Mom has to take Dad to an appointment. And I make sure someone leaks the info to the rags so they know I'm out and about, sacrificing more pictures of me in exchange for Dad's privacy. I've kept my mouth shut and made sure Kayla has too. Which isn't fair to her at all, but she knows how necessary it is. The only person I've told is Coach, not wanting him to be ambushed when it comes out. And needing to tell someone. And needing him to help in covering for me and tricking the reporters.

  I trust my team with my life, but with too much booze in them, or during pillow talk with the wrong person, it'll be nationwide news in a matter of hours.

  I'm not doing that to my dad or my mom.

  They deserve privacy and peace in this time.

  And I don't want people assuming I'll end up with it as well. It isn't hereditary, though Kayla and I both are at higher risk than others. But we've been checked and we're clean. So far. It's a thought I refuse to allow to worry me. If it happens, it happens, but I won't let the fear rule me.

  It would be nice to have someone I could trust to really talk about all of it with. I can't burden Mom or Kayla with my worries and fears, and as much as I admire and respect Coach, we don't have that kind of relationship.

  For a moment, I'd thought it at least a little bit possible that Tara could be that person. One day, perhaps. She is so far removed from popular culture and especially sports, there's no one she could mention it to that would matter. And she doesn't seem the type to spill huge secrets like this all across town. But I feel like it’s clear that she has no interest being anything for me or having anything to do with me ever again.

  I finish my drink and slide into bed.

  Fuck her. I don't need some snooty librarian-type woman throwing me off my game. I sure as hell don't need her changing me into some pathetic moony-eyed loser. If this keeps up, I'll soon be scribbling shitty poetry comparing her eyes to emeralds, her lips to rosebuds. I am not that guy and will never be that guy.

  I just need to find someone new to take my mind off her. The guys have been wanting me to come out clubbing with them for a while, but with everything going on with my family, I've kept begging off. Once I meet a new woman and get her in my bed, I'll forget all about Tara. Tomorrow, after practice I'll head out with the guys and find someone to have a little fun with. Someone with a lot less drama.

  Besides, it's just been longer than usual since I've had a woman in my bed. That's why tonight is pissing me off so much. It has nothing to actually do with her. Other than the humiliation of her throwing me out. I sure as hell am not telling anyone about this. Thank God no one knew where I was tonight. No one knew I met anyone who interested me. Kayla didn't even notice.

  No one will ever know. I have no worries Tara will blog or tweet about it or whatever she does on social media in her spare time. She probably just posts pictures of her books. She won't want anyone to know she debased herself with a sports star.

  Lying in bed, I start to fume as I replay the night in my head. She turned me away? Oh, no. Oh hell no. No girl does that. Not to Zachary Fucking Gordon, golden boy of Denver. I'm a mother-fucking Super bowl champion. They've been calling me the greatest running back since Emmitt Fucking Smith. I'm the most talented and important player on the damn Denver Broncos. Everyone thinks it's the quarterback, but no. The running back is almost always the best athlete on a team. Tara has no idea what she's giving up. This is bullshit.

  Who is she anyway? Who the fuck does she think she is? Just some sad, lonely woman whose only life is books. Whose only friends are books. She's well on her way to being a spinster surrounded by cats and will probably take up knitting sweaters for all of them. I hope she enjoys the company of all her fictional characters. I hope they keep her bed warm. I hope they give her pleasure.

  Granted, the way she threw the party and decorated her home showed a magical and whimsical personality. Someone full of brilliance and dreams. Someone who isn't boring and stupid and has a head filled with knowledge instead of air.

  I shove away the memory of how gorgeous she was out of that costume. Spread wide for me, abandoned to the pleasure my mouth brought her. The sweet taste of her pussy. The sounds she made when she came. Her green eyes dark with lust. Her brown hair tumbling around her shoulders. Hell, I can still smell her. My stupid body wash doesn't have nearly the strength to erase her.

  My cock starts to harden again and I groan, turning over and punching my pillow into submission. I grab my phone from my nightstand and Google her name. I'm being a fucking moron, but I can't help myself. I have to make sure there's no connection found between us.

  The only thing I can find is news about her store. Lots of tweets and statuses about her party, but nothing mentioning a sighting of me. I'm not sure if I should be relieved or offend
ed. Somehow, I'm both. She has no Facebook account, no Instagram, no nothing. Her store has a Twitter account, but it's just news of events and sales. And nothing about just her. She keeps to herself, embracing her privacy.

  Maybe that's the issue. Maybe it isn't football, it's fame. And I really can't blame her for wanting to stay out of the tabloids. I chose this life and it still chafes my ass to be followed around and photographed. And I guess I should give her props for not trying to use me to gain recognition for her store. I've had plenty of those sorts of encounters and they left me quite bitter. All it would have taken was a quick tweet saying Zach Brandon came to the party and her store would be full the next day.

  It only makes me want her more. Someone I can't have. Someone who doesn't want me.

  I toss and turn through the whole night, barely sleeping. But when I do, I dream about Tara.

  The next day, I'm off at practice. Badly. I stumble and fumble my way through the drills, my head completely fuzzy with memories of Tara and lack of sleep.

  The coach bitches me out a dozen times, asking worried questions with his eyes. He probably thinks it's my dad that has me playing like a third grader. I shake my head, not wanting to stress him out. But I'll never admit it's a girl. I blame it on a bad night's sleep and leave it at that. We all have our shitty days.

  Though I rarely do because I'm just that fucking awesome.

  I blow out a deep breath as we set up for a practice scrimmage, shoving away the ribbing from my teammates and determined to forget about that damn witch.

  I take up my two-point stance, my hands on my thighs, keeping my weight on the balls of my feet. My pulse speeds up like it always does at the start of a play. I'm ready.

  I use my peripheral vision to see the entire field as I run north/south, using all my senses to be aware of danger as I struggle to maintain a straight line to the end zone. With my bulk, I'm not very fast on my feet, so I'm a north/south runner. Plus, I'm huge and half the time, players dive out of my way to keep me from slamming into them. Well, not really, but almost.

  I scowl at the defender in my way. I curl my hands into fists and bend lower, planning to explode into his upper body. But I remember Tara's hands fisting the colorful comforter beneath her and I'm the one who ends up flat on his back. I don't even feel the hit. I just suddenly see sky and my grinning teammate laughing down at me. I slap away the hand he holds out to help me up, and roll over with a grunt to get up by myself.

  Fuck.

  Fuck everything.

  Fuck her.

  Once I'm back on my feet and walking off the pain radiating through me, Coach calls for another play. After praising the defender and blistering me, of course. I don't blame him for being pissed. We have less than a week before our first pregame of the season. I have to focus. I don't have the luxury of letting a piece of tail fuck me over.

  We line back up, and everyone wisely keeps their fucking traps shut as we huddle up side by side. For now, anyway.

  At the whistle, we break into a perfectly choreographed movement and I push myself to my top speed as I lean forward to keep my body low, my arms forming a pocket outside my stomach, readying myself for the handoff.

  Tara's smile flickers through my mind like a slide show.

  And I fucking fumble the handoff. I completely miss the ball and, to top it off, I trip over my own fucking feet and fall on my fucking face, grass and dirt filling my helmet and mouth.

  The quarterback yanks me to my feet. "What's wrong, butterfingers? Can't stop thinking about your hot date last night?" The other players guffaw and laugh, slapping me on the back as I rip my helmet off and spit dirt from my mouth, coughing and trying not to gag. I may like the smell of grass, but the taste isn't nearly as enjoyable. The humiliation tastes even worse.

  I wipe my face and replace my helmet, inwardly cursing myself and especially Tara. "Yeah, guys, with my sister. Piss off, will you?" I grin to show their ragging isn't bothering me. To act like it's just an off day and has nothing to do with a green-eyed witch who's plaguing my mind to distraction.

  But it is getting to me. She got to me. She's under my skin. And the only way to get her out is to have her completely, for once and for all. I'll be useless until my cock is inside her sweet pussy. Until her legs are wrapped around me and I'm buried in her.

  When I kissed her demandingly behind the bookshelf, she'd submitted happily. I could feel it. She had wanted me, wanted me to lead her.

  And that's exactly what I intend to do.

  5

  Tara

  A few days after the Harry Potter party, with He Who Must Not Be Named banished from my mind and life, I'm curled up in my reading chair, enjoying my day off with a book for book club. I'm running a little bit behind because of all the work I put into the party, and since I'm leading the discussion, I have to catch up.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me of the sad lack of food in my fridge and cupboards. I have a craving for some Thai food. I should put the order in soon before the dinner rush makes it take hours to finally reach my door. I'll call in a few chapters. I've only just gotten to the good part.

  I return to my fictional world where everything makes sense, unlike the messy real one where nothing makes sense and everything is ugly and painful and awkward.

  A loud knock rattles my door, bringing my head up from my book and the world I was so enjoying. I hadn't yet placed the order for Thai, so I have no idea who could be knocking at my door. Or pounding, more like it.

  I get up slowly, sliding a bookmark between the pages of my book. If something was wrong downstairs in the store, they'd just send a text or walk right in. They know I don't keep my door locked during my day off in case of problems. Is it the cops? Have I done anything wrong lately? Not unless you count my near-mistake with the football player the other night.

  Something I was trying to pretend was a drunken mistake. Even though I hadn't even been tipsy.

  With mild confusion lining my forehead, I open the door. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it's him. As though I'd Accio'd him just by thinking about him. I must remember to only use my powers for good instead of evil.

  "You and I aren't finished," he growls, as he lets himself in, pushing past me.

  I sigh and close the door with more firmness than is probably warranted. "Sure, come on in," I say, scowling to hide the shiver vibrating through me at the sight of him. I'd almost forgotten how damn gorgeous he is. Fuck. Just...fuck.

  Trying not to be self-conscious about my yoga pants and graphic T-shirt, I retreat back to my reading chair, avoiding his eyes, determined not to be bothered by his unwelcome presence. I have to finish the book tonight for book club tomorrow, and no half-giant/half-man-Veela is going to distract me. No matter how tempting. No matter how gorgeous. No matter how skilled.

  And yet, my eyes keep straying to where he's perched on the edge of my desk, just staring at me, his expression inscrutable, his eyes hooded.

  I squirm beneath the force of the blue blaze in his eyes, feeling like I'm utterly bare before him. Like he can see everything. Past my skin to the scars branded onto my soul.

  What in the ever-loving hell is he doing here? I thought I made myself perfectly clear the other night. And why isn't he stating his intentions for barging in on me like this? What could he possibly want? Now that his horniness has subsided, he must realize how wrong we are for each other. Shouldn't he be dating cheerleaders and models or something? Isn't that who football players date? Obviously I don't follow the sport, but you have to live in a cave to not hear about that douche Tom Brady who is dating or married to a model, I think. I don't know, apparently I do live in a cave.

  Ugh, who cares? It infuriates me that sports stars make millions when teachers and social workers and firefighters and police officers and soldiers barely make enough to live on. They're the real heroes of our country and we repay them poorly. But athletes can beat on and cheat on their wives, do drugs, get in fights, and they're still treated like gods. />
  I try to shake off all my numerous questions and confusion and focus on my book. I've reread the same page half a dozen times now and I have no idea what's going on in the story. And I'd finally reached the climax and it is definitely the only climax I am interested in. Definitely.

  "What?" I finally break and ask with a loud, dramatic sigh, no longer able to bear the silence. "You are ruining this chapter for me." Hopefully, he'll state his business and be on his merry way, leaving me to my Thai food and my book. And I'll light a candle and open a window to clear out his scent so I can think.

  He huffs and folds his arms across his chest. I try to ignore the way the muscles in his forearms bulge. I try not to remember how easily he'd carried me like Colonel Brandon carried Marianne in the Alan Rickman version of the movie. This isn't a book or movie. He can't sweep in here and make me forget what he does for a living. Or my utter distaste for it.

  Zach rises and paces back and forth in front of my desk. "Well, you are ruining everything for me. I can't focus. I can't play. I just keep remembering the way you feel, smell, taste." He stops and stares over at me, doing that trick of undressing me with his eyes.

  I shove away the threads of desire curling through me. And the reminder that he knows exactly what's underneath my clothes. He has only to use his memories. Thankfully, I don't have any pictures in my mind other than his chest, and that is more than enough, thank you very much. The sensations and feelings he brought out in me are harder to ignore and forget.

  He leaves his spot by my desk, walking closer, stalking over to me, intent I can’t escape blaring from his eyes. And suddenly, I'm lifted from my chair and in his arms, and we're kissing again. My hands drop my book to the floor in order to roam all over him, wanting to touch more of his body, knowing what a mistake this is. Knowing I just defiled a book and mistreated it terribly because of the power he has over me.