CHAPTER SIX
The late afternoon sun slants low across the practice field, painting the players’ football shirts in a golden glow as I stand near the halfway line with the ball at my feet. My mind, though, is anywhere but on the opposing players lined up in front of me. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I haven’t been able to focus all day because Arkin pops into my head whenever my thoughts wander. Those blue eyes… and the way he licked his hand clean after giving me the strongest orgasm of my life. Forgive me for being distracted.
“Zach!” The snap of the coach’s voice jolts me back. “Keep the ball moving. Don’t get caught in possession!”
“Yeah—yeah, I got it,” I reply, shaking myself out of the daze. “I’ve got this,” I repeat quietly, more for myself than anyone else. It feels like I’m losing grip right now, and I hate fucking up on the field.
The coach’s whistle shrills, and I restart play with a free kick in the opposition’s half of the pitch, passing the ball to Harrison out wide, but my touch is sloppy and slow, and the striker bursts through and intercepts. Fuck me. He’s past me before I can react, and within seconds, I’m on the ground, shoved off balancewhile trying to recover the ball. The coach blows the whistle, sharp and angry.
Face in the turf, I groan. Before I can push myself up, Harrison leans down with a grin and offers his hand. “Bad day, princess?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, grabbing his hand. My chuckle turns into a wince as he yanks me upright.
Coach barks across the field, “Beckett! Get your head in the game, or get off my pitch.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Harrison asks as I clench my teeth. “That’s the third time you’ve been distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, ears burning.
I’m passed the ball, and Harrison jostles my head, making me laugh. But it’s strained, my gut churning while we retake our positions.
Back in the locker room,I’m drying my hair with a towel, my naked ass on full display, when Ryan plops down on the bench, soaking wet and smiling like a goof.
“What’s with the smile?” I ask, tying the towel around my waist and rooting through my bag for my deodorant. It’s in there somewhere. I know I packed it, but I swear my bag turns into Mary Poppins’ the moment I leave the house. I finally find it, stashed beneath my clean boxer briefs. Ryan shakes out his curly, wet hair while I spray my armpits.
“I have a good feeling about this season,” he says, eyeing me as I shove the deodorant into the side pocket so it’s easy to find next time. And besides, the last thing I want is to root through my sweaty underwear and socks to find it.
“Don’t you feel it? We’re on point.” His brows pinch. “Well, everyone but you. What was that out there today?”
Tensing my jaw, I pull a clean T-shirt over my head. Fuck if I know what shit I pulled on the field today. Coach fumed by the end of practice, his hard eyes drilling into me as we took to the showers, dirty and sweaty, with muddy knees and grass-stained shorts
I’d never been happier to walk off that field.
“Just an off day,” I say with a shrug, sliding on a pair of briefs and dropping the towel, adjusting my balls while Ryan runs a hand through his wet hair, brushing it off his forehead. He’s always been a pretty boy with his dirty blond locks and prince-charming smile. Sometimes, his perfect Colgate teeth make me want to ram my fist into his face, but it’s all good fun, of course.
Ryan talks to one of our teammates while I pick up my phone from the bench, unlocking the screen with a slight frown when I notice a new text message from my dick’s latest fixation.
Apparently, the sodden organ in my chest has also taken a special interest in Arkin. My heart beats harder as I sit down and look around to ensure no one is watching me click on the message. What is it about that guy that has me in knots?
My brows crash as I zoom in on the attachment.
Is that? Yup, it fucking is…
A photograph of me asleep in bed. When the fuck did the weirdo take this? My jaw hardens, and I rest my elbows on my thighs, studying the photograph in great detail. Like I’ll somehow find the answers to the universe's origin in the lines of my sleeping face.
Is that a fucking pillow crease? Seriously, is my hair that messy when I sleep? It looks like I put my finger in an electrical socket or, I don’t know, flew around in a twister for an hour with a mooing cow. Perhaps a chicken or two.
Why is he taking pictures of me anyway? What’s his deal? Spying on me when I’m sleeping. And acting creepy. Restless, I jiggle my knee and scratch my sharp stubble before tossing my phone into my bag and rubbing my hands down my face. I breathe a tired sigh, glancing at Ryan and Harrison, who swat each other’s asses with their towels. Real mature but fun if you’re in the mood to act like a clown.
Standing up and shouldering my bag, I tell them I'm heading home, and they ask if I’m coming around later. I wish. But no. I’m heading over to Amy’s for dinner with her parents because she won’t stop harassing me. And believe it or not, she won’t take no for an answer either. So I better head over there, or she’ll be even more of a nightmare later. This mindset might be toxic. Trust me, I know. Fuck if I care though. Truth is, I just want to eat food—and the chef in Amy’s house cooks the best damn recipes—and get laid, so that I can wipe the memory from last night like a hard drive. Forget it ever happened.
That should be easy to do when I stick my dick in Amy. Come to think of it, I’m in the mood for doggy tonight. Seeing Amy’s peachy ass wobble like jelly with every thrust always gets my balls throbbing.
The beef casseroleis to die for. I’ve snuck into their kitchen occasionally and sweet-talked their chef, Mrs. Holland—a Dutch middle-aged lady with fiery red hair—to write it down so I can share it with my mum, but she always sends me away with a kiss on the cheek and an, “It’s a family secret.”
Seated around the table in their fancy dining room, conversation flows easily. Amy’s parents ask me about football like they do every time, and I tell them about how well we’redoing this season. Damn, this food is nice. I don’t know how, but I’ll get that recipe some-fucking-how. It’s now a quest, like Frodo and the ring. The beef… it’s so tender it falls apart in my mouth.
Amy nudges me, and I look at her questioningly. She gestures to her chin. Oh, sauce. I wipe it off.
