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But even though we weren’t the main attraction, I loved being on the field doing my routine. It made me feel like a professional. In other aspects of my life, I thrived intellectually. Here, I was thriving physically. Rather than thinking about term papers and next semester’s syllabus, I was able to turn my brain off and fall into the muscle memory of each dance routine.
Most of the time we were facing the crowd, but we were able to turn and watch the game between routines. The Stallions were wearing their baby blue jerseys, which looked great with the crisp white football pants. It was tough to tell who was who with all the pads and helmets on, but after a few moments I spotted Brody with number eighty-two on his back.
He lined up with the team. The ball was snapped, and he took off with a rush of speed. The quarterback threw a quick pass, which Brody reached out and snatched from the air with ease. Then he tucked the football under his arm, spun away from one tackle, and ran for a few more yards before being brought down.
He’s just an athlete. That’s how Eric had described him. A dummy who was paid to run into other football players. But as I watched him gracefully move across the field, he felt like far more than that. Especially when he was on the sideline, cheering on his teammates and high-fiving everyone.
And of course, I couldn’t get the nude image of him out of my head. A bronze statue of a body, full of potential energy and strength. He was sexy in a way that was undeniable. The kind of attraction that made all of my lady-bits sit up and pay attention. I could practically hear my ovaries screaming at me: “Him! We want his babies right now!”
I was so enamored with the mental image that I missed a step on the next dance routine. “Let’s clean up our footwork, ladies,” Isabella said afterward, eyes locked onto mine pointedly.
I was able to put Brody out of my mind and focus on my job until a few plays later. The line of scrimmage—where each play began—was close to us, so Isabella had us rotate around and face the field so we could watch what was happening and avoid anyone running into us.
Which is exactly what happened on the next play.
The quarterback hurled the football into the middle of the field. Brody caught it and ran diagonally toward the sideline as fast as he could. Just before getting out of bounds, a defender leaped through the air and speared him in a tackle.
The two men tumbled across the ground into the cluster of cheerleaders, like bowling balls surging toward a rack of pins. We quickly spread out to avoid getting hit, but everything happened so quickly that it wasn’t easy.
And since I was in the back, my view was blocked until the very end. The last thing I saw were all the other cheerleaders parting before me like the Red Sea, and then two football players slammed into my legs.
I was suddenly airborne, weightless and helpless. Then the green turf came rushing up to hit me in the face.
I groaned and tried to roll over, but there was a large object in my way. When I opened my eyes, I was face-to-face with Brody Carter, his sexy face obscured by the bars of his helmet.
“Sorry about that, T-Foxy,” he said with a smile. “Didn’t want to crash into you, but it wasn’t exactly up to me.”
He rose above me and extended his hand. I took it, and he pulled me up with one arm like I weighed nothing. The immense amount of strength in his single arm was breathtaking.
Brody flashed me another smile, then turned and jogged back to the field.
Yeah, I thought. He’s much more than just an athlete all right.
