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“I know this win is fresh, but how will this team prepare for the postseason?”
Shrugging, I tell her honestly, “We’ll just keep doing what we’ve been doing—hustling and playing hard. But for tonight, we celebrate.”
Her eyes light up at my answer and she gives me a slight nod, letting me know she got what she needed.
“Congratulations on tonight.”
“Thank you.”
When she goes to turn, possibly moving onto her next interview, I grip her around the waist and pull her back around, kissing her fiercely.
She laughs into my mouth, but kisses me back.
Right there in the middle of a booze-soaked locker room, for all to see.
We get a few whistles and catcalls, but for the most part everyone is still too busy with their own celebration to pay attention to ours.
“Did you get that on camera?” I ask the guy standing behind her.
He smirks, shaking his head.
Greer slaps at my wet chest. “What did I say about PDA?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Selective memory, I should’ve known.”
“You’re with me,” I insist. I haven’t had the chance to spend much time with her since we came back off the road. We flew in late Tuesday night and had to report to the club house early the next day. Then yesterday, we played a double header to make up for a rain out from earlier in the season.
When we got home each night, we showered, fooled around for about thirty minutes, and crashed.
I’m craving more of her. More conversations. That’s the only thing I love about being on road trips is the conversations I get to have with Greer every night. Either over text or phone call, we spend hours talking to each other and it’s the best part of my day.
“I have a couple more interviews to get,” she says.
“I’m going to shower really quick and then I’ll be ready. We’re going out tonight.”
The one-hundred-watt smile she gives me does more than stir my dick. It also warms my insides and makes me feel like a million bucks.
* * *
Two hours later,after another shower at home with Greer, who dropped to her knees and congratulated me on the win personally, we’re on our way to Lagniappe, a restaurant in the French Quarter.
The owner is a friend of a few players on the team and he agreed to close the restaurant down for us, so we can have dinner and drinks without being bombarded by fans.
Don’t get me wrong, I love our fans, but it’s nice not to have cameras pointed at us all night.
“There will probably be reporters and paparazzi outside of the restaurant,” I warn Greer. “Even though this is a private event, they always seem to know where we are.”
She hums from her side of the car. “It’s fine. I figure since we haven’t had many chances for dates, this is a good way to be seen… you know, to keep up the ruse.”
Right, the ruse.
I know what she's saying is true, but I don’t like it.
I don’t like being reminded that our relationship isn’t real. Well, at least parts of it.
The orgasms are real.
