Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (27 page)

I wrapped my legs around him, clawed at the tight muscles of his bare ass cheeks as they clenched and rippled with each violent thrust. I felt Tyce in my core as he moved and groaned and sweated on me with his pants shoved down his hips and mine dangling off and dragging. My mind and my common sense were foggy, hazy things that whispered about getting caught. Just like at the park, they were shut down by so many other feelings and emotions that I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the crowd above our heads.

The thumping of feet mimicked my racing pulse as Tyce's hard body rubbed mine in just the right way, pushing against my clit as his cock dove inside of me. I could feel myself tightening on him, encouraging him, fluttering against him as he let go of my ass with his tattooed right hand and slammed his gloved palm into the wall.

Our movements got faster and more frenzied, and I found that the pain started to dissipate, to become less than nothing as I wiggled my own hips, thrust my own pelvis to meet his, lifted my hands up and pulled at his hair. I nibbled his lower lip and smeared it with lipstick because it was just so perfect that I couldn't get enough. I stared into his blue-gold eyes and pretended that for a second there, he was really mine. Permanent and forever. Not some fleeting face on a phone camera or a guy I remembered with both hate and love. He wasn't the person who'd fucked me and shrugged his shoulders like it was nothing. I let my fantasies take over and tell me that Tyce was the other half of my soul that I'd always dreamed he was.

His thick, long cock opened me up wide, and I felt his balls pressing against my body, the firm tight muscles of his abs crushing me to the wall.

“Less than five minutes,” he groaned as he worked us both up into a frenzy. I felt the stirrings of an orgasm come over me and cried out, clutching at his head, his face, kissing him as I struggled through the wild violet burst of emotion that ripped through me. I think I cried. As I shivered and held Tyce, touched the pads on his shoulders, his chest, I felt him come inside of me again and I didn't know what to do about any of it.

When he slid out, fast and quick, I felt cold. Cold as he set me down and tried to help me back into my pants. Cold as he yanked up his own, a vision in his uniform that I wouldn't soon forget. I looked up at him, a full twelve inches taller than me with his wide, wide shoulders and tapered waist, those padded pants that cupped his ass like a second skin, the gloves on his hands, the tattoos I could still see on his arms. I'd smeared the black and gold lipstick from my mouth all across his, over his chin, along his cheek, like an accessory to the eye black he wore beneath that dark sapphire gaze.

I stared at him and he stared right back at me just as the noise of the crowd began to shift and they flooded onto the green of the field for the stadium walk. Soon, they'd flick the lights on in the tunnel and they'd be allowed to briefly walk down here, too, feel what it was like to be worshipped and revered and lifted up so high above everyone else that maybe you couldn't see how bad they were hurting anymore.

I reached up and felt a tear crawl down my cheek.

Our sex was hot, and it was perfect, and I was still panting, but I was also wondering who this person was that I was becoming. Who was Tyce. What was happening between us.

He kept staring at me, his chocolate dark hair twisted and plastered against his skull with sweat. The straight bridge of his nose dripped sweat onto his swollen lips. Mine felt used, tainted. But I loved it. All of it. And I hated it, too.

“I don't know what to do,” I said, and I guess he misinterpreted my words. Or maybe he was just an idiot. Tyce lifted up a gloved hand and used his thumb to wipe away the tear.

“It won't hurt every time,” he told me, like he was some expert. Some sex god sent down from on high. “Did you walk here?”

Like that mattered, like the physical stuff was important at all.

“What's going on here?” I asked him, pointing between us, knowing we didn't have a lot of time to talk. Apparently Tyce was thinking about that, too.

“I don't know, but I can't talk right now.”

“Just tell me,” I whispered, looking over and seeing the people in hordes and droves. They couldn't see us, not in the pitch black, not yet. I looked back at Tyce. “Do you want me or not? Because half the time, I feel like you do. And the other half …”

“I already told you this isn't going to work,” Tyce snapped, and he sounded pissed. I hated him for that. I tightened my jaw and forced the tears back. I wasn't going to cry again. No way. “If you want to keep … doing this stuff, fine. But it's not going anywhere. I'm sorry.”

“Stop fucking me around with me and sayings
oops,
Tyce. Stop
fucking
me and saying sorry. It's screwed up and it's mean, and it's not doing either of us any favors.”

“Oh hey, Teagan,” a voice said from down the tunnel to my right. It was Mason Fenna. My heart stammered as I wondered how much he'd seen. I looked at him, still dressed in his uniform. It was clean. He wasn't sweaty. He wasn't used. With Tyce, they didn't need him. “Did you enjoy the game?”

“Fuck off, Fenna,” Tyce snapped, jerking his fingers through his hair. People were starting to come down the tunnel and a security guard was making his way towards us. “I gotta go,” he told me, and I shook my head, yanking the jersey off and exposing my Ducks tank underneath.

“Yeah,” I snapped right back, tossing the ball of black fabric at his chest. “Go ahead. That's what you're good at.”

“How was the game?” Chelease asked when I walked back in the door, shaky on my feet and sweating and desperate for a shower. I smelled like Tyce, felt his hands on my skin, his semen inside of me. I needed it off, off, off. I
had
to wash it all off.

“Don't sound too enthused,” I said, knowing I was being bitchy but unable to stop myself. Chelease flicked her braids over one shoulder and stood up from the table, slamming her smartphone down on the glass. I paused on my way past and gave her a look. “I'm sorry if I sound upset, okay, but I've had a shitty day. A shitty week. A shitty
month.
And I don't know what your problem is. I get it if you hate football or hate Tyce for being an arrogant jerk or whatever, but if you have something to say, then say it. I can't take all of this animosity anymore.”

I stood there staring at Chelease for several seconds before I turned and started walking away.

“Hold on,” she said, sitting back down at the table. “Just … I'm sorry, okay? I'm not trying to be a bitch, but …” There was a strange, stringy hesitancy in her voice, something that told me this was important, that it was related to the vague hints she'd dropped on Halloween.

I walked back over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. I definitely needed a shower, but there was already one relationship in my life that was screwed up, so if I had a chance to fix another right now, I was going to take it.

Chelease looked down at the glass surface of the table for five whole minutes before she spoke. I knew it was that long because I could see the clock above and behind her head. I watched each second tick past as I stayed patient. Sitting here, letting this sudden crisis with Chelease fall into my lap, it saved me from feeling sorry for myself, from hating Tyce, from punching a wall or something.

“I was raped, okay?” she said, like it was no big deal at all. Her eyes, her shoulders, the way her head drooped forward on her neck all told a different story. I felt sick to my stomach. My mouth fell open, but I didn't know what to say.
Sorry
seemed pathetic and insincere.
When
seemed offensive and frankly, none of my damn business. I closed my mouth. Opened it. Closed it again. Reached my fingers up and realized I still had smeared black lipstick all over my face.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said honestly, dropping my hand to the table. Makeup streaked across the glass and Chelease frowned at me. I knew as soon as I got up, she was going to grab a bottle of Windex and some paper towels and start scrubbing it. I'd do it myself, but she'd just come after me and do it again. She had a thing about glass and streaks and all that.

“It happened in high school,” she added, making me think I'd made the right choice by holding my questions. Her eyes stayed focus on the lipstick smear as they glazed over with some memory better left forgotten. “He was a quarterback, too, you know?” Chelease glanced up at me. “A big shot.” A glance back down at the table. “I grew up in Texas, so football isn't just a game. It's
life.
No way were they gonna bust a QB for banging some drunk chick at a party.”

Chelease sucked in a harsh breath, like there were tears waiting on the horizon, but when she looked up at me, her eyes were dry. I wasn't sure that mine were. I wanted to get up, walk around the table and hug her. But we didn't have that kind of relationship, and I knew it.

“But I didn't drink, not really. I had half a beer. Nobody gets plastered on half a beer. He
drugged
me, filmed it, too.” Chelease stood up, grabbed the Windex and paper towels like I'd expected. I scooted back and let her clean the table, her purple maxi dress swishing around her ankles. “When I told people, they called me a liar. My own family accused me of making up stories.” Chelease rubbed the table in wide, slow circles, her gold bracelets bright against her skin. “You know what happened to me? I lost my friends. I got treated like I was wearing a damn scarlet letter. And you know what happened to him?”

I didn't answer, just sat there and wrapped my arms over my chest, fingers digging into my bare biceps. In the back of my mind, all I heard was
Tyce, Tyce, Tyce, Tyce, Tyce.
It was selfish and stupid, but I couldn't help it, so I swallowed the murmur back and focused on Chelease.

“He got recruited to a division one school, full ride scholarship and all that and everything else.” Chelease stood up straight and stared down at me, her eyes burrowing right through my face and into my skull. “So guess what? When I see football players, I want to puke. When I see people worshipping them and coddling them and letting them get away with everything from a speeding ticket to dog fighting to fucking rape, I feel like I'm gonna die inside.”

“I'm so sorry, Chelease,” I said, but she didn't want to hear anything at all from me right now. Her feet whispered across the beige carpet as she moved over to the table and picked up her phone. The screen reflected off the surface of the glass.

“Now you know. I'm sorry I've been a bitch about everything. I don't mean to be.” Chelease flipped her phone over and sighed, staring at it instead of me. I felt like I was being dismissed.

“I'm sorry, too,” I said, and I was. I shouldn't have snapped at her when I walked in the door. “If you ever want to talk—”

“No.” Her brown eyes flicked up to mine and she gave my smeared lipstick a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head. “That's it. I just thought you should know. If you're gonna hang around with those guys, you should be careful. I don't have anything else to say on it. Just don't invite me to no Ducks game.”

Chelease gave me another assessing look, rolled her eyes, and then moved down the hall into her room. I waited until I heard the soft snick of her door to stand up. My body was still pulsing from Tyce's touch, a little sore between my legs, a lot sore inside my heart. But Chelease's story had poured a bucket of ice over me that I didn't know what to do with.

I hurt for her. I wanted to strangle the guy from her story. The world was unfair and it sucked.

I sighed and ran my hands down my face, coming away with green and yellow and black smears. Between my legs, I felt the warm wetness from my encounter with Tyce. Maybe later tonight I'd cook Chelease dinner or something, try to let her know I was there for her. But right now, the only thing I needed was a long, hot shower.

Tyce texted me later that night, right about the time I'd given up hope that he'd contact me at all.

'How was your first live game?'
he asked me, playing the friend card again. I could see from his message that what he wanted right now was to reset to yesterday, act like nothing had happened. But I was tired and sore and emotionally exhausted from Chelease's story. The last thing I needed or wanted right now was to play games.