Offside: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (41 page)

She’s not in either of those two places, and disappointingly, she’s not in the jacuzzi either. I’m about to call her name, when I decide to get changed first, catch up on my own sleep and try and see if a) I can return to that dream world Tilly in absence of the real thing and b) work out if lack of sleep is fucking with my perspective, because considering ruining a whole career over one girl is definitely not something I should even be entertaining right now.

I don’t see her right away. The light is off and the drapes are pulled across so the only light seeping in I’ve brought with me from the living room. I don’t expect to see her either, so I’m not exactly looking, but there she is, as clear as day, my step-sister, semi-naked, fast asleep, in my bed.

Her sweatpants are bunched up and on the floor below, but I would have known she wasn’t wearing them anyway because of the posture she likes to sleep in. It’s the same as that very first night, only the panties are different this time. One leg outside the duvet curled across it, one hand tucked up underneath her cheek, the rest of her tucked up inside.

I can’t believe it. I’m out for less than half a day and Tilly’s not only commandeered my bed, she’s lying it it like she owns it. I have to smile, not only because the picture I’m presented with is incredible, even in the milky half light’s grainy resolution, but mostly because the last thing I need is it presented to me on a plate.

This is like putting a chocolate cake in front of someone with a weight problem, or leaving a gambling addict in the middle of a casino. Or worst still, breaking into the house of someone with an addiction problem, going to their bedroom, their own personal, private space, and leaving exactly what they can’t have there for them to try and build up the courage to leave alone.

Believe me, I’m trying to build up the courage, but this is doubly hard because Tilly’s somehow still asleep. I should do the decent thing and leave her be, but to be honest, I should have done that the moment I opened the door and realized she was lying there. I’m still here, looking at the curve of her back, that perfect ass that shines like a moon caught behind a muggy filter of cloud on a dark night, the way her hair falls across the pillow, and I’m thinking not about leaving her alone, I’m thinking about getting into bed next to her and giving her exactly what she wants but is too afraid to ask for.

I’ve got to do something soon because my dick is getting hard imagining it. If she suddenly wakes up, and I’m stood here erect, standing over her like a pervert, it’s not going to go down too well.

I decide to wake her up. Fuck it. That’s reasonable isn’t it? I’ve had about an hour’s sleep all night, and it isn’t unreasonable to imagine I might need more. Tilly must have passed the ten hour mark. It might not be the reason I want to do it, but it’s the reason I’ll give her when it’s done.

I’m not going to wake her up like any normal person would either. I’m going to give her some payback for thinking she can sneak in here, sleep in my bed and not give a damn if I catch her. Maybe she planned on bumming back to the living room before morning, or that I wasn’t going to come back at all, or maybe I’m reading the whole thing wrong and she’s done this because she wants me to find her here.

I have a sudden feeling that she might not even be asleep at all, and have to get close to her just to make sure she still is. I round the bed, taking in the fullness of her body as I do so, unable to avoid it actually, because the light that comes off her I use to guide my path, put my face close to hers and make sure she’s not awake and about to punk me. It would be a hell of a set-up and I’d give it up to her hands down, but that’s not what’s about to happen. I can’t help but think that Tilly’s missed a trick. She could have got her own back for the way I woke her up the other morning, and I would have hated it but respected her for it too. Maybe she does want the Landon Maddox alarm bell after all. The wake me up slow and sweet method, and don’t stop going until I’ve come all the way up.

I used to date a chick who liked me to do that, and the way she screamed in the morning because of it made the whole house shake.

I’m not going to do that with Tilly, even though I reckon she’d appreciate it. Despite what all the newspapers say, I may be an ass, but I’m a gentleman first and foremost. I like to pull a chair out for a girl before she sits down, and I like to get consent before I make an assumption.

The last thing I need is a headline of that story. Maybe I can do that tomorrow depending on how she reacts to what I’m about to do to her now. Maybe she’ll just agree that the best thing for everyone is to head back to New York and I can forget all about the good and disastrous things that could happen if not, like getting my dick wet, falling for my sexy-assed step sister, and being sold to a basement club and frozen out of the league. Damn, temptation is a bitch, and making the right decisions, always a burden.

I wouldn’t be in this situation if every one of those girls was as honest as I am. I’ve never sold a story, cheated on someone, gone behind their back or ratted them out in my life. It’s not like my performance off the field has an effect on it either. If anything it’s the other way round. I’m tempted to let the coach see that without sex I just don’t perform as well. If I wasn’t throwing the yardage he’s come to expect from me he’d soon come back round to my way of thinking. Bad headlines don’t sink a club, but everyone knows that bad results do.

It’s a simple equation as well. You get laid, you feel happy, you throw well. I went seven games without being touched by an opposition player last season. I’m not talking sacks, I’m talking being touched in live play by a member of the opposite team. They don’t record stats like that because they don’t know how to measure them, but I know. Seven whole games without being touched, and it wasn’t because of the offensive line either, it’s because I do two things better than anyone else on this planet. I play ball and I please women, and one helps the other exponentially. That seven game run? One girl that ended up dropping me when it began to get serious, and selling her story for half a million dollars on how I was a kinky pervert in the bedroom. Me. Half of the shit we did because she asked for it. I’m not going to say I didn’t enjoy it, but none of the stuff she attributed to me was even my idea. Her lies yet everyone believed it. You see the kind of thing I have to contend with on a daily basis? If you’re in the spotlight, and you get with the wrong girl, your personal life and your private life can’t help but get crossed over. Looking at this fine sliver of perfection in front of me now, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to fall into the same trap.

“Tilly.”

My voice is nothing but a whisper.

“Tilly”, I say again, this time sweeping her hair away from her face.

Nothing. She doesn’t even stir. Careful not to nudge her, or inadvertently step on her arm or leg, or chest, I mount the bed, my legs either side of hers, my crotch rested against the turn of her hip.

“Tilly.”

I start rolling my knees forwards into the softness of the mattress, gentle enough not to disturb her, but strong enough to create a kind of wave across the bed that lifts the pillow slightly and her head with it. She sighs, or breathes heavily, I can’t work out which, but it’s the first indication she’s coming to.

“Landon.”

I swear she says it without thinking, like it’s coming from her subconscious, because when she says it, it’s not a question, or even a recognition of me being there, it’s just a word, like it would have come out of her anyway, whether I was here or not. Landon. My name, hot on her lips, too fucking hot to stay inside her.

It doesn’t last long because a moment later she really is awake and she’s fighting to push me off her.

“What the fuck?”

I resist for a moment, and then I dismount, both my step-sister and the bed, to stand alongside it.

“What the fuck, Landon, are you fucking kidding me? What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Chill out, Tilly, this is my room remember. What are you doing in here, in my bed, naked?”

“I’m not naked.”

It amuses me that she feels the need to cover herself up now that I’ve mentioned it. She’s not naked - it would have been interesting if she was - but I say it like that because I know the exaggeration will cheese her off.

“And I was sleeping. What the fuck were you doing?”

“In my bed?”

“Yes, in your bed.” There is a pause before she qualifies it. “I was tired.”

I don’t mention there is a perfectly good bed with her name on in right next to this one, but I don’t need to either. If she hadn’t given me her reason, I would have been able to see it now anyway, written all over her face. She’s been rumbled, and she knows it too. Tilly’s in my bed because she wants to be. It’s as simple as that.

“It’s time to get up”, I say. “Don’t feel like you have to get dressed though, I like that T-shirt on you.”

Tilly’s eyes dip to her chest, which she covers immediately with the duvet when she notices her nipples pushing bobbles into the fabric. It makes me chuckle seeing how prudish she is with her body.

“Good dream?”

“Fucking hell, Landon.”

I know she would prefer me to leave to make this less awkward for her, but I’m not going anywhere. For a moment we just eyeball each other, while we wait for the other person to make a move. Tilly finally gives in with a grunted exclamation of frustrated anger.

“You didn’t have to wake me up.”

I watch her gather the duvet up so it covers her body, pick her sweatpants up off the floor as gracefully as she can without revealing herself, and barge past me into the living room, her back exposed and the blanket cinched around her like the thing was a modern dress and this was her attempt at some kind of weird new fashion trend. I lean against the door frame casually, happy to observe her.

In her haste, it takes a moment for her to realize there are a couple of us missing. She gives a kind of token look around for them, before something dawns on her. I can’t tell whether it’s concern for my father’s health, or concern that we are now alone, for an as yet indiscernible period of time. She pauses her one handed search for clothes and stands up, urgently.

“Where are Mom and Marvin?”

“Hospital.”

“What do you mean hospital. Why aren’t they here?”

“They don’t know what’s wrong with Dad.”

Tilly pauses for a beat. She’s mad, but this supersedes that, and I know she doesn’t want to be impolite.

“Fuck, is he ok?”

“They don’t know. We took him to some weird place in the middle of nowhere that didn’t even have vending machines in the corridor. I mean, what kind of hospital doesn’t have vending machines in the corridor? Anyway, they didn’t know what was wrong with him. They wanted to do tests, but they didn’t know what they were looking for, so I got a private ambulance to take him to New York.”

“New York?”

“You should have seen them in this place, Tilly. They didn’t even know what they were supposed to be doing with him.”

“So where’s Mom?”

I think Tilly already knows the answer to that question, but she’s being coy.

“Rachel refused to leave his side, so she’s gone with him.”

“Mom’s gone to New York?”

I nod.

“Is your dad ok?”

“He’s fine. It’s probably just heat stroke or dehydration or food poisoning or something that’s going to make him feel stupid for being weak.”

“Right.” There is a slight hesitation before she continues, perhaps as the reality of the situation begins to drip into her. “So what are we supposed to do?”

There are several ways I can think of answering that question, none of which would be immediately appropriate.

“Wait here for news.”

“Alone?”

“Together.”

“Without them though?”

“Yes.”

“Until when?”

“Until we hear.”

“You and me.”

“In the middle of nowhere.”

“In the middle of nowhere.”

I nod.

“Fuck.”

I can’t tell you how much I wish that was a question, nor how much Tilly probably does either.

––––––––

T
illy

We can’t stay here. Not alone or together or whatever it is, we just can’t. It’s not that I don’t trust him either, it’s that I don’t trust myself. We are literally in the middle of nowhere and we are alone. Nobody can see us. Nobody can hear us. There’s probably not even a single thing alive in a half mile radius. The dead bird at the bottom of the garden is about as close as we’ll get. It’s a recipe for disaster, the perfect setting for something to happen. Something that I am bound to regret.

This is Landon fucking Maddox. This is the man that has been filling my scrapbooks and my teenage fantasies for as long as I realized they were even a thing. This is the number one prize douchebag that is on every other billboard poster across the country. This is The Donkey, my fucking stepbrother now too, and here I am alone with him. If I don’t do something about it, I’ll end up doing something I shouldn’t. The last thing I need is my own stepbrother to fuck me and then fuck me over. Way to fuck up the new family, Tilly.

No, I’m not going to let that happen. Even if he finally shows his cards, I’m not going to show mine. I’m not going to be that relief fuck that gets dumped all over when reality sets back in, when Shoreville are back on a winning streak and the coach gives Landon free reign, or when he just heads back to the city after this little vacation break is over and puts himself back into a situation where he’s surrounded by it.

I’m not going to devalue myself like that, or stress myself out by competing with what he’s used to getting, and part of me just doesn’t want to anyway so Landon doesn’t get his way. No matter how good he says he is, or they say he is, or I expect he is, I’m just not going to do it. Perfect ass, incredible arms, huge cock or not. Definitely not. Uhuh. Not this girl. Not for a minute. It’s not going to work with me.

“We have to go home.”

“What do you mean we have to go home?”

“Home, New York, you to yours me to mine. Home.”