Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (4 page)

Clear that before this is all over, I’m going to break Carrie Mittel. That's for damn sure.

* * *

"
H
ey
, Duncan, thanks for coming to the party."

I'm at the Psi Kappa Tau sorority house for what they’re calling their "summer bash" for the girls who decided to stay for this summer session. That means that the house only has about a dozen girls instead of the normal twenty-six or thirty, but who cares?

"Tiffany, when you said that you ladies were throwing an event, I couldn't stay away," I reply. Tiffany Hill is going to be the president of the sorority starting next semester, and she's pretty hot, in that Barbie doll, Stepford sort of way. Perfectly styled red hair, blue eyes, slightly pointy chin, but high, most likely enhanced, cheekbones over a toned, slender body that probably never saw a workout like what I'd been through this afternoon. "How are the girls?"

"Oh, you are certainly popular around here,” Tiffany says with a gleam in her eye. "However, I was thinking that I might want to keep you all to myself tonight. That is, if you're up for it?"

I chuckle and lean in. "You know what that means, right?"

Tiffany nods and hums back. “Baby, you can have me any way you want me.”

I nod and give her a smile, but as I do, suddenly, Carrie's face flashes in front of my eyes. I shake my head and step back, confused. Tiffany doesn't understand and tilts her head. "What's wrong?"

"Just had a hard rehab workout today," I semi-lie. I did have a hard workout, but it isn’t what’s giving me pause. "Guess I need a drink to cool the nerves. What do you all have?"

"Open bar, same as always," Tiffany says. "Go on, relax and enjoy yourself, and we'll talk later."

PKT isn't as stuck up a sorority as some of the places on campus, where they all think their pussy is gold and that they deserve their places in the upper-crust of society, but it's also not a straight-up dog house, so the party is quiet but still enjoyable. Still, as I'm sitting back and sipping at my beer, chatting with the people who approach me, I can't get Carrie out of my mind.

The way her body looked in those workout clothes. Her ass stretching the fabric of her shorts when she was bent over to do her hex bar lifts, and oh my God, the way her tits looked against that t-shirt.

And best of all, she's a real woman, none of that fake shit I see surrounding me far too often. That body of hers—I could go to town on it for days and still not wear it out. The way that she challenged me makes me want her even more.

Most girls I would’ve had eating out of my hand in under five minutes, but Carrie went ninety minutes with me without my shirt on and still didn’t want to jump on my cock to play cowgirl. I could tell she liked what she saw, but she's strong enough to resist me. I’ll wear her down. It’s just a matter of time.

"Hey, stud," Tiffany says, interrupting my thoughts. She has a drink in her hand, something fruity looking, but she's not too buzzed yet that she's slurring her words. "How are you enjoying the party?"

"PKT knows what to do," I say, smirking and finishing my drink. "Looking forward to the Greek Week throw-downs already."

"Mmm, I'm looking forward to about five minutes from now, if you're into it. I even decided to spice things up a bit. I've got Gemma heading upstairs too."

Tempting. Gemma Falcone is a French-Italian international student who has always given off that innocent vibe with a hidden inner slut. She's like the epitome of lady in the streets, freak in the sheets. For some reason, though, even though this should be like a dream come true, my mind is on Carrie, and I'm just not into it at all. "Sorry, Tiff, but I think tonight, I'm going to pass. New ink, and my back is already tightening up from earlier. You and Gemma have some fun though."

She pouts, and I'll admit that it probably often works. She can wrap most men around her little finger with that pout, and some day, some poor bastard is going to get taken to the cleaners by her because of it. "Aww, come on, stud. You know you want to.”

Tiffany is such a nympho. I'm surprised she isn't fucking her way through the basketball team. Oh, wait—she probably has. "Not tonight. And if you keep pushing it, maybe never. You know I've got plenty of other options."

No woman likes to be told she's just one in a long line, even if she is one, and Tiffany is no different.

"Fine." She stews, then looks around. "If anything, Martin's here, and I know he likes Gemma. Hell, from what I hear, he's freakier than you anyway. See you, Duncan."

"See you," I say, and I soon make my exit, going out to my bike and getting on. I've only had two beers, and I make it back to my apartment without getting pulled over by the cops. I take a long, hot shower and sit down on my couch, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Seriously, I just turned down a threesome with some pretty hot chicks over a woman who got twelve gallons of ice water dumped on my head.

What the fuck am I thinking?

"
H
ey
, Carrie, got a minute?"

"Of course, Coach. What's up?" I ask, sticking my head into his office. It's the first week of classes, and I'm settling in well to my new schedule, but I'm still busy. I hope Coach doesn't have a lot to talk about. I'd like to get back to my dorm room and crack the books on my Organic Chemistry class. It's a requirement, but I'm not looking forward to it. My professor is known as a total bitch and cuts no slack at all.

"Hey, I got a request from Coach Bainridge just now—thought I'd run it by you. How'd you like to work the sidelines for the football game tomorrow?"

I'm stunned. Getting a slot for working the sidelines of a football game is considered a privilege that only best training students get. Almost all of them are seniors or grad students, and for me, a junior, to be asked is surprising. "Uh, you got the right person, Coach? I'm just a junior."

“You were personally requested by Coach Bainridge. Apparently, you did something right with Duncan."

What the hell? "Really?"

Coach smiles and kicks his feet up on the desk. "In my opinion, you've gotten under Duncan's skin, and in a good way. I've never seen him work this hard, and according to what the football coaches tell me, he's been doing the same during practice."

"Gotten under
his
skin," I repeat, thinking about how much Duncan's gotten under
my
skin by insisting on working out shirtless unless we are doing squats or lying down for bench presses, and the near-constant innuendo he's worked into almost every conversation.

He's still been coming in to get his elbow and his wrists wrapped before every practice, and he's insisted that I be the one to do it. It's benefited me in some ways, though. I get to pour out my frustrations into the weight room more easily. “Coulda’ fooled me. If you ask me, he seems to enjoy attempting to torment me.”

“Well, whatever the case, you’ve had a positive effect on him, and everyone sees it. And don't lie to yourself—you’ve seemed to gain some confidence and work harder than ever yourself."

"Thanks . . . I think," I say, but I'm pleased either way. It was hard work, but I'm proud that Coach Taylor noticed my effort. “I had to push myself just to get him off his lazy ass."

"Uh-huh," Coach sarcastically says, not believing a bit of it. "Carrie, a hint. I've been in this game longer than you've been alive, and I won't lie to you. I've had more than a few workouts fueled by some attractive woman nearby. But don't let it go deeper than that with Duncan, okay? I know I’m not your father or older brother, but . . . he's bad news. He’s a man’s man on the field, but he’s got some growing up to do off it.”

I take a deep breath, knowing he’s trying his best to be friendly and look out for me. He does that from time to time. “So I’ve noticed. You don’t have to worry about me. I appreciate the responsibility, though.”

“Don’t thank anyone just yet. It’s not going to be a walk in the park. The football coaches want Duncan happy and playing hard, so if he wants you on the sidelines, well, that’s probably where you’ll be. Make sure you’re ready to put up with his shit for the whole season.”

Football. Big opportunities lay with people who get slots to work the sidelines for football. But at the same time, I have to be careful not to get tagged as Duncan's next conquest, the next in his long line of
Touchdowns
.

Still, I can’t pass up the chance. “I’m ready, coach. When do I need to be here?"

"The players have to report at nine tomorrow morning. We start getting ready at eight. You get tagged with a lot of grunt work, Carrie—setting up water stations, towels, crap like that. We start tape-ups at eleven. A guy like Duncan will get his closer to game time, say noon or so, so I'll pull you to the stadium training room then. Game time is actually the easiest."

"Oh, that'll be nice," I say. "I've never seen a game in the stadium before. Too busy with my bookwork."

"Well, hold onto your hat, Carrie. Because tomorrow, you get to see your first game."

* * *

I
'm
nervous as the players start filing in for the game, coming off the team bus. Western does things slightly old-school, in that even for home games, the team rents a hotel and everyone comes in on a chartered bus, supposedly to get everyone's mind in the right place. I've already been working for ninety minutes, setting up the sidelines. Towels, tape, ice packs, and of course, the emergency kit, although if there is anything too serious, the ambulance crew from University Hospital takes over.

"Hey, PAT," one of the players, Vonnie James, greets me as he gets off the bus. "Hope you’re ready."

"Pat?" I ask myself, trying to figure out why he'd call me that. I mean, he doesn't know me that well.

“What’s up, PAT?" another player greets me, and his buddies chuckle. I'm flustered, and I start to feel embarrassed when I see Jason Simmons, the head intern, come by.

"Hey, Jason?"

Jason's a nice guy, and for a while as a freshman, I had a bit of a crush on him. He's engaged to be married after he graduates next May, and my crush faded last year anyway. "Yo, what's up, Car?”

Calling me 'Car' instead of Carrie is one of the ways my crush on Jason faded away. It’s stupid and I hate it, but ah well. "Hey, about three or four of the guys have called me Pat. What the hell’s that about?”

Jason grimaces. "They're not calling you Pat, but PAT, as in Point After Touchdown," Jason says as he forces out his words. "It's gone around the team. They know Duncan's been gunning for you. They call every girl he's got his eyes on
PAT
."

"They . . . what?" I ask, getting angrier as I listen. "They think I'm some sort of what . . . next booty call?"

“Yes,” Jason admits. "I'm not saying I agree with them, just . . . they're jocks. They're gonna talk."

"Oh, I'll give them something to talk about," I growl, turning on a heel and marching back to the stadium area. I know there's nothing I can do about it until I get a chance to talk to Duncan, but it still pisses me off. It pisses me off so much, in fact, that I have to be tapped on the shoulder to go back to the training room, where I find Duncan waiting for me.

“About time,” he taunts as soon as I come in. "Were the water bottles a little low on ice or something?"

"Shut up," I hiss, grabbing my scissors and tape. Duncan doesn't need a lot. The tape is mostly there to minimize the small chance he's got of hyperextension after the surgery, and it doesn't take me long. "In fact, just sit there and don’t even speak to me. Let me finish and go play your stupid fucking game."

"Whoa, whoa, what's got your panties in a bunch?” Duncan asks, and I stop, looking up into his eyes. There's a hint of the guy I sometimes saw during our workouts, when it was just the two of us and there was nobody else around—a real guy, not the arrogant, cocksure asshole he is around nearly everyone else.

"They're calling me PAT," I say with a sigh. "I didn't agree to this because I want to play Touchdown with you."

Duncan nods and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of those idiots. I didn't tell Coach to have you here because of that. I did it because you do a good job helping me get ready to play. Now, can we do the wrists, or are you going to leave the tape so tight I'll lose my thumbs tomorrow?"

I can't help it. I give him a little grin at his joke and finish him up quickly. He hops off the table to go back down the hall to the locker room. As he does, he pauses and grabs my arm, pulling me in and kissing me. His lips are amazing, and despite myself, I'm practically moaning in lust as his tongue finds mine, and we grow closer before I realize what the hell I'm doing and push him away. "Asshole!"

"Yeah, I've been called that too," Duncan says with a chuckle as he leaves the training room, whistling to himself.

After he leaves, I notice that we weren't alone, and that Chelsea Brown is still in the training room, trying to look like she hadn’t just seen something she wasn't supposed to. “What?”

"Nothin'," Chelsea says, grabbing the last of her towels and going to the door. At the door, she pauses and turns around. "Actually, there is something. If you just want him to rock your world, then go on with your bad self, but don’t get emotionally involved. That way, you won’t get upset when you’re his next cut-off."

“His what?" I ask, curious despite myself. A minute ago, I was hot as hell, ready to jump Duncan's body. Now, I was in chills but couldn't stop my questions short of being smacked in the head.

"His cut-off. He grows bored pretty easily and moves on. That man's a dog. If you want to ride that cowboy, go ahead, but make sure your heart's got bulletproof armor."

I nod and hear an announcement over the stadium PA. "We need to get to field level," I say. "Come on, it's game time. And Chels?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for the heads up."

We get up to the field, and I'm pretty busy as the last of the pre-game festivities wrap up. Western's opponent looks pretty overmatched on paper, and I find out from listening to the scuttlebutt on the sidelines that they are. Most big schools like Western schedule a 'tune-up' game at the beginning of the season.

So it's with no surprise as I watch Duncan put on a clinic, catching three touchdown passes and getting over a hundred yards receiving. Western dominated the entire game, and when the clock ticked off the final score, the scoreboard read 77-6. A slaughter.

Watching Duncan put on a show was like watching poetry in motion—savage, hypnotic poetry that aroused your spirit for battle . . . and I had to admit, at the time, my spirit for passion. I was hard pressed to keep my mind on my duties during the game, especially when he tipped me a wink during the fourth quarter.
Damn him.

I’m cleaning up the water tables when I feel a presence behind me, and I turn around to see Duncan standing there, his uniform soaked through in spots, turning the bright green home jerseys to nearly black. "Hey. How was your first game?"

"Interesting," I say, trying my best to not get angry. I can still feel his lips on mine from before, and inside, a little voice that doesn't get to talk much says it wants more. "You played well."

“Against these scrubs? They'd lose to our second-stringers, but yeah, it was fun," Duncan says, glancing back at the rapidly diminishing stands behind him. "Whew, that’s the best part, though, but it's always sad to see them go."

"What's that?" I ask, intrigued even though I don't want to be. "The crowd?"

He nods, then shrugs. His eyes kind of open wide, and I see something that I've never seen in him before. He's showing me something about himself, something that I doubt few people have ever seen. "There's something about being out there, knowing that today, there were eighty thousand people here, and there were times today when I could feel their eyes on me. They got to see me, who I am, making my name. It's a powerful feeling. I felt . . . complete."

"Is that why you do it?" I ask. “Just for the fame?”

Duncan stops, his eyes and face clouding over as he recovers his normal cocky bravado. Instead of answering, he smirks and takes my hand. "There's a party over at a house off campus," he says. "I was thinking, since you helped me so much over the summer and all, maybe I’d take you.”

"You're inviting me to a party?" I ask, and despite my misgivings, I'm flattered. But I won’t be a PAT. I have more self-respect than that. Somewhere, I find the resolve inside me to pull my hand from his. "Sorry, maybe another time, when I'm not some trophy to celebrate a win."

Duncan's face falls for a moment before he regains himself. He comes close, and I can't move. For some reason, my feet are frozen to the ground as he strokes a thumb down my cheek. He leans in, and his warm breath sends shivers down my spine as he whispers in my ear. "Oh no, Carrie. You're not just some trophy or a PAT. You’ll see.”

He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, and I shiver again. Oh God, he's so sexy, and his words . . . is there any truth to them? "Have a good evening, Carrie. I'll see you Monday."

* * *