Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (42 page)

He lifted my panties out of the way, and before I could take a breath, his tongue darted in between my pussy lips, quick and rapier-like, stabbing me open and thrilling me. His nimble tongue snaked deep inside, licking my inner folds and setting my nerves on fire with pleasure. I was vulnerable, with his hands pressing my thighs into the table and his weight behind me, but I didn't want to move. I was secure and safe with him, protected.

The aroma of my arousal came to my nose, and I trembled, feeling my orgasm building inside me. I pushed back, burying my ass into his face as he licked and tasted me, desperate for more. “Dan . . . oh Dan . . . fuck me baby. Make me come.”

I couldn't make out his mumbled reply, but he brought his right hand between my legs, gathering some of my moisture before finding the hard nub of my clit and rubbing it in a feather-light stroke. My eyes flew open, and it felt so good I felt like my heart would explode. My fingers clawed at the table as I trembled on the edge of coming, but he kept me frozen there, caught in agonizing ecstasy, until I couldn't take it any longer. “Please . . ."

“As you wish,” I think he said, his tongue leaving my pussy to quickly stroke against my clit, the sensation pushing me over the edge. My feet curled up off the ground and my body convulsed, thick, guttural moans ripping from my chest as I came. I can't say it was the biggest orgasm I'd ever had, because each time Daniel and I made love, each orgasm felt like the biggest, and each one was completely different. This was almost relaxing, forcing me to let go and give in to him and to our love.

I was just starting to come down to earth again when I felt him behind me, and the sound of him opening his zipper came through over the sound of Puccini that was still playing on the stereo. It had nearly filtered out of my consciousness when he was feasting on me, but now, with the head of his cock pressing against me, I was aware of everything, from the sound of the violins and horns to the weave of the tablecloth underneath me, but most of all, the blunt tip of his massive cock at my entrance. “Give yourself to me, Adriana. Show me what you want.”

I lowered my feet back down, happy for the high heels, which let my legs stretch up enough that I could push back, impaling myself on him and filling my heart with happiness. I kept pushing, not caring if I was being stretched or about the slight edge of pain that came from having him so deep inside me again after such a long time without him, just knowing that I needed that connection, that completion.

I whimpered when I felt my ass tickled by the soft tuft of trimmed hair at the base of his cock, and I wept softly in joy. “That . . . that's what I want.”

He took my waist in his hands and pulled back, pausing for a moment, only the head of his cock inside me before thrusting back in, driving me against the table with his force and passion. He had gone without sex for that time too, and he was on the edge of losing control. I had never felt sexier, knowing that it was me who was making this wonderful man overcome with lust.

Daniel pounded into me, my hips pressed into the hundred-year-old oak of the table as Puccini's music sang about love and romance and the mysteries of the world. The impact of each thrust shook the table, and I was swept away on the wave of his desire. Throwing my head back, I cried out, tears of happiness trickling down my face as he grabbed a handful of my hair and kept going, his breath huffing in and out of his chest.

He let go of my waist, and suddenly, a small crack filled the air as he smacked my ass, the heat and sting mixing with the heady explosions of pleasure inside me, driving me insensate and wild. I was overloaded, my body clenching and pulsing with wave after wave of pleasure as Daniel's cock filled me over and over.

Another orgasm built within me, and I threw my all back into him, trying to match him thrust for thrust until we were overwhelmed. I was coming, so hard I couldn't even make a noise, and my breath was locked in my chest as my entire body rushed higher and higher, until I was almost certain that I would die due to being unable to breathe. I didn't care—it felt so great, and I was almost disappointed when air flooded back into my lungs and time returned to the world.

I was drained, my legs shaky and my throat raw from crying out, even though I didn't know I had been doing it. I sagged against the table, sweat making my dress stick to me and my chest heaving in long, shuddering gasps. “Tell me it feels better the more we do this.”

“I don't know,” Daniel asked, “but we have the rest of our lives to find out. Shall we?”

“Let's.”

“
Y
ou're working for whom
?”

Daniel checked his Beretta and shrugged, making sure his suit was ready for work. “Come on, honey. Just because we don't like his music, it's not his fault. That would be like blaming Gaga for Tommy's drunken dancing at our reception. You didn't seem to get mad at her though. In fact, if I remember right, you were pretty buzzed when she went to Carlo's house for dinner with the family.”

I had to admit, going to the family manor to have dinner with a Grammy award winner was a pretty cool experience, especially coupled with the fact that she had raved about my artwork. Now, I was only six months from graduation and I already had five orders for pieces. “Still . . . Phil Collins?”

Daniel laughed and pulled his jacket on. “Sweetheart, it's for one night only. He's flying in town for the environmental awards dinner the governor is holding and flying out immediately afterward. It's an easy five grand. He's just making a speech and then glad-handing.”

I grumbled, but nodded. “Okay, okay. At least he's not singing, and you did get me a seat at the table.”

“Exactly,” Daniel said with a smile. “Just think—how many millions of dollars will be surrounding you, all, I'm sure, eager to meet the artist who is catching the attention of the entertainment set? Why, if you play this right, you might end up meeting Banksy.”

“Ha ha ha,” I replied, wincing afterward. “Ouch, kiddo, hold on there.”

Daniel came over and ran his hand over my now noticeable baby bump, his face in a sort of soft awe. “He's getting big.”

“He's going to be like his daddy, I'm sure of it,” I said, feeling the baby inside my womb shift again before settling down in a comfortable position. “Mom says she hopes he has my hair though. I think she just wants the redhead gene to get passed down another generation.”

“I was thinking maybe this one could be blond, and then our second can be a redhead. A girl, with beautiful green eyes like her mother,” Daniel said softly, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me carefully. We still made love often. The doctor had very clearly said it wouldn't hurt the baby. We just had to be more creative with how we did it.

“You are the most romantic man in the world, you know that?” I replied, kissing his nose, then his lips. Our kiss deepened, until we let go, both of us sighing, and Daniel discreetly reached down to readjust himself in his pants. It was those little things—I don't even know if he did them consciously—that helped me still feel beautiful even as my body changed.

“It's easy when I'm married to the world's most beautiful woman,” he said, his eyes open and honest. That, more than anything else, helped me. In the nearly eight months since opening Neiman Security Consultants, he'd been able to be bodyguard or consultant to some of the world's most famous. He'd guarded pop stars, media personalities, models, politicians and businessmen all over the Pacific Northwest, and still, I could see in his eyes that none of the women he met measured up to me. The one-time player and enforcer for the Bertoli Crime Family had become the most dedicated husband in the world, and I couldn't be happier. “So what are you going to do in between now and when Carlo comes around to take you to the benefit?”

I chuckled and stepped back, straightening his tie. He was in his blue suit, with a black tie and white shirt—very conservative, but very imposing. He knew with that look, his Terminator act was easy to do, and that was half the job. “Carmen's going to come over about three o'clock and help me with a bath and massage. She says she's got a new oil that's guaranteed to not give me stretch marks when our little one gets bigger. I don't know if I believe it, but it can't hurt.”

“How is school going for her, anyway?” Daniel asked, sitting down and putting on his shoes. She'd recently gone back to dance school, and was working part-time as a massage therapist in a rehabilitation clinic Uncle Carlo was invested in. “Well, I hope?”

“She's doing great, she says. And she's happy that Carlo is sponsoring her while she works part-time at the clinic. She didn't think he was being serious.”

“You know him. If he says something, he usually means it,” Daniel said, finishing his left shoe and going to his right. “Especially since the clinic lets his men do rehabilitation and other things for free. No hanky-panky though.”

“Still, I bet the boys love getting a back rub from her,” I said with a laugh. “She's got good hands. Among other things men like.”

Daniel finished his shoes and got up, coming over and kissing me again. “Well, tell her that I think she's doing an amazing job so far and wish her the best.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Unfortunately, gotta go.”

I nodded and kissed his nose again. “Say hello to Phil for me, and that I'm looking forward to tonight. If anything, you've got some interesting stories you can tell him about us and his music.”

Daniel laughed and walked to the door of our house. It wasn't anywhere near the size of the Bertoli estate, but it was our own. He walked out, closing the door behind him. The early fall day was brisk, but he showed no signs as he got into his brand new work Mercedes sedan and started it up. He waved, and I waved back. “I love you. Both of us," I whispered to myself.

Daniel drove off, and I watched him go before walking back to my studio in the back of the house. Carmen was due in an hour or so, and in the meantime, there was painting I wanted to do. A painting full of light. And joy. And most of all, love.

S
itting in the locker room
, my hands are shaking as I knot up my cleats. Today is my last chance to make the League after the performance I had at the Combine. Pro Day is here, and I need a good showing. If not... things get dicey.

I fucked up at the Combine, to put it lightly. Sure, I did okay with my forty yard dash, and my three cone drill did all right too. But when it came to the big tests, my Wonderlic, the interviews, and most importantly my throwing drills, I screwed the pooch.

It wasn't totally my fault. I mean, when I got to Indianapolis, I was nervous, and when I get nervous, I like to go out and party. So the night before the combine, I hit up a club. I didn't pick up a girl, not that I didn't hit on a few, but all that was available were some women who wanted to relive their college days, and I wasn't in the mood. So after a couple of hours of getting free drinks and a lot of playing around, I staggered back to my hotel at one in the morning half drunk and not in the least bit relaxed.

To nobody's surprise, I showed up for the Combine nervous and tired, and my results showed it too. Now I'm getting ready for my last chance to prove that I can be a pro ball player, and I'm nervous as hell. I did everything right this time, no drinking, no parties, no girls even. I've spent the past four days living like a Shaolin monk, except for cutting my hair. I ain't cutting the hair, it took too long to get my look just right.

"You all right?"

I look up from my shoes and see Duncan Hart, one of my best buds on the team and the real star of the Western University Bulldogs. He's already got his stuff on, except he's got a pair of regular training shoes hanging around his neck. He's going to do the bench press and a deadlift demonstration to prove that his elbow, which was recently under the knife, is back to full strength. If anyone doubts that after the workouts he and I have put ourselves through to prep for this Pro Day, I'll happily readjust their reality. We’ve never been in better shape in our lives.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I reply, shaking out my hands. "Just got the jitters, you know? I mean, I'm not the one with the only question being if he gets a first or a third round draft pick. You've got your ticket punched, it's just a matter of how big a contract you land."

Duncan, who a year ago would have made a smart ass comment, instead smirks and shakes his head. "You'd be surprised."

I cough and shake my head in disbelief. Duncan Hart, feeling the nerves? No fucking way. "What the hell are you talking about? You've got it made."

"We'll see, won't we? Come on, let's go get warmed up."

We go out onto the grass of the field, where I can already see the scouts and some of our coaches standing around. I know a lot of the scouts' work is to get the inside scoop from our coaches about our real playing abilities. Pro Days and workouts can show some things, but video tape and interviews with coaches are still a favorite tool. Of course the scouts know the coaches will try to give the sunny side of things, but still, they talk.

I know what they say about me. Good reads, decent feet, but his receivers make him seem better than he is.

The worst two things, for me at least, are what's probably keeping me from being a second or third round lock for the League draft. First, that my arm is supposedly weak. Yeah, I can't heave the ball seventy fucking yards, but I'm not a six foot four, two hundred and forty pound freak with a cannon for an arm. I'm six two, just on the short side for a pro quarterback, and I'm two hundred and fifteen pounds. I have to be more mobile, and that means I can't just set up and fire bombs. And I've worked hard on it, I can throw harder than ever, but more importantly, I can put the ball on a dime if I get a chance. Still, when teams are looking for monsters who have cannons for right arms, my gun show isn't quite getting the attention I think it deserves.

But what’s more troubling is my off the field reputation. With the League's main offices more worried about sponsor deals and family friendly images, a guy who likes to party and has gotten into a few fights off the field isn't the type the League is interested in nowadays.

Okay, sure, I like beautiful women. It's one of the great things about going to Western, you can't throw a rock in any direction without hitting one who loves a guy with a surfer dude look like me. My last girlfriend, before I broke up with her, was half Filipina. Beautiful caramel kissed skin, a butt you could bounce quarters off of, and she knew how to please her man. I had a hard time breaking it off with her, but I just wasn't into her the way that I knew she was into me. And as much of an asshole as I can be sometimes, it just wasn’t fair to keep seeing her.

Doesn't matter now, I've been single for the last half a year, since the ninth game of the season. Now I need to focus on this Pro Day, and after doing my throwing demonstrations and nailing my interviews, I’m hoping to end it with a good performance.

While I take a moment to collect myself before the run tests, Coach Bainridge, our head coach, comes over. "How's it looking, Coach?"

He’s has always been a guy that I can talk to. He sort of took me under his wing, let me pick his brain… he’s been around the game long enough to know a little about everything. He can watch game tape of me and tell me every flaw I make on the field, and he's helped me be a smarter quarterback.

"We're just getting started, Tyler. You light it up on the QB drills, and you'll be fine."

There's something in his eyes though that says differently, and I take a deep breath. "Cut the shit, Coach, you always did before. What's the deal?"

He rubs his day's worth of stubble, he never does shave on game days, I guess this fits too, and licks his lips. "They're not really asking a lot of questions about you, Tyler. A lot about Duncan, some of the teams are wondering what Joe Manfredi can do with his numbers, but the League thinks they've got their QB situation pretty well settled. Unless you can really light it up here, you may not get a call at all. I'm sorry, son."

I shake my head and check the knots on my cleats. "Guess the only thing to do then is go out and kick a little ass. All right, I'll get ready."

* * *

"
A
nd with pick
number thirty-two of the seventh round, San Francisco selects... Adrian Granger, of the University of the Great Lakes."

The player's lounge inside the Adams Pavilion has been mostly empty for hours now, as Joe Manfredi gave up during round five. Duncan, who got selected yesterday with the big first round pick that I’m honestly happy he got, stopped by with his girlfriend Carrie about two hours ago to see how I was doing. I won't give up my seat though, and as the last pick is handed out to Mr. Irrelevant, I let my head drop. My eyes are burning, I haven't even blinked in what feels like twenty minutes, and I convince myself that the tears that are in my eyes are because of that. Yeah, that's it. I just need some Visine and I'll be good.

I hear someone coming up behind me, and I see Coach Bainridge bringing a drink over from the table. He hands it to me, and before I take a sip, the smell hits my nose. Scotch, and from the oaky aroma, not rotgut shit either. "This is against university rules,” I say, pretending that I care.

"You've broken a few in the past five years," Coach B says somberly, taking a seat on the couch next to me. "Besides, you're over twenty-one, and you aren't officially part of the team anymore. Drink up."

The scotch burns, but helps calm me down. When I'm finished, Coach sits back while I look for the words. It takes me longer than I thought it would, I'm normally a quick tongue. "So what now?"

He sips at his drink again and crosses his legs, leaning back and giving me an appraising look. "Depends on you. You've got four options, from my point of view."

"I'm listening."

"Well, first, you can give up football. I know your major isn't exactly great, you picked it based off of keeping your football eligibility than getting into a Master's program, but you've got the personality. You could make a good life doing sales or management using your game skills. You're a natural leader, you could do well."

I think about it, then shake my head. "No, Coach. I love the game too much to just walk away. I don't want to be
that
guy, twenty years from now at the class reunion who is balding, wearing a polo shirt that is too small, talking about those good old days with my gut pushing over my belt."

"Ouch, but too accurate," Coach chuckles, then sips at his drink again, polishing it off. "Option two is to go into coaching. You've got the brains to make a good coach, and I could get you a slot as a graduate assistant next year. It's not a lot of money at first, but you could work your way up.”

I think about it. Xs and Os... "No, but it's tempting. I'm not saying never to coaching, but... there's still a player in me. I can play pro ball."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Well, that brings me to your other two options. The first is the phone call I got about an hour ago. Toronto of the Canadian League wants to offer you a contract, contingent on you not being signed with a team in the States. The Canadian League had their draft day a little before the League's, and while nobody drafted you because they didn't want to waste a pick on a guy who had a shot at an American team, they did pick you up on their 'notice list,' which is like a supplementary draft that they have up there."

An offer? That sounds good. "What are the terms?"

"Not bad. They didn't give me a dollar amount, they want to talk with you personally, but they said upper range for a quarterback in their league. Of course, upper end for them and upper end in the USA are two very different numbers.”

“What do you think, Coach?"

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "It's got to be your choice, Tyler, but here's my thoughts. The League's stacked with quarterbacks right now, so unless someone goes down with an injury, your chances of getting more than a third string or a scout team slot are small. But, Canadian ball, the game's a bit different, the field's different. You're going to start with more money than a scout teamer or practice squadder, but there is a much lower limit up there.”

"But I wouldn't be banned from the League," I muse. "I mean, guys have gone from Canada back to the US before. Good ones, too." I think about it. "When does Toronto want to talk?"

"Quickly. The Canadian season starts in early July, and runs until the weekend after Thanksgiving when they run their championship game. They'll probably let you walk for graduation, but you're going to be going straight from graduation to training camp."

"That's not a problem. I'm not hurt, and with what Coach T's been putting me through, I'm in the best shape of my life. And like I said, it's not a prison sentence, it's just a season or two in Toronto. I can light up the field up there, and get an invite to a League team if everything goes right.”

Coach gives me a grin, and slaps my knee. "All right. Let's go to my office, we can make that call back to Toronto."

"
M
iss Gray
, would you come into my office, please?"

Oh hell. One year on the job with the Toronto Fighters, and I've already been called into the General Manager's office more often than I should, and most of the time it’s not good.

It's not that I don't try, I really do. I know I'm just the lowest level of administrative assistant on the staff, but that doesn't mean I don't bust my butt. It's just that I don't have experience in the sports world, at least not football. I don't know what pro athletes want, and a lot of the players aren't very patient with someone like me.

About half of my screw ups have been someone telling me something, and I’m too shy to ask them what they really mean. Like my first big screw up, with a right tackle from the States who I was supposed to shadow and help out. How was I supposed to know that 'two honey chickenheads' meant get the man two groupies from the crowd after the game and not a bucket of chicken nuggets with honey dipping sauce?