Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (21 page)

We hold each other closely, not letting any space between us until she slides off to the side and reaches for my cock inside my pants. She slips her hand inside the track pants and grasps me, her eyes dark and filled with emotion. I can't help it, I moan softly as she pulls me out, just enough that my cock points up into the air. “April . . . are you sure?”

She looks up into my eyes and nods, her eyes glistening. “I’ve never been more sure.”

With slow, meaningful measured movements, she unsnaps her jeans and pushes everything off, leaving her nude and beautiful in the dim orange yellow lights of the sleeping cabin, her face trembling with emotion. Without saying a word she climbs back on top of me, taking my cock and positioning it at her entrance. She's warm, and as I slide inside her, she holds her breath, her eyes slightly unfocused, in an inner spiritual place that gives her beautiful face a graveness I've never seen before.

She blinks, and her eyes join with mine, and she reaches out, putting her right hand on my heart. I put mine on hers, and she starts riding me, lifting herself up and down slowly, each motion carrying deep meaning beyond the joining of our bodies. I can almost feel it in my mind, and I wonder if there really are things like telepathy. Or am I just reading her emotions in her eyes?

We're moving faster, faster, our bodies building, and as my orgasm builds within me, her fingers dig into the muscle above my heart, bruising me as my own hand does the same to her, and we peak.

It's like no climax I've ever had before. There's the normal white light of coming, of feeling my balls tighten and my body explode, but the great joy isn't from just coming, but instead from feeling our souls join tightly, forever entwined. Is it some sort of First Nations magic? Hell, I don't know. I just know that as we cruise at twenty five thousand feet somewhere over Alberta or Manitoba, only two phrases echo in my mind.

My husband.

My wife.

“
A
pril
, my condolences on your father's death,” Connor says as he comes into the apartment. He's never been here before, but after the stress of the funeral and driving back from London, neither Tyler or I feel like going anywhere. When Connor called just as Tyler was leaving a quick video session with Coach Blanchard while I made sure the Fighters' legal team had everything for Tyler's new contract, both of us agreed, he could come to us.

So it's not surprising that he's still dressed for the office, wearing a thousand dollar suit and looking as much like a member of the American Secret Service as a legal assistant. I exchange hugs with him, while Tyler shakes hands. “Thank you, Connor. It was . . . expected.”

“So I've heard. How is your mother handling it? I mean, if you want to talk.”

I give my old friend a smile. He knows a lot about my family history, there's no secrets between us. “Of course. She . . . today she was there, and she was mostly the Mom I remember. I talked with the doctors, they're trying a new medication that might have some benefits on helping her stay focused. But still, it's going to be tough for her. When I talked to her afterward though, she said she wants to stay at the hospice. The only things she has left of Daddy are there, and she said that she feels closer to him that way. When we left, she was sleeping in his hospital bed, his blanket on top of her.”

Connor nods, and follows Tyler over to the dining area table, where he sets his briefcase down and takes a seat. “I hope that you can keep her comfortable and happy. Did the doctors . . . well, I guess they wouldn't today.”

“The average Alzheimer's patient lives eight years after diagnosis, but some can go as long as twenty years,” I quote from what I'd already learned from the doctors long before. “Mom's in the middle stage of the disease, although it's nearing late stage. Unfortunately, well maybe fortunately for her, the disease is going very quickly. I've already spoken with the hospice, and with Daddy's death, they will have full time care for her, changing rooms and setting up a group setting. She'll still have all of her things, but the room will be on a shared wing with others. It's . . . it's the best we can do.”

Connor nods, then looks up at the ceiling. “I remember meeting her once. You and I were, we must have been freshmen, maybe sophomores. She and your father came up from London to visit you, and he had an appointment with the Uni hospital, if I remember right.”

“I remember that too. Daddy's appointment was supposed to take three or four hours, and him being him, he demanded that we all go have some fun.”

Tyler laughs. “I know I've only met them once, but they both seemed like lovely people. But Connor, your phone call mentioned business. I'm praying you have good news.”

Connor's smile broadens, and he nods. “Oh, very good. In fact, while the court needs to finish the filing tomorrow, we were notified today that both Catherine Paulinski and Greta Lawson have dropped their case against you.”

Tyler and I both sit stunned while the words soak in, and I find that I'm the person who can speak first. “What happened?”

“Well, our firm's private investigator did a little digging on these two, and found out that these girls are pro scammers. They've been doing this little gig for a while, and tried to hit up players on both the Toronto baseball and basketball teams. When our investigator talked to players or former players on both teams, those names are well known and blacklisted among them. Their normal scam was to seduce a married player, and then try to blackmail him later. This time though, they tried a different scam.”

“They got pregnant,” Tyler says, sneering. “Were the babies even mine?”

“Actually, there were no babies,” Connor says, pulling out a paper. “That was the thing they kept hoping would never come out. They were hoping that you'd just sign a settlement, but both Greta and Catherine aren't able to get pregnant. They went to three different fertility clinics in the past few months, trying to do something, but they never got pregnant. When they couldn't hide the fact that they aren't pregnant at all any longer, they tried to fake miscarriages, but the hospitals caught on, and we caught wind of it. They're . . . well, they have some legal issues of their own to deal with now.”

“So it's over,” Tyler whispers, looking over at me and taking my hand. “It's over.”

“Not quite,” Connor says, taking out a piece of paper. “You have to sign this, showing that you understand and agree to the dismissal of the suit. Also, you need to decide if you're going to pursue charges against them. Civil harassment, libel, and quite a few others if you want.”

“Fuck it, just let it drop,” Tyler says, signing the paper. “If they had money they wouldn't have tried to pull their bullshit on me. Did your investigator even ever find out if I really slept with them or not?”

“Actually . . . yeah, he did. Not enough to bet his life on, but enough that it'd have been a tough case to make in the courts. After you two left, they've got you on a couple of CCTV cameras, they had to drag you out of the taxi at the hotel, and both girls left the hotel less than ten minutes after helping you in. Unless you happen to be able to have sex while unconscious twice . . . you never did a damn thing with those two.”

Tyler shakes his head, and looks at me. It's a little thing, I know, but I can't help but feel a surge of joy. He never slept with them. Ever. I look over at Tyler, and he's got the same look on his face, and I can tell he's feeling the same way.

“Thank you Connor,” Tyler says quietly, reaching over and taking my hand. “Thank you very much.”

Connor smiles and gets up. “Glad I could help. Take care, you guys. Oh, and April . . . remember he's got a game tomorrow, let him get some sleep.”

Connor leaves with a laugh, and after the door closes, I turn to Tyler, fresh tears in my eyes. I don't know why, I should be laughing and happy, but instead I'm crying, and as he pulls me in for a hug, I start sobbing, the happiness and the sadness mixing in a vile blend that churns my stomach. I push away from Tyler and turn, barely making it to the toilet before the little bit of dinner I'd been able to eat after the funeral comes up.

“April . . . are you okay?” Tyler asks carefully, kneeling next to me. He pulls my hair back and out of the way, the hair that he loves to run his hands through.

“I'm fine,” I snap, not knowing where my anger is coming from. “I'm just fine, Tyler. I'm not a soap bubble, you know. I might be stupid, I might be ugly and someone you settle for, but I'm not a soap bubble.”

“Whoa. I wasn't trying to piss you off. Just… well, when someone you love pukes in the toilet, you worry about them.”

“Glad to know you worry about me,” I snap again, then shake my head. What the hell am I doing? “Sorry. I guess the stress is really getting to me.”

Tyler rubs my back, humming. “I understand. I still don't know how I'm going to play well tomorrow.”

“Like your game is the most important thing in the world!” I hiss, angry again. My father is in the ground less than twelve hours, I'm counting down the days until the Alzheimer's takes my mother, and he's worried about a fucking
game?
What the fuck? “I'm so sorry that my father's death is screwing up your preparation for Ottawa!”

Tyler takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “You're right, I'm sorry I put it that way. Let me go get you some cool water, wash out your mouth.”

“I'll get it myself!” I snap again, getting up and stomping out of the bathroom and to the kitchen, where I yank a glass down from the cupboard and turn on the faucet. I hear Tyler flush the toilet then walk nearly silently to the living room, where I hear him settle down on the couch. He doesn't say anything, just sits, and my anger evaporates, replaced by fear and sadness. This was how Mom started showing symptoms, mood swings and snappiness. Did the doctors miss something? Can I even have it at my age? Or is it really the stress?

I rinse my mouth again, and drink half a glass, trying to settle my stomach. When I think I'm not going to sick it up, I leave the kitchen and see Tyler sitting on the couch still, his knees sticking up almost ridiculously high. It's a side effect of our couch, which Tyler chose from an Asian inspired collection. It's low to the ground, so when he doesn't lean back, his knees are nearly at his shoulders until he stretches out. I make my way over and sit down next to him, and I can see that he's got his hands clenched and his head hanging. “Tyler?”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, his voice soft and pained. “I know you’re going through a lot.”

I swallow, and take his hand. “I'm sorry too. I . . . I don't know why I feel this way Tyler. I'm scared because this is how Mom started. Maybe it's just the stress of today, maybe the fears that are always inside me came out . . . but I'm scared. I've been feeling off even before Baltimore's offer, and tonight . . . it was just too much.”

Tyler looks over at me and takes my hand. “I understand. Don't think I haven't thought about it too. Ever since you mentioned it in the car as we were going to visit them, it's popped up in my mind.”

“Yet you still turned Baltimore down, and tomorrow Ottawa's coming for your ass.”

Tyler laughs and nods. “A good way to put it. April, when I made my decision, that did flash through my mind. And you know what I decided?”

“What?”

“That a short time with you, even if you do end up like your mother . . . it's better than a lifetime with someone else.”

I lean into him, and he holds me closely, comforting. “Tyler . . . if it is?”

“We can't know until we get it checked out,” Tyler says, putting on a brave face. “In the meantime, I'm saying that it's stress, and some bad sausage. We're never going to that butcher's again.”

I can't help it, I laugh. “We didn't even have any of that sausage today. But okay. Monday, I'll make an appointment. I'm under the Fighters' supplementary health coverage, I can get an appointment quickly. In the meantime though . . . would you mind holding me tonight?”

Tyler nods, and kisses me on the temple. “Mind? I insist. How about we change into our sleep clothes and maybe a little ice cream? I've worked on my ice cream sundae skills since the first time, you know.”

“Yes, those butter fried bananas you did last time were divine,” I admit. “Okay . . . but tomorrow night, I'm paying you back.”

“Tomorrow night, huh?” Tyler says with a smirk. “Got something special planned?”

“We'll see.”

* * *

I
t feels strange
, standing on the sidelines of the field. I'm wearing a Fighters warmup jacket, but underneath is Tyler's green Western jersey, same as always. I think next year I'll wear one of his Fighters jerseys, but so far, the old shirt's brought us luck and happiness. I can't argue against either of those. I'm still wearing the green lingerie, though. He loves taking it off after home games, and I admit, I feel pretty in the set.

Francine and the rest of the girls are in their own track suits, it's getting a bit cold for night games, and I'm glad the team provides lined suits. October right next to the lake can get cold, and I remind myself that next week, maybe after my doctor's appointment, to take Tyler shopping for winter clothes. That California beach body is going to freeze if he keeps dressing the way he does.

“Hey April, enjoying the view?” Francine asks as we wait for the kickoff. “I bet Tyler's butt looks a lot better up close like this than in the stands.”

I shake my head, laughing at my bubbly friend. “You have no idea. Is that why you do this . . . so many nice butts so close?”

Francine laughs and shakes her head. “Nope. I like teasing all the horndogs in the stands. You don't think I wear the skimpiest top I can get away with for no reason, do you?”

“Shake what your momma gave ya,” I tease, and she laughs. “Well, you've got a lot to shake.”

“Thanks. You know, I know you're not into the dancing and stuff, but you'd fill out a cheer outfit pretty well yourself. Maybe a little present for you and Tyler to play dress up with?
Oh no, Mr. Big Time Quarterback, I'm just a poor innocent cheerleader . . . what, why am I not wearing panties? I don't know . . . oh, oh . . .
”

I laugh, my breath steaming into the evening sky. “You talk about the fans, but you are such a horndog! Don't tell me, you do that on a weekly basis.”

She arches an eyebrow and smirks. “Ask me no questions, I tell you no lies. So do you know why Tyler asked that you be on the sidelines today?”

I shake my head. “Considering the bomb he dropped in Vancouver, I'm expecting anything from nothing to he's going to run for Prime Minister. Who knows, he might just feel nervous about this game and want his good luck jersey closer. He's already wearing his lucky underpants and t-shirt under his pads. Who knows?”

“He's superstitious?” Francine asks, and I nod.

“I think all athletes are to some degree or another. Or do you just wear the same hair pin every home game because you like the way it looks?”

She touches the little butterfly pin with black and white stones, then chuckles. “Point taken. Enjoy the game, I gotta get the girls going on our thing.”