Drilled: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Read online

  I open my eyes, surprised to find I’m smiling in the mirror image above, smiling like I’m back in grade school with a tube sock over my dick and too many hormones for my own good.

  Why her? Why ‘Sam’? I don’t really know. Maybe she reminds me of someone, but no. That’s not it. It’s the challenge, perhaps, the hunt. She intrigues me, and that’s more than I can say for the usual Barbie clones too busy fiddling with their hair to even give a decent blowjob.

  I run my fingers through the sticky mess on my chest.

  Guess you’ve solved that mystery, big boy.

  I pat the space on the bed beside myself, still warm. Sam will be taking it up soon enough.

  Sam.

  I’m going to fuck her mine if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.

  *

  “Hut!”

  The play is new, a twist on the Holy Roller. The ball slots into my hands and I swing back looking for the opening. I send the ball sailing and it’s the best fucking feeling in the world when it strikes home. Fucking perfection.

  I join David on the bench for a breather.

  He squirts water over his face. “Hot out, huh?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” He’s not wrong. A highly unseasonal heatwave has put Los Angeles into meltdown mode. It’s all everyone’s talking about, a ‘once-in-a-lifetime weather event,’ and here we are waltzing around a football field in mobile saunas. I swipe a Gatorade off the table and slug it down.

  David joined the Cats three years ago with me. He’s one of the best wide receivers in the game, a friend, and happily married. It’s a damn shame. He would have made the perfect wingman… not that I need the help.

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So, have you decided to settle down yet, or are you still busy trying to work your way through the ABC of LA vagina?”

  I down the last of the Gatorade. This little teasing tête-à-tête has been going on since we met. “And how about you? Enjoying that one vagina you’re stuck with for life now?”

  He punches me in the shoulder pad. “I’ll have you know it’s the most beautiful vagina in the world.”

  “Even after popping out two kids?”

  I’d never say it to his face, but deep down I’m a little envious of David’s two daughters, Annabelle and Clara, with their pudgy smiles and doll faces. It almost does make me want to settle down seeing what he has, the joy they bring him.

  He sits up straighter. “I don’t know if ‘popping out’ would be the best way to put it.”

  “Pooping out?” I offer.

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “My man, if you think babies come out of there, I think you need to go back to sex ed.”

  I laugh back. Fucking David. “I damn well invented sex ed.”

  “Oh? And what, pray tell, is the curriculum made up of?”

  I give him a wink. “The corkscrew.”

  “The corkscrew?” he queries with an air of suspicion. “That does not sound remotely sexy, or safe.”

  I shrug. “You married folk wouldn’t know, I guess. Too busy playing house.”

  He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Truth be told, his wife’s a stunner, even after the girls. His family is the center of his life. What do I have? Football and casual fucking, and even that’s losing its appeal lately.

  Unless you’re thinking about Sam.

  “Hey, what do you make of the new masseuse?” I ask.

  David looks sideways at me. “Sam? The new girl?”

  I feel a tiny stab of jealousy in my gut hearing him say her name. It’s weird. “Yeah, what do you think?”

  He nods with knowing. “You want her, don’t you? I can see it in those sparkly panty-dropper eyes of yours.”

  I try to act casual, but it comes off phony. “Maybe.”

  He slaps a hand on his thigh. “Oh, you want her bad. What did she do? Tell you to back off? Tell you to stop waving that telegraph pole of yours in her face? Or maybe you tried to show her ‘the corkscrew’?”

  David’s still in hysterics when I shove him off the bench completely. He rolls on the turf laughing to the sky.

  “You alright?” I ask, dry and bitterer than I mean.

  He struggles to get out the words. “Oh, I’m fine. I haven’t laughed this much since the service.”

  Like myself, David’s ex-military, though he rarely discusses it. He’s got a calm manner, piercing grey eyes the women would go crazy for if he wasn’t hitched, but I can’t picture him putting bullets through people. It seems so at odds with his character. Then again, I never imagined I was capable of half of the stuff I did over there either. The service does that to you, makes you a monster. That’s why I’m more than happy to take it out of the field these days.

  “Come on,” I press, helping him back onto the bench as the others head to the showers. “What do you think are my chances?”

  He stops laughing, a sudden serious calm shifting across his features. In that moment he’s not a teammate, he’s a brother, the family I never had. “I think you should go easy on her.”

  “Easy on her?” I scoff. “‘Easy’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”

  “I got a feeling about her, Chance. She’s fragile, maybe even damaged goods.”

  “Half the women I sleep with have Daddy issues.”

  David shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I mean, we only spoke briefly, but you can see it in her eyes, the pain. She’s hiding from something, or someone, mark my words. If you want ‘in’ with her, you’re going to have to throw out your regular playbook and actually approach her like a gentleman.”

  I’m not quite following. “You think she’s traumatized?”

  A smile. “After seeing your dick, who wouldn’t be?”

  “How do you know I showed her my dick?”

  “How long have we known each other? Besides, I walked in, remember? Or were you too dazed by your own dashing good looks to notice?”

  I throw my hands up. “Fine, fine, but she wasn’t biting.”

  “Good,” laughs David. “No one likes teeth.”

  I slap him on the back. “See, you are a dirty prick deep down.”

  “I mean it, Chance. Easy does it with this one.”

  I give him a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  He nods down at my crotch. “And for god’s sake find a hood or something for that thing.”

  “They don’t make them big enough.”

  He taps the top of my head with a closed fist. “The same goes for this.”

  We both chuckle, looking out at the empty field. I swear I can see the heat rippling into the air. I wouldn’t be surprised if the goal posts started to melt.

  “Why don’t you ask Morgan about her? He’d do anything for his favorite son,” David suggests.

  The idea never crossed my mind. Morgan hired her, after all, and it’s true: he would do anything for his prize quarterback. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve had.”

  David reaches over and takes my hand. “We can go together if you like.”

  I pull my hand away like it’s been sitting over a naked flame. “I think I can manage.”

  David’s still laughing. “Suit yourself, big boy.”

  *

  I pop my head into Morgan’s doorway. “Got a second, boss?”

  He waves me in. “For you, Adams, I’ve got ten.”

  Morgan’s office is perched right up near the VIP boxes overlooking the entire stadium. It’s packed to the brim with Cats merchandise from the last couple of decades, an orange extravaganza that always forces me to blink a few times before it settles in.

  I sit on the window ledge opposite his desk. He swivels towards me. Apart from the mild pot belly, he’s in pretty good shape for a forty-seven-year-old. The limp’s still there from when he blew his knee out as a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, but if that didn’t happen he wouldn’t have gone into acting. And if he didn’t go into acting he wouldn’t have made a fortune and been able to buy this team.

  He taps a polished wo
oden box on his desk. “The finest Cuban cigars money can buy, from Clint.”

  He’s talking about Clint Eastwood. The guy’s got more Hollywood big shots on his speed-dial than TMZ.

  I flick my head towards his crotch. “You’ve got to stop wearing those shorts.”

  He looks down at his shorts, about three sizes too small and definitely high-school coach material. They’re an inch away from a public indecency charge. “I’ve got to look the part, don’t I?”

  “You’re the team owner, not the coach.”

  He smirks. “Son, given the money I inject into this place, I can be whoever the hell I want.”

  I’m thankful we’ve got this kind of relationship, but that’s Big Red, as the team calls him, for you. He’s hands-on, gets personal with everyone from the janitors to the accountants around here.

  He looks a little closer at me. “What can I do for you, Adams?”

  I dive straight in. “The new massage therapist.”

  “Samantha,” Morgan interjects.

  “Yes. I was wondering what her background is.”

  Morgan leans back and places one leg on top of the other, his chair groaning in protest. “You want to be careful there, son.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “‘Everyone?’ Who else have you been talking to?”

  “Tarryton. He said the same thing.”

  Morgan nods. “David can really sniff people out, can’t he? Maybe that’s what makes him such a good receiver.”

  “And poker player.”

  Morgan smiles. “With Bertha headed back to the Ukraine, we needed a new masseuse. Funnily enough, I didn’t receive a whole lot of applications, but something about your girl stood out. She was a little lacking in qualifications, but I don’t know. Maybe she has a kind face.”

  “You hired her because she has a kind face?”

  “I’m not like you, kid, with your love ‘em and leave ‘em shit. All about tits and ass…”

  “Actually…” I go to correct, but he puts his hand up.

  “All I know is that she received her certification six months ago and recently moved up here from Vegas. Her references were good, not that they were for massage work per se, so what the hell? I hired her.”

  “It had nothing to do with the fact she’s cute?”

  Morgan holds up his hand, his wedding ring almost as thick as his arm. “Like I said, I’m too old for that game. Is there a problem?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She’s here to work, Adams. If you want a rub-and-tug, try the Thai Massage down in the Valley. Hell, I’ll shout. Now, I’ve got to call Steven back.”

  It might be Spielberg, King, Nash, Tyler… Who knows? “Okay,” I nod, lifting myself off the window ledge. “Thanks.”

  Morgan’s already reaching for his phone. “Don’t mention it, but as I said, she’s staff. Treat her with at least a modicum of respect, would you?”

  I wink. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SAM

  I bet high school wasn’t an easy ride with a ginger mop of hair like that, I’m thinking, watching as Morgan makes his way around his desk to me.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re settling in, Sam. I like to take an interest in all my employees, you see.”

  It’s quite an office, large windows looking out to the flawless green field below. “Yes, Mr. Blake.”

  “Morgan, remember?” He smiles.

  I see why the players like him so much. He’s incredibly down to earth, approachable, and far from the corporate axe-wielder I had imagined.

  “You’ve made quite the impression on the team already. I’ve had a lot of positive feedback. The players love you.”

  One more than the others.

  Morgan leans back against his desk. Poor thing sounds like it’s going to split in two. “I do hope the boys aren’t giving you too much trouble.”

  I bring my hands together in front of myself. “I can handle it.”

  “How was Chance?”

  Rude, obnoxious, asshole-y… “Fine.”

  “He’s running with a calf injury from last season. He told you about it?”

  Only about his penis, sorry. Impressive as it is. “No, but I’ll definitely chase it up. I’ve been told I have magic hands.”

  The second it’s out I know precisely how it sounds. Not good.

  Thankfully, Morgan ignores the innuendo. “Excellent.” He checks his watch. “Why don’t you head down and get started? I’ll let Chance know you’re waiting.”

  Great.

  Downstairs, I’m nervous again as I wait in the massage room, but why the hell should I be? Give it to him, Sam. Let him know his behavior was not okay.

  But when the great ‘arm of gold’ Chance Adams enters, he’s a completely different person. For one, he’s dressed in simple jeans and a white tee that does his chest and arms all the right kind of favors. He nods and says hello, jumping behind the screen in the corner to change. Up until this point I still haven’t spoken. I’m shell-shocked he hasn’t tried to hit on me yet or pull a stunt with his super-cock.

  He comes out from behind the screen with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Where would you like me?”

  Under my covers. “Um,” I splutter. “Morgan told me you’re having some issues with your calf? Was it the right or left? He leans down and run his hand across the back of his right, his abs crunching, each heavenly square hard and defined under that oh-so-tight tee. “Here.”

  My mouth is drying by the second. “Okay. Lie on your back, please.”

  He does as instructed, still no ‘Where’s the lube, baby?’ or ‘Why don’t you hop on?’ Instead, it’s “I want to apologize for the other day.”

  He said whhhaaattt?

  I check the door just to make sure I haven’t entered through a star-gate into a parallel dimension. Compose yourself. I smile. “No problem.”

  He lies down, arms by his side, undoing the towel and leaving it draped over his crotch. “No, I was an ass. I know it. You know it, and I’m sorry.”

  I apply oil to my hands. “Apology accepted. I’ll start with the calf first. Could you place your foot flat on the table, please?”

  He lifts his leg up and for a moment the towel lifts in tandem, a shadowy box unveiled between his thighs.

  I avert my eyes and start to work the calf, immediately finding the tension and trouble. I wasn’t joking when I told Morgan I had magic hands. My entire family is made up of healers, of doctors and nurses and therapists stretching back almost two centuries. Dad always said helping others was in the Carter genes. I was the only one who could fix his back. He called me his ‘lucky charm.’

  A push away a pang of sadness at the thought of my parents long since passed. I’m an only child. They won’t get to see grandkids. You’d need a man first, Sammy.

  I look over Exhibit A laid out before me, a fine specimen if ever there was one.

  I use friction strokes to break down the connective tissue, running my fingers in a circular motion to avoid an inflammatory response.

  “Yeah,” Chance moans, a little less brash this time. “That’s perfect”.

  Incredibly, he lets me work in peace, only emitting the odd “harder” or “softer.”

  I’m halfway through an Ischemic compression when I notice his towel has risen. I look twice to make sure I’m not seeing things, but no. It’s propped up like a damn tent.

  Momentarily, his eyes open and he looks down at the erection turning his towel into an apparition. There’s no shame, no embarrassment. “Sorry about that,” he muses, watching me, the cheek entering his smile again.

  I continue to work on his right leg, can practically feel the heat coming from under the towel burning a hole through the table. As hot as the color lighting up my cheeks.

  I swallow hard before speaking. “Don’t worry about it. It happens.”

  Funnily enough, I don’t recall a section of the course entit
led ‘Dealing with Erections: What to Do.”

  You know damn well what to do with them…

  Quiet, head. We had more than enough excitement last time.

  I take a deep breath and wait for the line, the witty repartee to come, but it doesn’t. Chance lets himself lie back down and closes his eyes once more. As best I can, I have to ignore the rather erect elephant in the room.

  I’m distracted. I mean, who works like this? It’s not how I pictured this job at all.

  Like that Vegas parlor was more what you pictured?

  I decide to cut the session short, finishing off with a light tapotement to stimulate the muscle.

  That ain’t the only thing being stimulated by the looks of it.

  God, what’s happening to me? I’m a schoolgirl again, half giddy at the sight of a penis.

  More like a baseball bat…

  “You’re good to go.” With it, I give him a tap on the leg, exactly the way you’d touch the roof of a car to signal the driver to take off. It’s the weirdest thing I think I’ve ever done.

  He swivels up into a sitting position, legs either side of me, the offending member thankfully deciding to behave. He looks down at his crotch. “Sorry about him. He gets a little too excited sometimes.”

  “You can’t… control it?” I cannot believe those words just came out of my mouth.

  He laughs at the roof, holding his chest. “Fuck me. ‘Control it?’ I’m guessing you’ve never owned a penis?”

  The idea of ‘owning’ a penis plays out in my hand. I picture a shop with rows and rows of dicks every shape and color, price tags swinging off them, a friendly salesman asking what size I’m after.

  I shake my head, snapping out of it. Why can’t I stop blushing? “Can’t say I have.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. I notice he does that a lot. “How do I put this?” He touches the side of his head. “This has no control,” pointing to his crotch, “over this. In fact, I often think that,” he nods to his dick again, “this guy controls everything.”

  You’re not wrong about that.

  For a moment I catch him looking at my chest before his eyes finally decide to climb upwards. “Look, Sam. I want to start over. How about lunch, on me? I really do want to apologize, you know.”