The Game Plan
Page 63

It’s deep, desperate, and savoring, as if he’s putting his entire heart into each touch and taste, as if he’s trying to memorize every second. And I’m lost. Utterly lost.
Sounds fade. There is only Ethan and how good he feels, how good he makes me feel. I’m on my toes, my arms wrapped around his neck, as I kiss him back, consumed by my need for him. I don’t know how long we stand there, but when he moves his mouth from mine to explore my jaw, taking soft nibbles, my lips feel tender and swollen.
Big hands caress my back, my sides, sliding down to the crest of my butt and up to just under my breasts. Keeping it decent but driving me wild all the same.
“Be sure to drink water,” he murmurs against my skin, kissing my neck, my chin, mouth, cheek.
“’Kay.” My hands roam too, finding the hard rounds of his massive shoulders, sliding over his firm pecs.
He tugs me closer, his breath warm on my skin. “Some strange guy tries to talk to you, tell him to fuck off.”
I laugh at that.
Ethan doesn’t. He grazes the side of my neck with his teeth, his beard tickling. “Make an effort to stretch your legs.”
“Ethan,” I run my fingers through his silky hair. “It’s not that long of a plane ride.”
“It’s too long,” he grumps. And I know he isn’t talking about time but distance. My breath hitches with a twinge of pain.
It breaks the spell between us. He takes a step back, his hands falling away as if holding me any longer hurts him.
He stares down at me with eyes suspiciously bright and glassy. “Safe flight, Fi.”
“See you soon, Ethan.”
His nod is a ghost of a movement.
It takes effort to move, to take the handle of my roll-on bag. I’m turning to go when he mutters an oath and grabs me. I’m engulfed by a wall of muscle and arms of steel. He hugs me tight, hunching over me, his nose buried in the crook of my neck.
My arms wrap around his waist, fingers digging into the loose fabric of his shirt.
He breathes in deep, then lets it go with a shaky gust. “I hate this. I hate it so much.” His grip makes my ribs protest, and his voice goes rough. “I feel like some essential organ is being ripped from me.”
My eyes burn, my throat locking up tight. I have to swallow hard to speak. “Ethan…”
But he shakes his head and sets me away from him. His expression is almost angry, jaw set beneath the blanket of his beard. “Time to go, Cherry. Just…don’t look back, okay? Or I won’t be able to let you go.”
Fuck. My vision blurs. Sniffling, I nod. “All right.”
But I can’t move.
With a sad smile, he takes me by the shoulders and turns me toward the dreaded TSA line. “Go on now.” His big hand slaps my butt. “Get.”
I jump a little, glaring over my shoulder. “You sounded awfully Southern just now, mister.”
That smile quirks. “Went to a Southern university. Guess I picked up a few things, ma’am.” The smile falls. “Go on, Cherry. Don’t look back.”
“I won’t.” I can’t. Or I’ll never leave.
My rolling bag weighs a thousand pounds as I drag it behind me, every step taking me farther away from Ethan. I don’t turn around, but I feel him watching. I know he won’t go until I’m out of sight.
Tears threaten to fall, but I breathe through them. I can’t let him see me cry.
When I’m through the line, my cell dings. Glancing down, I almost lose it again.
FearTheBeard: <3 <—mine goes with you. Always.
Chapter Thirty
Dex
Monday Night Football. The audience is not as rowdy as in college. Fans are more likely to shout “you suck” than give their undying love. Because it’s about the win. Sure, we had that need to win in college. But school spirit trumped the team’s record. Here? My job is on the line if I don’t perform.
The stadium isn’t as big. Doesn’t need to be. Cameras are everywhere, taking in every fucking move we make for an audience that grows year by year—a big, voracious mass of unseen fans. Damn if I haven’t begun to think if it not as a sport but theater. We’re giving them a show, and it had better be good.
Right now, I’m facing off against a big bastard of a nose tackle. Emmet Sampson. We played against each other in college, and I know his ways well. He loves to talk shit. Excels, at it, actually. I’m pretty sure he makes a study of his opposition to find the worst dirt he can on them.
Emmet can’t stand me because I’ve never once blinked in the face of his bullshit. Not that he doesn’t keep trying.
“Lookie here,” he says as we take the field. “It’s old Paul Bunyan. Where’s your big blue ox, boy?”
At your mamma’s house having a smoke.
But I don’t say it. Not speaking is much more effective.
I hunker down, my quads giving a nice stretch that brings me right back into the physical.
“So that shit true, Dexter?” he goes on. “You haven’t busted your cherry? Damn, man.” He shakes head. “Some sorry-ass shit right there.”
I breathe in deep. Pay attention to my team. His team. Watch. Wait. Listen.
“Naw, I don’t believe it. What’s the matter, Dexter? Afraid of the pussy?”
Emmet is meowing like a cat. The sound fades as I focus on the line. The pads of my gloved fingers rest on the ball, the shape grounding me. I draw in a breath, let my gaze open up until I see the whole picture—my guys, the defense, how they line up.