Ladies Man
Page 32
“Possession Black!”
His opponent runs with it; Tahoe gets so mad he charges forward and trucks him to the ground. “Unnecessary roughness,” the announcer says. “Illegal procedure number zero-zero, penalty box, thirty seconds.”
“Oh, that always happens,” someone beside me tells his friend. “He plays so aggressive, he always gets a penalty.”
I watch Tahoe grip his stick angrily as he storms to the box, seething as he drops down on one knee, his head canted up at the clock, waiting impatiently. A trainer approaches to offer him water, and he declines with a shake of his head.
The backup does the face-off, and the announcer soon calls, “Score Black!”
As the teams position at the center of the field again, Tahoe charges out of the penalty box.
He leans forward, in position to face off. He’s seething testosterone as he scoops up the ball and runs with it, so powerful that he throws the ball from far away. The ball blows up-field and the goalie sweeps to the right, but the ball hits the top shelf, right at the bar, then bounces inside.
“Outside shot, score Red!”
I can feel the energy in the stands increasing, people excited that this is going to be a big-scoring game.
They face off again. Eye to eye—his head turning a fraction.
God, will he stop looking at me?
I watch him intently, noting how he puts his head over the ball, pitches it upward with his wrist, swiftly scoops it up, and runs like the devil. Defense charges forward; Tahoe fakes it, and when they fall for it, he takes two more steps and puts it in. “Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Holy shit, that was a 105-mile-per-hour shot!” someone near my seat cries.
During halftime he’s the only player who doesn’t remove his helmet or take water. He’s ready to go out again, eager to play.
I cannot take my eyes off him when he’s back on the field. I hardly know what’s happening with the other players because I’m watching only him. I wonder why he wanted me here. Why he wanted me to see how he possesses that ball, how strong he is, athletic he is, how fucking hot he looks with that visor. Passing fast, facing off, possessing the ball, time and again, shooting high to high, high to low, shooting into the ground at an angle that bounces in front of the goal and goes in.
The game lasts about two hours. Red wins 20-1, completely squashing their competitors.
The crowd cheers and whistles as their victory is declared. The players shuffle out, but rather than leave, I watch with accumulated nervous energy and excitement as zero-zero heads toward the stands.
He jerks off his sweaty jersey with one gloved fist. His visor tips upward in my direction.
He balls the fabric and in one powerful throw, just like the ones he did on the field, he throws his dirty, sweaty jersey directly onto my lap.
My seat neighbor reaches out to catch it with a thrilled, hungry little gasp.
“Nope,” I tell her, yanking it free from her hands.
I frown when I realize how possessive I sounded but, thankfully, double zero is already striding toward the lockers. Thank god he didn’t see me get territorial.
I can smell the testosterone on his shirt as I head down the stands and into a sheltered hall with exits to the parking lot.
“Hey! You with Roth?”
A guy from the Red team is looking at me questioningly.
I nod.
“Get over here.” He motions me to follow him, then leads me farther down the hall and straight into the men’s locker room.
I follow him, a little bit uncomfortable at all the men in nude and semi-nude states.
“So fucking cold today, you get hit with a metal stick and it hurts like hell,” some guy says.
“Don’t play on off-season then,” another retorts.
“T, swear to god, you’re the only lacrosse player who whips ass and likes baseball too. Real men play lacrosse. Hell, you almost killed someone today. All baseball guys do is stand there and hit the ball.”
Following the voice coming from the second row of lockers, I head down and around the corner. I spot a pair of white custom gloves with Roth embroidered on the wrists on a wood bench. The guy who had been speaking presses ice against a burn on his thigh, and I notice the long, tanned, muscular arms of Tahoe bearing the same burns.
I glance upward, and he’s in a towel, his chest bare.
I try not to notice the damp rivulets trailing down his torso, dipping into the dents between the squares of his abs.
He senses me and turns. Seeing his blue eyes without the visor sends a shock of electricity through me. His face breaks into a smile, and he’s so amped up I can feel his energy.
“My lucky charm,” he drawls.
He lifts me up and twirls me so fast I get dizzy. I hear him chuckle and it makes me laugh, then I punch his shoulder so he’ll put me down.
His eyes darken a little when he lowers me to my feet.
“Always this noisy in the locker room?” I ask, not knowing why I’m whispering.
“That’s the sound of victory.” He takes me in as if he’s thrilled to see me, then he turns back to his locker and pulls out a clean long-sleeved crewneck and shoves his head and arms inside. “It’s dead quiet after a bad game,” he says with a wink.
“Really?”
I glance around. The players are hyped up, slamming doors and slapping each other’s shoulders with good energy all around.
The coach walks in with two other coaches flanking him. One clap from him, and the players fall silent.
“That was good, but keep working on your shit—no more of the streak we were in. Got it?” He scans the players, all nodding happily, then locks his gaze on Tahoe. “Good work, Roth.” Respect and admiration echo in his voice.
His opponent runs with it; Tahoe gets so mad he charges forward and trucks him to the ground. “Unnecessary roughness,” the announcer says. “Illegal procedure number zero-zero, penalty box, thirty seconds.”
“Oh, that always happens,” someone beside me tells his friend. “He plays so aggressive, he always gets a penalty.”
I watch Tahoe grip his stick angrily as he storms to the box, seething as he drops down on one knee, his head canted up at the clock, waiting impatiently. A trainer approaches to offer him water, and he declines with a shake of his head.
The backup does the face-off, and the announcer soon calls, “Score Black!”
As the teams position at the center of the field again, Tahoe charges out of the penalty box.
He leans forward, in position to face off. He’s seething testosterone as he scoops up the ball and runs with it, so powerful that he throws the ball from far away. The ball blows up-field and the goalie sweeps to the right, but the ball hits the top shelf, right at the bar, then bounces inside.
“Outside shot, score Red!”
I can feel the energy in the stands increasing, people excited that this is going to be a big-scoring game.
They face off again. Eye to eye—his head turning a fraction.
God, will he stop looking at me?
I watch him intently, noting how he puts his head over the ball, pitches it upward with his wrist, swiftly scoops it up, and runs like the devil. Defense charges forward; Tahoe fakes it, and when they fall for it, he takes two more steps and puts it in. “Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Score Red!”
“Holy shit, that was a 105-mile-per-hour shot!” someone near my seat cries.
During halftime he’s the only player who doesn’t remove his helmet or take water. He’s ready to go out again, eager to play.
I cannot take my eyes off him when he’s back on the field. I hardly know what’s happening with the other players because I’m watching only him. I wonder why he wanted me here. Why he wanted me to see how he possesses that ball, how strong he is, athletic he is, how fucking hot he looks with that visor. Passing fast, facing off, possessing the ball, time and again, shooting high to high, high to low, shooting into the ground at an angle that bounces in front of the goal and goes in.
The game lasts about two hours. Red wins 20-1, completely squashing their competitors.
The crowd cheers and whistles as their victory is declared. The players shuffle out, but rather than leave, I watch with accumulated nervous energy and excitement as zero-zero heads toward the stands.
He jerks off his sweaty jersey with one gloved fist. His visor tips upward in my direction.
He balls the fabric and in one powerful throw, just like the ones he did on the field, he throws his dirty, sweaty jersey directly onto my lap.
My seat neighbor reaches out to catch it with a thrilled, hungry little gasp.
“Nope,” I tell her, yanking it free from her hands.
I frown when I realize how possessive I sounded but, thankfully, double zero is already striding toward the lockers. Thank god he didn’t see me get territorial.
I can smell the testosterone on his shirt as I head down the stands and into a sheltered hall with exits to the parking lot.
“Hey! You with Roth?”
A guy from the Red team is looking at me questioningly.
I nod.
“Get over here.” He motions me to follow him, then leads me farther down the hall and straight into the men’s locker room.
I follow him, a little bit uncomfortable at all the men in nude and semi-nude states.
“So fucking cold today, you get hit with a metal stick and it hurts like hell,” some guy says.
“Don’t play on off-season then,” another retorts.
“T, swear to god, you’re the only lacrosse player who whips ass and likes baseball too. Real men play lacrosse. Hell, you almost killed someone today. All baseball guys do is stand there and hit the ball.”
Following the voice coming from the second row of lockers, I head down and around the corner. I spot a pair of white custom gloves with Roth embroidered on the wrists on a wood bench. The guy who had been speaking presses ice against a burn on his thigh, and I notice the long, tanned, muscular arms of Tahoe bearing the same burns.
I glance upward, and he’s in a towel, his chest bare.
I try not to notice the damp rivulets trailing down his torso, dipping into the dents between the squares of his abs.
He senses me and turns. Seeing his blue eyes without the visor sends a shock of electricity through me. His face breaks into a smile, and he’s so amped up I can feel his energy.
“My lucky charm,” he drawls.
He lifts me up and twirls me so fast I get dizzy. I hear him chuckle and it makes me laugh, then I punch his shoulder so he’ll put me down.
His eyes darken a little when he lowers me to my feet.
“Always this noisy in the locker room?” I ask, not knowing why I’m whispering.
“That’s the sound of victory.” He takes me in as if he’s thrilled to see me, then he turns back to his locker and pulls out a clean long-sleeved crewneck and shoves his head and arms inside. “It’s dead quiet after a bad game,” he says with a wink.
“Really?”
I glance around. The players are hyped up, slamming doors and slapping each other’s shoulders with good energy all around.
The coach walks in with two other coaches flanking him. One clap from him, and the players fall silent.
“That was good, but keep working on your shit—no more of the streak we were in. Got it?” He scans the players, all nodding happily, then locks his gaze on Tahoe. “Good work, Roth.” Respect and admiration echo in his voice.
