Teasing: Chapter 15

Callen Sinclair, our tight end, Mason Corbin, our QB, and I walk out for the coin toss. We’re the captains, and preseason or not, this is our team. Buffalo wins the toss, and they want to kick off, so it looks like we’re receiving.

Time to play some football.

There’s no better sport in the world.

These men are my family.

This field is my church.

And this game is the altar I kneel for.

When I was first drafted, the reporters constantly asked if I played because of my dad.

Easy answer—no.

I look up to my dad. He’s a legend. He introduced me to the game. Gave me the skills I needed to love it. Then let me do my thing. If I’d turned to him at ten years old and told him I didn’t want to play anymore, he’d have been fine with that.

Whatever made us happy is what my parents wanted for us. It didn’t matter what that looked like. He didn’t care if it was football or music or the class play.

But seriously, who wouldn’t love football?

The first time I ever sacked a quarterback, I knew deep in my bones this was it.

I didn’t need to be the guy who scored or the guy who threw the ball.

I wanted to be the guy who made the play.

The one who stopped the other team’s QB from scoring.

And I was a little boy with an excuse to hit people and not get in trouble for it.

Life was good, and soon enough I realized, so was I.

After that, I never looked back.

Coach has most of the starters in for the first series, but we all know they’re getting pulled after. Ryker stands next to me, and my mind quiets while everything comes into focus. There’s something incredible about standing shoulder to shoulder with my brother before he gets to play his first down of professional football. Something right. Something special.

We’re the first Kingstons to ever play for the team our family has owned for the better part of a century, and there’s a responsibility in that which balances out everything else. It’s a pretty cool moment to be here with him as the offensive line moves into formation, and Mason calls the play.

Then, as if in slow-motion, I watch with the rest of the stadium in horror.

Our center snaps the ball to Mason.

Callen makes the run to where he needs to be.

It’s coming to him.

Mason releases.

Callen jumps into the air to catch the most beautiful spiral I’ve seen all summer, and he and one of Buffalo’s linebackers collide and fall to the ground. Every one of us on the sidelines hear it as much as we see it before Callen grabs his knee.

But the noise in the stadium dies as everyone’s attention is brought back to Mason, who’s lying on the field with his helmet five yards away.

They replay the hit on the jumbotron as the team doctors run onto the field, and every muscle in my body tenses as I alternate between watching the jumbotron and watching the doctors. Buffalo’s defensive end rushes Mason to the right while the defensive lineman pressures him to the left, trying to force him to get rid of the ball instead of throwing to Callen.

The pressure doesn’t work, and he gets the throw off, but the defense’s momentum is too much, and it’s too late. Neither player stops in time.

The defensive end hits first, helmet to helmet, in a play that’s abso-fucking-lutely going to be called for targeting. Mason’s head snaps back as his helmet falls off, and in the slow-motion replay, you can see their defensive lineman trying to stop as Mason falls his way, but it’s too late.

The lineman and Mason collide and both go down.

Mason’s head hits the turf, then bounces up and slams down again.

Without his helmet.

And he’s not getting up.

The stadium full of sixty thousand screaming fans is so silent, you could hear a pin drop as we all wait for Mason to move.

But he doesn’t.

Not as more medics rush onto the field.

Not for the five minutes they work on him before they finally get him on a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance.

Callen refuses to leave until they’ve taken care of Mason, then insists on leaning on our center as he limps off the field and onto the back of the waiting truck, while the rest of us stand, shaken to the core.

Declan Sinclair talks to the refs on the sidelines, then looks out at the field, now only nine Kings full instead of eleven. He then looks back at Camden.

“Monroe. You’re up.”

The mood in the locker room after the game is somber.

Callen has a torn meniscus. He’ll be out for at least six weeks.

But word is slower to trickle in about Mason.

A grade-three concussion.

Considering this is his fourth since I’ve been on the team, this could be catastrophic. He’s being kept overnight, but the damage is done to his body and possibly his career. We’re all left wondering if he’s coming back from this.

Not that the reporters give a shit.

No, those vultures are still here, intrusive as hell, picking at the bones.

I have nothing to say and ignore them all. Fuck this.

I pull my phone from my bag after a shower and can’t help but smile when I see the picture Emmie sent of Rosie and her squished together in front of the TV. Emmie’s in Camden’s Kings jersey—and I make a mental note to fix that as soon as possible—and Rosie is in the custom, black Beneventi jersey with a sparkling pink 99 on the back of it that Mom gave her for Christmas last year. It’s the first real smile I’ve had since that first play that took out Callen and Mason on one swoop and dulls the throb in my head just enough to get me through the next few hours until I get home.

I look up to see them telling us to hurry it up, so we can get the hell out of here, and say a silent thanks. I just want to get home. To both my girls.

Jamie, Ryker, and I are quiet as we let ourselves into the house.

Rosie should be sleeping, and I’m assuming Emmie is too. Butters does her job and runs up to us as soon as we’re through the door, shaking her fat little ass and non-existent tail until Ryker picks her up. “I’m going to bed.”

I watch him take the dog upstairs as I lock the door and set the alarm before following Jamie into the family room. The TV is on and the volume turned way down, while Emmie lies curled in a ball, sleeping on the couch. Her hands tucked under her face. She’s changed into short shorts and a matching cropped tee, both white with tiny cherries printed on them, showing off miles of skin. My eye catches on what looks like a delicate tattoo, inked in script on her ribs.

New goal in life set.

I want to trace that tattoo with my tongue.

She rolls to her side and opens her eyes with a yawn. “Maverick?”

“La mia luce solare . . .” I murmur as I look down over her.

“Hmm,” she hums, still half asleep. “I still don’t know what that means.”

“It doesn’t matter tonight,” I tell her as I bend down and pick her up, cradling her against my chest.

“What are you doing?” she asks in a sleepy voice that goes right to my cock.

“Putting you to bed. It’s late.” I really want to put her in my bed, but I know she’s not ready for that.

She rests her head against my chest and wraps her arms around my neck for a beat before opening her eyes. “I have to go home, Mav.”

“It’s late. Go home in the morning. We have tomorrow off.” I consider just carrying her upstairs but decide not to piss her off because I’m pretty sure that would piss her off. Part of me doesn’t care if it means she stays here with me. But the other part of me . . . the one who respects this woman, knows that’s not fair. “Please, Em. It’s been a long night.”

“I live twenty-seven feet away, Mav.” She yawns. “I need to go home.”

“I have bigass feet, and I’m telling you it’s more than twenty-seven feet,” I argue.

“Walk the woman home, Maverick. I’ll stay with Rosie,” Jamie groans as he moves out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Asshole.

“Yeah . . . I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I set Emmie on her feet. “Do you have a bag?”

She looks around, still half asleep. “Somewhere. I’ll come back and grab it tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

She silences me with a soft, dazed glare. “Don’t say it again. Because if you do, then I’ll stay. And if I stay, I know what’s going to happen, and that’s not happening tonight, Mav.”

She didn’t say it was never happening. I’m counting that as a win.

I pull her against me and press my lips to the crown of her head. Sweet-smelling, soft hair tickles my nose and makes my mouth water.

Goddamn, I want this woman.

In my bed. In my life.

But I want her to want it too. On her time.

“Time to get you home, baby.”

Emmie laces her fingers with mine and doesn’t argue when I follow her outside. “I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures while I was gone,” I joke, knowing between my mom and aunts and Rosie, Emmie must have had a crazy-filled thirty-six hours.

“Tomorrow.” She yawns again. “I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow.”

When we get to her front door, I hold out my hand. “Keys.”

She looks at me with wide eyes. “Shoot. I left them at your house.” She moves around me down the porch and lifts the cushion on her swing, then comes back with a key in her hand. “You didn’t see that, got it? Can’t have you knowing my secret spot.”

“What the hell, woman? You can’t keep a key to your house outside.” I fight hard not to yell at her. How the hell does she think this is safe?

“We’re not doing this tonight, Mav. I’m tired.” She tilts her head back to look at me and smiles. Just fucking smiles, and I swear to God, every other thought I had vanishes.

I lift my hands to her face and drag my thumbs along her jaw as I press her back against the cool, damp siding.

“What are you doing?” she asks on a quiet sigh but doesn’t push me away.

“What I should have done already,” I murmur, and lean down slowly, brushing my mouth over hers, groaning when her sugary taste explodes on my lips for the first time. She tastes like cherries and vanilla dipped in sunshine and sin.

She tastes like mine.

Emmie moans, and electricity sparks to life between us, arcing and firing like a live wire striking the street. My cock twitches, and I lean in against her, letting her feel me. I slide a hand to the back of her head, tangling my fingers in her hair, the way I’ve been dying to since the first time I saw her. I tilt her head as she moans into my mouth, taking the kiss deeper. Devouring her.

I slide my rough hand down her back and under her cropped top, pressing against her soft skin and dragging her closer.

“Maverick,” she moans my name, and it’s the most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard as she drops her head back against the house and arches against me.

Both of us needing more.

Fuck. Take it, Em . . . take everything.

Trailing my mouth along her jaw, I grind against her while she claws at my chest, trying to get closer.

The sexy sigh that slips past her lips when she finally gives in and slides her hands under my shirt is intoxicating. And my already-hard cock grows impossibly harder, desperate to get in on the action.

As if knowing exactly what I need, Emmie presses closer and leverages herself until her legs are wrapped around my waist and her arms around my neck. Her chest rubs against mine, and fuck, I want to rip the pajamas from her.

She’s all soft curves that fit perfectly against the hard planes of my body.

Like she was made for me.

Because she’s mine.

Our tongues dance a slow tango. Learning. Exploring.

Striking a match against every fucking nerve ending, ready to set fire to the world just to watch it burn.

Her nails score my skin as I run my tongue down her neck, stopping to trace lazy circles over her racing pulse before I drag my teeth over it, and she cries out.

So responsive. So fucking sexy.

Emmie clings to me, grinding against me.

I know if I checked, I’d find her wet and needy and wanting.

I know I’d slide into her and never want to leave.

But I can’t. We can’t.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not until she’s ready.

“Em . . .” Hazy, unfocused eyes open wide. Her pretty pink lips are swollen and pouty, and goddamn, I don’t want to stop. “I⁠—”

She presses a finger to my mouth and unhooks her legs from my waist. “That was . . .” She licks her lips and shakes her head, as a car door slamming shut in the distance breaks the silent spell.

“Tell me you know this is going to happen, Em. That we’re going to happen.” I plant my hands against the house on either side of her head, careful not to touch her. “Tell me I’m not in this alone and you feel it to,” I demand.

“You’re not in this alone, Maverick.” She lifts up on her toes and presses the gentlest kiss against my lips, then dips under my arms and pushes the key into the door.

“Hey, Em . . . what’s your tattoo say?” I ask, not ready for her to walk away.

Not wanting to say goodbye.

Without missing a beat, she smiles. “Contritus vultus diversus est omnibus. Parum tibi da gratiam.”

“What?” I press.

“ASL wasn’t my only language in high school. I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours.” Then she winks and is through her front door and out of my sight while I stand there, pretty sure this woman is going to be the love of my life.

Emmie

“Vivi,” I whisper into the phone in case Camden is already sleeping. “I just had my last first kiss, and I’m petrified. I need you to call me back.”