Page 71 of Playing for Love

Mia

Monday night football and I was on my couch watching the game on TV like I always did. I knew better than to go to the game in person this time. And in the end, the Militia lost so I should be happy I wasn’t there. But I blew out a sigh, staring at his sad face as Gabe took the podium at the post-game press conference. My heart felt like a practice dummy, battered and stalwart. Still all his for the taking.

His game had been erratic, but this time everyone knew why. He’d lost his mother and that had to have shaken his focus. I waited, holding my breath and hoping fiercely that no one from the media would kick the man when he was clearly down. If anyone of them had, I’d have taken their name and … and I don’t know what, but I would have done something. Called them out, made them feel small, or I’d have written a letter to their producer or editor, ripping them.

But there’d been no need, because Gabriel Wyatt was the golden haloed boy, the gracious, press-friendly guy who would spar playfully, give away a sound-bite more often than he gave away credit for good team play—which was always. As he stood there, trying to smile, trying not to look defeated, he looked hollow, like the fight was gone and he struggled to even care, struggled to hang onto football as his life force.

Tears streaming down my face, I picked up the clicker and stabbed at the off button viciously aiming it at the television until it went dark. It didn’t help. Misery didn’t turn of like a television. Pacing around, I knew I should get to bed, should try to get some sleep.

When my phone clattered on the glass coffee table, I looked at it, surprise the only thing registering. After a few beats, realizing it was on vibrate and I should answer it since work was the only call I’d be getting at this hour, nearly midnight, I snatched it up and answered it. Wiping the tears from my face as if that would steady my voice or settle my emotions enough to speak professionally.

“Mia Lane speaking.” Poised, not a shadow of nerves.

“Why weren’t you at the game?”

My poise shattered like a window bombarded by rocks, his voice hard, accusing. Nerves lit up like I’d touched a live wire, which I had if the wire’s name was Gabe.

“Gabe.”

“Are you at home? I looked for you after the game. Tate told me he gave you a ticket.”

Failing to control my jumpy heart, I needed to be brave and straight, to know where I stood without any nuance. I said, “I thought I was banished until the end of the season.”

“Yeah, well that plan worked like shit.”

He sounded more resigned than upset. I laughed, like a silly girl, my heart hurting and light at the same time.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love your laugh?” His voice thick, like he was clogged with emotion.

“No. Why don’t you come over here and tell me.”

“Unlock your door.” The phone went silent.

“Gabe?” No answer.

He’d ended the call. I dropped the phone. Jumping from the couch in a frantic hurry, I pulled my old Auburn t-shirt over my head, tossing it into the open closet as I ran into my bedroom.

I still wasn’t sure where we stood, still on shaky ground. But he was coming over here and I had a feeling I was about to find out exactly what kind of relationship he was offering me.

By the time he walked in the door, a surprisingly short time after I’d dropped my phone, I was ready, dressed in a silky rose-colored slip that passed as a nightgown with thin straps and lace barely covering my breasts, my excited nipples popping through the thin fabric.

I heard him exhale a long breath as he stepped inside the door, looking across the room at me as I stood from the couch.

“You look like a mirage, the kind of vision that could haunt a man,” he said.

He came to me, close, but not touching. He smelled like autumn and night time and danger, earth and city soot and car fumes clung to him. His dark hair was disheveled, his face unshaven and he wore a black sweater under his worn leather jacket with black jeans. He looked like a dark knight coming to save my heart from loneliness.

“Do I haunt you?” I asked.

He nodded, pulled me in against his chest, wrapping his arms around me, covering my mouth with his. He plunged his tongue deep inside, claiming me, possessing me thoroughly. Through the sensual haze that threatened to put me into orgasmic oblivion soon, the only thought that managed coherence was how insubstantial my nightgown was, how easily he could remove it. And wishing and wanting and waiting for him to rip it from me, tearing the last of the barriers between us away.

* * *

Gabe

We were stillawake in her bed. It was close to three a.m. We were quiet. I had practice in the morning. Needed sleep. I kissed the top of her head where it lay in the crook of my arm.

I didn’t care about practice. Couldn’t work up the interest about getting in early. My heart still raced, my body still sweaty, I still had Mia’s warmth, her soft body against mine. We’d just made love—long, glorious, slow love. Why would I give a fuck about football now?