I swear my cock’s been hard for two fucking days. Neither of us is letting the other come. Not yet.
All’s fair in love and foreplay.Her words echo in my head like a challenge I’m not allowed to win. I can’t wait for next week. The second I get to Agave Hills, I’m going to bend her over my knee and spank that perfect ass until she begs me to stop… or begs me not to.
But for now, it’s game day.
Friday Night Lights. The biggest one of the season. If we win tonight, we’re going to the championship.
I’m up early. I make a quick omelet, wash it down with too-hot coffee, and head into work. I want extra time to rewatch highlight reels from the team we’re up against—Richfield Preparatory.
After a hearty team lunch, we ease into prep with midday drills. First, film. We review some of Richfield’s major plays and point out their key threats. The guys are locked in—focused.
Next, we move to stretching. Some light yoga to keep their bodies loose and their minds sharp. Mental prep is everything on a night like this.
After showers and dressing up in full game day attire—suits, ties, nice shoes, the whole nine yards—the team grabs their gear and boards the bus.
We’re headed to the University of Southern Virginia’s pristine football stadium. It’s the only venue big enough to hold both schools’ fan bases.
Three-quarters in, and the game is neck and neck. Every yard is a war. Every play is earned. It could go either way.
Then the fourth quarter hits—and with it, a cold, familiar fear. The kind that grips the back of your neck and doesn't let go. I see it happening before it fully unfolds. Richfield’s linebacker breaks through our defense like a bullet, and I can’t breathe. He wraps Maddox up and drives him into the turf, hard. Too hard. The ball slips from his hand, but that’s not what I’m watching.
He isn’t moving.
For a split second, I’m seventeen again—flat on my back, staring at the sky through the bars of my helmet, knowing before anyone said a word that it was over. My chest tightens. My stomach turns. Not again. Please, not again.
The play is called Dead. Medics rush the field, and I’m right behind them. They assess Maddox, and after a tense beat, he pushes to his feet. Cleared, but benched for a few plays with a possible head injury.
The rest of the game passes in a blur until Maddox throws the touchdown that seals the win.
You can hear the crowd erupt in cheers as the team celebrates together. Handshakes and hugs are given to Richfield—they did play a hell of a game.
One more week. One more game, and then I am on a flight to see my future wife, which means I have to look her father in the eye and tell him we are engaged.
I spend the weekend at home, texting Stella and video calling her every chance I get. We’ve been talking from the moment we wake up until we fall asleep, like we’re trying to make up for every second we ever spent apart. We even video chat while we work out or eat—it doesn’t matter what we’re doing; we just want to be with each other in whatever way we can.
On Sunday afternoon, I am cooking grilled cheese on sourdough and serving it with tomato soup. Stella’s doing yoga in her living room, wearing a sports bra that makes her tits look utterly devious. She’s on video chat, screen propped up, completely unaware that she's single-handedly ruining my focus.
She drops into what I think she called “downward dog,” when Ansel walks behind her and thrusts her hips forward in a dramatic, sexual innuendo. Stella laughs but loses her balance, her leg kicking out and knocking Ansel off her feet. The two of them collapse in a pile, laughing hysterically.
And meanwhile, I’m hard. My traitorous mind is picturing them kissing, tangled up in something that hasnothingto do with yoga.
Just as I'm slipping into the fantasy, the fire alarm blares behind me. I burned my fucking grilled cheese.
On screen, both of them crawl toward the phone, wide-eyed and grinning like gremlins, watching me try not to set myself on fire.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, fumbling with the box of baking soda like it’s a live grenade. I toss it over the flames, the hiss loud enough to compete with the alarm.
Eventually, the fire’s out, the smoke thins, and the alarm finally shuts the hell up.
I turn back to the phone, breathing hard, face probably covered in shame and smoke. Both girls are still staring at me—eyes wide, mouths twitching with amusement.
“Hey,Chef Hot Mess,” Ansel says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to make it edible.”
I just stare at Ansel, completely blank. Nothing comes to mind—not a single comeback. I’m still standing there with smoke in the air and baking soda on the stove.
Then Stella’s voice cuts in, smooth as sin.
“Hey, D… you know your cock’s hard, right?” she says, all fake innocence and glittering eyes. “What got you all hot and bothered?”
