Fuck.
I reach inside my bedside table and pull out trusty ol’ number eighty-five. It’s my best pictured thought of what Taylor would look like if he was here. Dark tan in color, about eight inches long, three inches in diameter, at least that’s what the box said, and even silicon balls to hang from it. The reason this one works so well is because it’s versatile. It vibrates, has a suction cup so that I can put it on a chair, and is also waterproof and can stickonto the shower wall in order for me to take it from behind. As plastic pleasures go, this one is a winner.
My panties are already wet and ready for Eighty-Five to slide right in and dive into the action. I’m positioned just like I was while fantasizing about Taylor tasting and teasing me, so I dip Eighty-Five under the covers and give him a few passes through my slick folds so his large size can enter me with ease.
I'm a girl with high sexual energy and a healthy appetite in the bedroom. It’s too bad I don't have time to date around. Nor am I willing to go out and take a chance on another guy for him to turn out to be an asshole just like my ex. I'm not ready to find out that a new boyfriend has a secret life and has been cheating on me for the last year— to feel like a fool in the end. I’m way better off to just focus on my career right now and let Mr. Eighty-Five satisfy me to the best of his ability.
The ribbed veins on the rubber device feel so good on my inside walls as I glide it in and out of my channel. When it's good and wet and seated deep inside me, I hold it with one hand and tap the icon on my phone that turns on the vibration mode.
My head rests on the back of my pillow while I lay there with two hands holding Eighty-Five in place while images of Taylor running around on the field, talking to the press behind a podium, giving fans that megawatt smile while he's signing autographs, and is dressed nicely walking into the game pour through my mind. Yet the one that kicks my heart rate up the most, is the one where he pulled me close and twirled me around the dance floor at one of my best friends, Jordan’s, parties that I put on at her fiancé’s house.
“Fuck. Taylor!” I’m calling out his name in my empty downtown studio apartment. It’s loud enough that I'm sure the neighbors could hear me, but I really don't give a damn. Let them think that I'm having wild, passionate, amazing sex in here. Only I know differently.
Chapter 3
Taylor
I explode from the slot, setting a fake block and then cutting off the fake into the space beneath the zone. My QB sees me on his first check and lets it fly. It hits me square in the gut as I’m on the run. In a routine motion my body is trained to do, I fold it into me and turn up field. The linebacker gets a bead on me, but I spin away, just missing the tackle. I dodge the safety and get four more yards before the corner hits me. He’s smaller than me, but strong. His body hangs off of mine, arms locked, tugging me down. In two strides, I’m on the ground, but I made the first down.
Hallelujah.
We can win by a field goal, at least, if we don’t fuck it up.
Next play, they show blitz. I take the block from the linebacker. A third-year all-star, he hits like a ton of bricks. I grunt, sidestepping with him to keep him from rolling around me to get to the quarterback. I’m not quite quick enough.
No!
We can’t miss this chance for points. I grab at his jersey as he goes by.
The whistle blows.
“Holding, number eighty-five, offense. Ten yards. Repeat first down,” the ref barks through his lapel microphone.
Fuuuuuuck!
I just erased all the work I did to get us here. I shake my head.How did I let that squirrely little fucker get by me?When we line up again, I make the cut, but Tyler, our quarterback, sails it long and out of bounds. Next down we run it up the middle. We gain five yards, thank goodness. A field goal will put us back on the table with just a few more yards to go.
I line up on the opposite side for the next play. Tyler calls a shift. I circle back, trotting off to the other side and the ball is snapped. I take off. This route is a deep beeline. All it requires is speed and force.
I look over my shoulder when the cut curls around. The ball is humming.
Shit.
I kick hard, snorting, pushing myself to my limits. I reach out when I get there, the ball at my fingertips. I grab the end, hoping the tacky on my gloves will help it stick. When it stops in my hand, I pull it in a second before I’m hit from both sides. I buckle and go down, but my clench keeps the ball safe in my arms.
The whistle blows. I look up. I gained twenty yards.
Fuck yeah!
I give the ball to the ref with a grin and trot off the field as the field goal unit comes on. When the ball soars through the uprights, the crowd goes wild. My teammates cheer, bump chests, and dance, making a tugging feeling warm in my chest. I would have once called it nostalgia. Like the pull of childhood pleasures. Now, it’s the future causing my chest to tighten. How many more of these moments will I get?
After my shower, I trudge to the press room. I’ve never enjoyed press conferences, but these past two years have been unbearable. Every single time it’s the same question… When are you going to retire? Even though we won and I made a great play, I still wouldn’t count on them to not pose the question.
I settle in my chair, the clusterfuck of mics, both auditory and journalistic, in front of me.
The first question comes from Steve with Sports Network. “Great game, Taylor. That last play was something special.”
I smile. This is a welcome start.
