The security guards knew who I was now and even though no one was allowed into the locker rooms but players and coaches, I sweet-talked my way in.
I gaped at the space for a second. It was swanky, painted in the team colors—maroon and white. Each player had his own cubicle, and graphic artwork with the team’s name and logo decorated the wall.
In the middle of the room sitting at his cubicle was Callan.
He looked up at my entry.
“What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly, clearly still very pissed off.
“I came to check on you, Captain. That guy was a prick.”
Callan shot to his feet, anger blazing on his face. “They were making fucking comments about Baird all through the game.”
Pained anger flushed through me. “Arseholes. Who does that?”
“I was holding it together,” he seethed, taking a step toward me.
Suddenly, my neck prickled as I realized … was he mad at me?
“And then that fuckwad whispered something in my ear I’ll not repeat.”
“Okay?”
“About you.”
Oh no.
“I lost my temper.” Callan gestured to the door. “I got a fucking red card for the first time in my entire career!”
I scowled. “That’s not my fault!”
His eyes flared. “It is your fault!”
Hurt scored through me. “How is it my fault?”
“Because I love you so much, it’s changed me!”
So what? That was life! “Well, I love you so much it’s changed me! I’m at a fucking football game, for goodness’ sake!”
“You don’t have to be here!”
“Fuck you!”
He charged toward me, hooking his hand around my neck to jerk me up into his kiss. It was hungry and wild and punishing, and I let him take it.
This had been building between us. I’d felt the intensity after he asked me to move in with him. Like he was on edge about something. Now I knew it was us. He smelled of sweat and soil and rain and he tasted hot and dark, and I wanted to crawl inside him.
Suddenly, I was up in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist to hang on as he kissed me, all the while carrying me somewhere. The sound of a door slammed shut and then my arse hit something solid. We broke apart and I was vaguely aware of being in a room, sitting on a desk.
I didn’t have too much time to think about it.
Callan needed to fuck his frustration out, and I was quite happy to help him do that.
He yanked the zipper on my short winter puffer jacket, pushing the sleeves down my arms. I hurriedly yanked it off and then leaned back on my palms to give him access to take off my jeans. As soon as the jeans and knickers were out of the way, he shoved down his shorts and guided himself between my legs. I sat on the edge of the desk, arching my hips into him, my back bowing with pleasured relief as his thickness filled me.
“Fuck, fuck,” Callan panted, holding my hips in his bruising grasp.
I gripped my thighs against his hips, my fingernails digging into the desk behind me, and I braced.
