?Chapter Twelve
?Danny
Once I floppedinto the heavenly luxury of my very own bed rather than whatever one that came with a furnished rental or a barracks, I thought I’d drop right off to sleep. Especially considering I hadn’t had any real sleep in almost a week in that wretched dorm bed. After dinner with my new roommates, I’d chipped in on the beer and wiped their asses inCOD—again—so I’d been pleasantly buzzed and in a good headspace when I’d headed up to my room.
But as soon as I’d stripped down to my boxers and climbed between the brand-new sheets I’d added to my order at the furniture store, thoughts of Taryn Hamilton had crowded my brain, keeping me awake. All of me.
When Taryn wrapped those plump lips of hers around that pickle at lunch yesterday, all the blood in my body had rushed south. Though I’d made a joke of it, I couldn’t control my immediate reaction to the innuendo of those lips. When she dropped into her usual teasing, I’d struggled to decide if she was oblivious to my interest or allowing me some dignity by pretending she hadn’t noticed. Either way, she flattened my ego like a pro linebacker.
Yet her sour expression when she’d mentioned the football groupies rallied me. Maybe she was only looking out for me, guarding me from women with impure motives, or maybe those tiny hitches in her breath when I’d insisted on escorting her to lunch meant she was finally thinking the same thing as me—that our friendship needed to go to the next level.
Yes, I blew it at Kaitlyn Frost’s New Year’s Eve party in high school. I deserved the friend-zoning Taryn had treated me to since that night. I’d invited her to the party as my date and then allowed my teammates, led by Derek Watson, to practically obliterate me with shots. In my less-than-sober state, I was an easy target for Kaitlyn’s come-on. The blow job she gave me behind the closed door of her bedroom was the most mediocre sexual experience of my life. It certainly wasn’t worth the pain in Taryn’s eyes when she caught me exiting the bedroom while I was still zipping up my fly. That look on her face had sobered me up quick, but she hadn’t given me a chance to attempt to make it right.
In hindsight I couldn’t blame her. I’d acted like a first-class asshole, both to her and to Kaitlyn, even though I suspected Kaitlyn and Derek were colluding to separate me from Taryn. Neither of them had kept it a secret who they wanted. Taryn had never given in to Derek’s advances, but I’d had to learn the hard way that letting Kaitlyn Frost anywhere near me came with cables masquerading as strings.
Taryn had melted back into the party where I’d lost her in the vastness of the Frost’s mansion-size house. At some point one of the other guys on the team told me she’d left with a group of theater kids before midnight. Knowing I wasn’t in any shape to drive, I’d asked him for a ride home, leaving my precious ’Stang parked up the street from Kaitlyn’s house. I’d ended up having to walk across town hungover in the middle of a blizzard the next day to pick it up. I deserved that too.
But that night, I’d also grown up. I’d owned my bad behavior and the hurt it had caused. I grew a pair and called bullshit on Derek Watson’s bullying—even managed to encourage a few of the other guys to join me in that. But the damage with Taryn was done.
Last fall when she started seriously dating the douchebag who ended up dumping her in the spring, I’d feared my one major teenage fuckup was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Now I had a second chance, and damned if I wasn’t going to get it right this time.
’A course, jacking off to images of her sucking on a pickle in that shoebox of an eatery didn’t jibe with my lofty goals for us. Not that thinking of those goals stopped me. Instead, I thought about the way tiny tendrils of her hair had pulled loose from her ponytail to whip around her face in the gentle afternoon breeze. The way the scent of coffee and something floral and sweet had caught in my breath when I’d deliberately brushed against her arm as we walked along the street. The way her electric-blue eyes sparkled when she teased me.
Then I let myself enjoy the memory of the one and only time I’d kissed her on the mouth. For years I’d imagined what kissing Taryn Hamilton would be like. In a moment of madness during one Christmas leave, I’d discovered that kissing her was as close to nirvana as I was ever likely to come.
As I fisted my cock, my fantasies drifted to Taryn’s hand on me, warming me up for the next bit of fun as I played my fingers over her soft, wet folds. Though I’d never seen the delights she hid beneath her nondescript clothes, her choice of attire didn’t hide as much as she maybe thought it did. The perfect proportions of her slender body drew more than one man’s eye whenever she walked into a room. High, round breasts that would fill my hands perfectly, a nipped-in waist, and a tight ass—her body was the epitome of the perfect woman. I groaned aloud, imagining the feel of her endless legs wrapped around my waist as I pushed myself inside her.
Thinking about what sounds she’d make as I made her feel good had me pumping myself harder, faster, until her name escaped my lips on a growl as hot, sticky cum covered my belly. After I caught my breath, I slid my boxers off and ran them over my body then chucked them into the dirty clothes bag I’d hung from the closet door. I grabbed another pair from the top drawer in my new chest of drawers, stripped them on, then wandered across the hall to the bathroom to clean myself up properly.
I heard the low hum of a TV coming from Bax’s room, but otherwise, the house was quiet. We’d be starting the morning with weight training at six, but my roommates said we had to be at the facility by 5:45 a.m. if we wanted to escape Coach Larkin’s wrath. Tardiness resulted in laps and burpees until the offender lost his cookies or Larkin grew bored. It took miles of laps and at least fifty burpees for him to grow bored, apparently. Most guys never lasted that long.
In boot camp, I had a sergeant who’d probably picked up the same playbook as Coach Larkin. I knew the drill, and I had zero interest in experiencing it in civilian life.
After running a wet washcloth over my body, I brushed my teeth, slugged back a long drink of water, and returned to my room.
This time when I slid between my crisp new sheets, my mind and body had quieted down enough that I didn’t remember my last thought before the blaring of my alarm told me my first week as a Wildcat—not a walk-on—was about to start.
“I woulda thought you’d have a helluva lot more rust on you after four years away from the game, butday-umyou rocked it out there, Flyboy,” Callahan said as we hit the showers after morning practice.
Our coaches had watched the receivers and the tight ends run routes for most of the morning. They didn’t seem to care who was a starter, a second-stringer, or a walk-on. Everyone had the same number of reps with all three of the quarterbacks—starter, backup, and insurance. As I’d noted from the game film I watched prior to contacting Coach Ellis, the one weakness in the otherwise formidable Wildcats offense was in the passing game. If the coaching staff kept giving me chances like this morning, I’d make damn sure to be part of the solution to their receiver problem.
“Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how great it feels to be back out on the field.” I stepped under the pounding spray of hot water and tried not to melt in the delicious wet heat cascading over my tired body.
“It’s one thing to run those incredible routes you do—where the fuck did you learn them anyway?” he asked as he soaped up beside me.
“Played on three different teams in three different schemes in high school. I wanted to start every time, so I studied and practiced the greats every chance I got.” I ducked my head under the water and lathered shampoo into my sweaty hair.
“When you were trying out all those schemes and studying the greats, I hope you learned a thing or two about blocking. It won’t matter how well you run your routes if you aren’t a team player,” he cautioned.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Callahan.” I grinned. “I can open up holes big enough even for you, let alone to create space for the other receivers or Tarvarius Johnson.”
At my mention of the Wildcats’ star running back, Callahan shook his head. “You’re already putting yourself in the starting lineup?”
“That’s always the goal, man.” Reluctantly, I turned off the water and stepped out to grab my towel.
He picked up the conversation again in front of our lockers. “You’ve got a junior and a senior in front of you on the depth chart, you know.”
“Today.” I shot him a conspiratorial waggle of my brows. “We’ll see how far down the depth chart I am when the season starts.”
