"You need to shave that," she whined. "You look like a homeless man."
"Nope." I took a swig of my Shiner, tossing back a long chug. "Playoff beard."
"I don't like it." A smack of skin hit my thighs. I grunted under the heart-shaped ass compressing my balls. The blonde offered no hint that she was affected, wrinkling her upturned nose. "Isn't it itchy?"
Her sugary, strawberry hair overwhelmed the preferable scent of my sweet, malty lager. "You have strong opinions." I snorted. "Do you know who you're sitting on?"
"Bless your heart." Two blue eyes pierced over her shoulder at me. "'Course I do. Strong opinions? You should know better than to mess with a Texas girl, Sam Pearson."
I fucked Candace three times that night, and she never left my bed until three weeks ago. Attending Baylor on a dance scholarship, she walked up to me during that party, plopped on my lap, and declared herself my girlfriend. I was too drunk, or stupid, not to argue, but we connected the next morning over breakfast.
Now that she wasn't here, I missed the idea of sharing my house with someone else. She was by my side, my rock for every milestone, until...Until she didn't want to be.
Reminders of her lingered within every inch of my house, leaving me a stranger within my damn walls. I threw out her girly throw pillows and half-burned candles but packed a box of things I assumed she wanted and shipped it to her parents' house. Photos were hard to remove, but I replaced them with pictures of my parents and old football ones I pulled out of storage. Despite her physical absence, Candy haunted me most with resurfaced memories.
"We never go out anymore," she whined. "I wanna try Southern Comforts. Mel said they have a mechanical bull."
"Go then," I suggested, wrapping my hands around her ass and tucking my fingers into her back pockets. "Call Mel."
"What's the point of having a hot-ass man if I can't show him off on the dance floor?" Her throat vibrated under my lips, kissing and sucking the soft skin.
"Or..." I whispered between soft pink marks, squeezing my fingers into her ass. "You can stay here and ride me."
Palming the bathroom counters, I hung my head low under the weight of my mistakes. Our life revolved around me, my career. Candace never complained when I put up resistance, but I took her pacification for happiness. I was so fucking wrong. Her parting note showed I'd lost her trust and support before the accident. Unable to read it or throw it away, I settled for stuffing it in a bathroom cabinet drawer.
"Sam, can't you transfer to Dallas? You've been ridin' Houston's bench for two years."
"No."
Taking Michael's suggestion, I took a long look in the mirror. Gray circles pressed under my swollen eyelids. My beard approached an uneven, brillo texture on the ends. It hadn't quite reached hipster lumberjack level but needed a trim. Tingles vibrated my skin and the buzz of my razor filled my ears. Puff after puff fell onto the counter, which I swept into the trash. The smooth skin under my chin line was pricked with exposure from the cleaner and moisturizer.
One day at a time. Day by day, I busied myself between a few charity events and physical therapy with Jer. I swam in my pool, mowed the yard, finished my 'Candy hates' Netflix queue, and smoked meat so much that the neighbors called the fire department. I even called my parents. Considering they called Candy 'the Goldigger,' their reaction wasn't surprising.
"I'm sorry, Sam." Mom's flat voice came through crystal clear. "It's for the best."
Wow. What an endorsement. Before now, they both had been supportive or so I thought.
"Plenty of fish, Sam." By the echo in Dad's voice, he called out from the other side of the room.
Mom placed my call on speaker phone so both joined in. Why did they do that every time I called, including six trial buttons to find the speaker option?
Since I was two songs away from dancing naked around the house with my extra free time, I looked forward to Mia showing up. Courtesy of Mike, I texted her to ask what shit I needed to buy. She sent a list of specific items with Amazon links.
My first memory of Mia included Candy when Michael's parents invited my family to a draft day party. I spent most of the night on fried nerves, picking my idol Warren Hayes' brain for stories and advice. He was shorter in person but carried the room's attention, even though the party they organized was for me. 'We didn't have that shit when I played,' was his most common answer, but I soaked up every word. The man whose posters hung on my walls as a kid preached my new religion.
Draft day was one of the happiest moments of my life, the pure, exhilarating joy of being drafted, and Candy wasted no time celebrating it.
Her lips pressed against mine, she dragged me upstairs into a random bedroom. Her hands tugged my pants to my ankles, eyes pooling with heated want. "Sam, I need your cock in my mouth," she moaned, taking me out. "I wanna suck the first overall pick until he floods my throat."
My hips bucked as she stroked up and down, heating the skin. Her soft, wet tongue flicks teased me to fully stiff.
When a cough erupted, I shrunk faster than an ice bath plunge.
Curled up in the corner of a bed, under dim lighting, a thin girl with black hair in a messy ponytail, round glasses, and a book on her lap stared at us. She sat with parted lips and wide eyes, swallowed up by sweatpants. "Umm..." she squeaked and pointed at the door. "Get the fuck out."
Not my proudest moment and neither were any exchanges with Mia since. All were compelled by the fact I hadn't recognized her all this time. Fuck, she was Hayes' sister. Amelia Hayes. How that spitfire personality flew under my radar for six years, I had no fucking clue. I had short-flash memories of her and a near meltdown in Michael's office after he told me.
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" I threw up my hands. "Your sister!?"
Michael's only response was he turned around a picture on his desk of his family. A few years younger, Mia's smile shone as she laughed. A blonde-haired guy draped his muscular arm over her shoulders. Was he her boyfriend, husband, or platonic neighbor?
And fuck, what I did and said...I puffed my cheeks with an exhale. I already shot myself in the ass, but this was a whole different level of potential dumpster fire. Fuck, Fate was laughing and firing blanks at me.
Knowing that Mia was Mike's sister shouldn't have changed my opinion of her, but it did. I was more of an ass in how I behaved around her. It was all I could think about during her class, distracting me into restlessness. Mike's sister. Maybe anointing her to nun status cooled off my attraction and her creeping into my mind. But who was the guy who pulled her away from me in the studio yesterday? He wasn't the guy in the picture gazing at her with adoration probably her boyfriend.
Since her vault only cracked open when she hurled insults at me, I knew nothing about Mia. That bothered me, especially since she now worked on my team. We respected each other's privacy, but my team were extended family members.
I deserved her irritation. My apology was half-assed, and she hadn't accepted it. So, I would properly apologize when she arrived for our first one-on-one session. Whether she accepted it or pulled a shotgun on me, who knew?
While this was a professional relationship, uncertainty buzzed in my veins. I cleaned up, stocking my home gym fridge with Gatorade and those fucking granola bars she carried in her purse. Grunting, I pushed my weights set, elliptical, and treadmill aside, giving enough floor clearance for two mats and space between them. Sweat sprung up on my forehead, which I wiped away and unrolled my new mat. Jer, being the opposite of subtle, ordered one custom-made in Houston's colors. The team logo was on one end, and my last name was in white letters on the other. It emitted a fake rubber smell and curled up at the ends.
I wasn't at the stage where I checked for Mia's rust bucket of a truck out the windows every few minutes, but the house was too quiet. While checking on my lunch plans, she arrived ten minutes early...texting me in her fashion.
Mia: Here.
Me: ? So come in.
Mia: Make me.
Shaking aside the obvious question of why she didn't say come out, I found her on the side of my second garage spreading out a large white sheet on the grass. Three blank paint canvases and two quarts of paint sat in a corner. I palmed my hips and squinted under the sunlight."You have shit picnic ideas."
"Not a picnic, doof-" she interrupted herself, an insult no doubt. "Visual stimulation."
"Right."
My mouth dried at the sight of her visual stimulation. A sharp curve followed her strong shoulders, and the protruding lines of her clavicle showed through her red racerback shirt. The high collar offered full coverage, but the compression fit showed off every dip, swell, and curve. Black, knee-height leggings molded to her thighs with an insane gap. I groaned at the improved view when she bent over.
Hayes' sister, Sam. Nun-zone her. The overhead sun glowed on her skin and streaked highlights over her hair, pulled in a tight bun. Her eyes shone with golden browns. "I thought we could try a visual to help you with meditation."
"Meditation?" I snorted. "My shoulder doesn't need to think about healing itself."
"Nope." Her head shook, a glint appearing in her eyes as one of her fingers poked into my forehead. "But your brain needs some serious rewiring, Pearson. And since I'm not qualified to perform lobotomies...For fuck's sake, just give it a chance."
The contact, along with her use of my last name, reminded me of when she tried to poke a hole through my chest. Instead of her heated hatred of me, now the vibe was light, almost playful. Her shoulders relaxed, and a casual smile played on her lips.
How could she think my brain needed rewiring? Sure, I spewed out too many thoughts with too thin of a filter, but my charge-forward mindset got me to my level of success. Mia called me stubborn, but I preferred driven.
Denting my forehead, Mia emphasized each word with a light tap. "You have to learn to listen to–"
"You don't know me." I swatted her finger away. "I think this way for a reason."
"–Your body," she finished in a whisper. "It will tell you what it can and can't do."
She did not just use my least favorite phrase in the English language. 'You can't.' I made a pro career challenging those words. "Mia, that goes against my core being of existence when it comes to football."
Too many flashbacks flooded my mind.
Pee-wee: "You're too chubby. You can't..."
JV: "You're too slow. You can't..."
Varsity: "You're too tall and too slow. You can't..."
College: "You're overthinking and forcing the plays. You can't..."
Pro: "His shoulder is done."
Except for my shoulder's state of limbo, I proved those confrontational critics wrong one by one. From coaches to 'expert analysts' to armchair quarterbacks to bar critics, I didn't discriminate in who I challenged. A thick skin was required for an athlete, especially a professional one, and I hadn't achieved my level of success by letting others' opinions dictate my choices and actions. No one told Sam Pearson what he could and couldn't do. Not a bum shoulder and not a yoga teacher.
"You want me..." I crossed my eyes, blurring her finger on my forehead. "To wipe out more than a decade of programming? Like, rewire my brain?"
Mia's eyes lit up, warmth flowing through the rich brown tones and making her eyes glow. Her lips curled into a devious smile. "Yes. That's exactly what I want you to do. And there's not much to start with, so it should be a clean wipe."
"Hilarious." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not going to happen."
Her eyes rolled, and her voice flattened, "Except for the stupid shit your mouth vomits, I don't want you to change your brain entirely. Only during meditation."
I squeezed my fingers into my triceps. Her eyes, shaded by her hand cupping her forehead, showed she was serious.
"Aww, pack away the ego. It won't get you anywhere ahead in yoga. And you need to stop wiggling like a worm on a hot sidewalk during that part of class." She had a point. I was restless as fuck during that time of class. "Meditation will help you quiet your mind. Who knows, it might help you sleep."
Fuck, again, she was right. Once my body rested, my mind kicked into overdrive. Skimming my eyes over the blank canvases, I gave her a skeptical look. "How will this help quiet my mind?"
Mia knelt and handed me a canvas. "Promise this isn't a symbol of your current state of mind. Now, toss the paint on."
I was aware of her shoulder, warm from the sun, pressing against mine as I knelt and took a can of paint from her. Her hair smelled of fresh shampoo, with no hint of fruity or flower scent, only soap. Freckles trailed over her shoulders and up the side of her neck.
My can contained navy blue paint. "It's blue-ish purple."
"Indigo," she corrected.
"Toss the paint on..." I mumbled and flung the can with a flick of my wrist. A giant blue glop whipped across the center in a satisfying splatter.
"Keep going until it's covered," she encouraged.
Flick after flick, I wasn't covering all the white spots. Noticing a thick build-up on one side, I rotated the canvas, lifting one side to let it drain.
"Not bad, but there's more than one way to do it." She grabbed another canvas. I sucked in a breath at the pressure of her fingers circling my wrist, guiding my hand to dribble paint in a line across the top. It oozed down in a horizontal trail, with some drips traveling longer, but a consistent coating.
She focused serious attention on this task, but the longer we sat, the more my attention turned to where our bodies connected. Her knee bumped my thigh, and her forearm aligned with mine. Her fingers kept a soft, firm hold as she dripped another round, then released my wrist. "Slowly, coat each inch with each pour, allowing the paint to drop with gravity. Give it a try."
"This is..." The words 'fucking ridiculous' hung on my tongue, but I coated the second can of paint over the third canvas.
Pouring more until my rivers dribbled down faster than hers, I ran the can over the canvas edge-to-edge. Mia studied hers like a mystery, I eyed mine until drips pooled on the sheet. The slow oozing drips in my globby lava lamp were oddly relaxing.
"That's the spirit," Mia teased, bumping her shoulder against mine. "Meditation isn't shutting off a mental light. It takes a lot of work to quiet your thoughts. But, with practice, you can train your mind to get there. We'll work on that later."
"If you say so." I dipped my index finger into my canvas, then dotted the tip of her nose with an indigo circle.
"Hey!" Her fingers wiped it away, then smeared my shirt.
"Be careful." I flicked a few drops at her.
My stomach dropped when dots of blue splattered across her chest. It heaved for a few moments, making my pulse race. She was so close, I outlined every challenge sparking in her eyes. A microscopic expansion in her pupils reflected my baited reaction.
A wet, sticky substance plopped onto the top of my head. It sent me back through years of practice and game day Gatorade baths except the viscous paint was more like slime dripped over my ears and down the sides of my neck.
Mia's wet palm patted my cheek. "Indigo might be your color."
"Now you're in for it," I warned, lifting my can to pour it over her head.
She let out a shriek and bolted. Those long legs shot around my garage, leaping out of a starting gate. Wrong person for a game of paint tag. I ran after her, my heart pounding with a rushed thrill, and digging my heels into the grass. "You're dead!" I called out with a laugh.
I easily caught her on the other side of the house, roped my free hand around her waist, and poured the can's remaining contents on the top of her head. Under ribbons of blue, the softness of her breasts pressed against my forearm. I pinned her to my chest until the last drop.
"Ahh!" she squealed out between laughs, her spine freezing up and bumping her shoulder into my bicep.
Indigo paint soaked her hair, trickling down the back of her neck and shoulders. When she turned around, it dripped down her forehead, trailing blueish-purple drops of blood down her cheeks. Turning her head, her eyes burned up at me.
Uh-oh. "Too far?" I laughed in her ear, pinning her back to my chest. At 6-8, my height required tailored clothes, transportation leg allowances, and ceiling-mounted shower heads. It wasn't conducive to hugging most people without straining my back and neck. Mia's height was perfect.
She wiggled, slippery with paint, but didn't fight out of my grasp. Instead, she turned around and buried her head in my chest. Half-nuzzling and half-headbutting like a cat begging for attention, she wiped her painted head across my pecs and up the side of my neck. "You're lucky I got acrylic," she groaned into my chest. "If this was latex, I would ram my knee into your future children factories."
Her head drew back, war paint smeared over her face. My elbows caging her shoulders, I smoothed a few sticky strands off her forehead. The soft skin over that hard head was smooth and warmed from the sun. Arching her back brought her chest flush with mine, smashing her soft breasts into my sternum. The contact stalled my breath, making breathing impossible.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Wild and spirited. Her lips, pale pink and etched with blue lines, parted with accelerated breaths. Only her words registering in my brain pulled me back.
"Sorry," I whispered.
"I need a shower," she moaned, fluttering her sticky lashes closed.
Those were the last words I needed to hear. Picturing her in my shower flushed a stronger rush of arousal through me. Heat rose under my skin, pooling in my palms. Tiny golden highlights reflected in her eyes, fading as her teasing dissolved into awkward as fuck discomfort. I hugged her flush against the stiff traitor between my legs.
"Pearson..." she breathed out. "Stop getting excited. This isn't part of the workout."
"Fuck, sorry," I mumbled and released her. "Come on inside."
"You sure?" Her head tipped down to inspect her Creature of the Blue–sorry, Indigo–Lagoon impression. "It's washable, but with my luck, every carpet you own is white."
"It's not." I walked over to the hose I used to wash my car. Not giving her a chance to move, I shot her with a cold blast.
"Ahh!" She palmed her hands against the stream. It sprayed off them, casting a rainbow while misting the air. "I take it back, I'm–"
I lifted the hose over her head and sprayed down, drowning her words into sputtered sounds. Strands of her hair matted the sides of her face and neck. Since her eyes squeezed closed, I rubbed my palm over her cheeks and forehead until the water ran clean.
My setup was cleaner, so I ripped off my shirt and wrapped it around itself. She blinked up from her soaked lashes, her eyes skimming from my bare chest down my ridged abs. I flexed them.
Before I blinked, she stripped down. Wet and clinging to her, her fitted shirt was harder to remove, but she yanked it overhead, then stripped off her pants. A rash of goosebumps spread over her chest and arms. I doubted she was aroused, but the way her nipples peaked through her black sports bra swelled the interest in my shorts to an emergency. The dents of her ribs led down to a concave navel bracketed by curved lines of abdominal muscles. She didn't show more than what her fitted clothes clung to, and yet I saw so much more. Her breasts smashed together in a line, the rounded tops spilling out between the straps.
"Uhh..." Rubbing my hand over the back of my head, I wanted to turn, but a hard-on profile was worse than the frontal view.
Stop pointing at her. My brain was wiped empty for all the wrong reasons. I closed my eyes for a few breaths. For one pathetic, weak moment, I forgot who she was beyond a beautiful, sexy woman. Insanely beautiful. Painfully sexy.
Cold blasts of water up my nose delivered the cold shower I needed because I was in serious trouble here.
Seems like Sam's catching some feels. Which do you prefer, him falling first, or her?