Brooke:Yacht. Like your innuendo.
Drew:One more. Another word for shoe?
Brooke:The heels I wore last night. They were black. You wanted them on your shoulders, around your waist, up in the air. Do you believe it’s me now?
Drew:A picture is worth a thousand words.
Brooke:If you insist.
Thirty seconds later, a pic lands on my phone, shot from the thighs down. She’s wearing a skirt that shows her bare legs, and black heels. Oh Lord have mercy. I want to march over to her office, slam the door, kneel between those creamy thighs, and make her lose her mind with my tongue.
Drew:I’m on my way.
Drew:Just kidding.
Drew:But holy fuck, woman. Your legs should be worshipped. Adored. Kissed. Cherished.
Drew:And then spread wide open so I can spend the afternoon between them.
Brooke:I will never get any work done now.
Nor will I when she sends me another pic. She’s hiked up her skirt, and I can just make out the edge of her white lacy panties. I groan, then I take care of business.
A few minutes later, I reply.
Drew:Thought of you the whole time.
Brooke:I’ll think of you tonight in bed.
I can’t stop. I just can’t. When I head to an afternoon practice, I text her some more.
Carter was right. Sometimes you just know.
11
YOUR MOUTH ON MY INNUENDO
Drew
Resisting becomes a bit easier when the season starts the next week. The first game is at home, and we play like a well-oiled machine. I put the team ahead in the second quarter with a forty-yard pass to Clements, who turns that into an absolutely beautiful touchdown.
The crowd goes wild, and the sound of their cheers is such a high. When Clements chest-bumps me on the sidelines, we’re both grinning like fools. It’s early in the game, but it feels so damn good.
“Nice work, man,” I say.
Gabe does a little dance, flexing his biceps. “Told you I’d get it in the end zone. You get it to me, and I’ll bust my ass to put that ball where it belongs.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say as he kneels and hunts for something under the bench.
When he pops up, he tosses me a red hacky sack. I catch it easily.
“Adams, use your foot,” he says, and I hide a smile that he’s graduated me to last name familiarity.
“I thought that was your pre-game ritual,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his ritual logic.
“Gotta be flexible. Hasn’t football taught you anything? I just changed the play. Hacky sack is now our in-game ritual too,” he says, then drops the bag toward the ground, kicking it my way with his instep.
When in Rome…