The entire week after THE party, I spent every available minute on the Internet researching Killian like some obsessed fan. I couldn’t help myself.
Twenty-five years old, star quarterback in college, first-round draft pick when he turned pro at twenty-one. Two years ago, he took over the starting quarterback position for the Scorpions. One year ago, he was one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. But, as always, there was a downside—he was known to have a quick temper, use his fists when push came to shove, and for a non-thug position like quarterback, he had a thug reputation. And I couldn’t forget… the face of an angel.
I dug deeper. His single mom raised him along with one brother, but no other articles gave insight into his family. An in-depth feature about his high school years shed some light on his temper. He grew up in Richmond, California, and attended a predominately non-white high school. There, he learned to use his fists until his throwing arm caught the eye of the varsity football coach his sophomore year. His teammates became his gang and they had his back. An early picture showed a big, cocky white kid, surrounded by five dark-skinned teammates, and the same angel’s face without the refinement it showed now. The boys all sneered with their arms strung across each other’s shoulders.
Killian MacGregor was a bad boy.
What every girl found attractive. But not me. At least not until Killian MacGregor held my hand and then kissed my forehead when he said goodbye.
I couldn’t get him out of my mind, so I did what I always did. I ran. Albeit early in the mornings because the desert heat tried to melt my body to the concrete, but I ran nonetheless.
I slipped on running shorts over my sheer-blue bikini panties, followed by a form-fitting sports bra and a white tank top. My socks and favorite running shoes came next, then I secured my hair in a tight ponytail. I jumped on my toes a few times, circled my arms, and set off at a leisurely pace for about a mile. Then I stopped, stretched my warmed muscles for ten minutes, and began the real part of my run. The endorphin high entered my bloodstream on the fifth mile.
Legs…he’d called me Legs.
I continued running until all thought focused on my next step. At twelve miles, I reached a point where nothing mattered—the scenery, temperature, or Killian memories, and I kept going. Eventually, I hit the last low-angled hill, which took me back to my apartment.
But… it didn’t matter how many miles I ran, I still couldn’t get a good night’s sleep.
Two weeks after the party, I wore out my track shoes and bought a new pair. I hit the pavement hard. Three weeks and I stopped watching television news, reading Internet articles, or even listening to gossip about Killian MacGregor or his team. I realized I needed sleep, food, and a shrink; the order was optional. I was nothing but a lovesick groupie who had to get on with her life so…one month post the party I did.
I still hadn’t forgiven my sister, but per in her usual demeanor, this didn’t seem to bother her. I was boring and no fun to hang out with and basically a complete stick in the mud. She’d asked if I saw the girl at the party who came between Stump and Killian. She had no idea it was me, and I wasn’t going to tell her. She didn’t even apologize for not being around to give me a ride home.
I applied myself to my summer classes and prepared for spring track season. Ignoring the fact that professional football was gearing up for its first pre-season game, I refused to think about Killian MacGregor. Well almost. Big Ben, my ever-faithful, battery-operated, hot pink, six-inch fountain of joy knew all my deepest, darkest thoughts, and they all centered on one star quarterback.
Regular classes began in August along with twice-weekly practice overseen by my running coach. My fantasy world, or trying to get past it, had me ready for everything the coach threw my way.
Still no possibility of me winning at this level.
In high school I was the star—the tall running giant. Entering the college arena put my Olympic dreams into perspective. I, Rebecca Lesley Cavanaugh, was middle of the pack; nothing special in the world of long-distance runners. On the bright side, many runners didn’t hit their full stride until their thirties. Still, by then I’d be completely into my future career, running simply to stay in shape, and not looking back. I’d given up on my dream long ago and moved on.
My class load was heavy, but I still managed two blind dates, fixed up by my best friend, Amanda. Both times the men and I didn’t quite meet eye to eye. I was an inch or two taller even though I wore flat shoes. My head tilted slightly downward to speak and I hunched my shoulders when I walked beside them. The last thing I felt was small. Obviously, like my previous dates, my height intimidated men. I knew Amanda gave the guys fair warning, but seeing me in person, even in flat shoes, was a lot more sobering. I’d even taken more than my normal time to get ready for the first date—a little eyeliner to make my blue eyes stand out, a touch of blush to liven my tanned cheeks, and my favorite date outfit.
The second man didn’t get so lucky, because I didn’t bother with the extra makeup or putting on my favorite skirt and blouse. Not that skirt, I might never wear that one again. None of my lack of preparation mattered, because my thirty-something-year-old second date couldn’t get past my tall frame and my ordinary, non-super-model looks. Life sucked, and then I compared every man to Killian MacGregor.
I went back to concentrating on college.
The multi-leveled, stadium-styled classroom held more than two hundred students. I sat in the fourth row dead center, taking notes and trying to stay awake throughout the lecture. The side door opened and a man walked toward the professor. Doctor Lanovitch didn’t bother turning off the microphone when the man spoke.
“I have a special delivery.” The voice resounded through the room as he showed a medium-sized envelope to the professor.
He now had the attention of the entire class.
The instructor’s eyes skimmed us students, landed on me, and said right into the microphone, “Miss Cavanaugh.”
Holy shit.
I stood slowly, squeezed behind the seats of my fellow row mates, and then walked down the side stairs toward the man interrupting my college class. He held out the envelope and after I tentatively took it, he turned and walked out the same door he’d entered.
The professor’s eyebrows shot up before I looked down. Rebecca Cavanaugh was handwritten in a bold scrawl on the front. I muttered an apology, not looking up, and returned to my seat. The lecture resumed and I tried hard to focus but my eyes kept returning to my name. I no longer had any problems staying awake, but at the same time, I didn’t hear another word or take a single note.
After class, I walked outside into the one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat and zombied to the library. My ass hit a chair, I drank half my water bottle, and then went back to staring. The fluttering in my chest had me longing for one thing, but I knew I was being an idiot. Killian MacGregor would never send me anything. I lifted the envelope, took a deep breath, and opened it slowly.
Three tickets slipped out along with a small slip of paper.
Legs,
Bring two friends.
K
I was too young for a heart attack, or so I thought. Yes, the outside heat left my body overly warm, hot even, but all the blood left my head and traveled who knew where. A wave of dizziness washed over me and I took a quick sip of water. I realized that wasn’t helping, so I turned sideways and put my head between my knees.
My reaction…completely ridiculous, over the top and borderline psychotic. But it didn’t matter. Killian sent me tickets to his first home pre-season game. My legs trembled and I rapidly sucked in air, trying to get myself under control. I finally managed, barely, to sit up straight and re-read the slip of paper. The four words and one initial hadn’t changed. I lifted the paper to my chest and stayed like that for countless minutes while I tried not to panic.
Fantasy was one thing, reality totally another. I, simple and plain Rebecca Cavanaugh, was not football god material. I think I liked the dream better. I checked the tickets again. This Sunday, the Phoenix Scorpions played in their first home game and I had three passes.
What the hell did you wear to a football game in an indoor arena anyway? What did it matter? He probably wouldn’t even see me or I him. I might just go, watch the game, and return to my apartment where Big Ben waited. I called Amanda. “Really, Becca, there’s no dress code. Be comfortable—comfortable shoes and a lightweight top will do. The stadium’s cooled, but still gets warm when all the hot bodies pile in.” “Okay, thanks.” I hadn’t told Amanda or Lyle, my prerequisite black, gay friend, as he called himself, how I got the tickets, just that I had them and they were invited. Amanda was great in that she didn’t ask too many questions, because her mind was currently filled with finding a student-teaching position. But she did enjoy football and went to all the college’s games. She also stood nine inches shorter than me and made me feel goliath. Lyle was two inches shorter than me, an arts major, and completely gay since before puberty. He really enjoyed football but only because
Malory directed us to the front seats, which were to the right of the owner and his group, but separated by an aisle. “These are Killian’s and he wants you sitting here,” she said when I gave her a, “No I’d rather sit in the very back” look. Just as we took the proffered seats, the crowd started clapping and cheering. I looked down at the field and saw Killian, helmet dangling from his hand, leading the team onto the field at a steady jog. Oh my fucking my. In street clothes, he was a wet dream, but in pads, the number twenty jersey, and skin-tight football pants…totally cream-dream worthy. Damp hair hung just a little below his ears and was plastered to his head. He made the wet shaggy style look scrumptious. I continued to subconsciously drool as he sat on the grass, spread his legs, and stretched. “Heart attack here. Where’s the medic?” Amanda said in a low voice. Malory heard, laughed, and said too loudly, “We keep smelling salts on hand for just this purpose.” “I need some
Killian clicked a built-in switch above our heads and the wrought iron gates opened into a different world. He hadn’t touched or looked at me since his vocabulary demise. It was disconcerting, but I thought he might have some idea of the literal puddle I was sitting in. By not talking, he was looking out for the best interest of his car. He drove up the long driveway, clicked another control, and drove straight into the monstrous garage. I had just enough time to notice a huge truck and little else. “Don’t touch that door.” My hand had automatically lifted to the handle. There was something to be said for his manners when it came to gentlemanly behavior, but he negated it with his commands. Like I really cared! He opened my door, grasped my hand and walked me through the door into his home. Again, I had little time to appreciate the details because he pulled me past the kitchen, an entertainment room, took me around a corner, down a long hallway and into his bedroom. It was a hug
The covers were now pushed to the bottom of the bed. He held me curled with my back against his chest, my legs pulled slightly into my stomach. He’d arranged me how he wanted me then skimmed his fingers from my hip past my knee. God this man’s touch drove me wild even in my sexually exhausted state. “You hungry?” The words broke the spell, but it took me a moment to switch from the prefrontal cortex orgasmic part of my brain to the lateral hypothalamus hunger part of my brain. He waited patiently, never stopping the lazy slide of his fingers. “Starving.” In one fluid movement, he rose from the bed, totally unconcerned with his nakedness. I looked at the hand he held out. My nudity caused me to hesitate. “Um.” I sat up, ignoring his hand, and made a grab for the rumpled sheet. His fingers closed around mine. “Naked, in my kitchen…now.” “No way,” I yelped. I wasn’t sure what to expect with my rebellion, but even so, I was surprised over what I got. His dimples flashed and be be
I could do nothing but blink several times at the quick change in subject. He gave me a lopsided grin. “Things are about to get fuck-all hectic. I don’t handle relationships well during football season. I’d like you to stay the night.” My heart dropped. I wouldn’t be meeting his cook. I looked away, feeling tears well behind my eyes like some stupid heartsick teenager. “Hey,” his fingers hooked my chin and turned my head his way. “It doesn’t mean I won’t try, but I have no idea if you can put up with the intense focus I need during season.” “Focus?” “It’s what I eat, live and breathe. I make no excuses and I get paid a hell of a lot of money to be the best. I’m a very poor loser and not even my mother wants to be around when that happens. I want to give you tonight and tomorrow before you judge me on more than what you’ll see when regular season starts.” Really, when I thought about it, none of this made any sense. “Why me?” “Truth.” He stared intently into my eyes. “The party.
He kissed my forehead and rolled out of bed in complete darkness after his alarm went off. He explained the night before that watching film of the coming week’s rival team was the highlight of the week. I grumbled and fell back to sleep. My eyes popped open when the covers were yanked away, and I squinted against the light shining through the open blinds. He held a tray in his arms. “One of the few things I can cook, sleepyhead, is waffles, and I make a mean cup of coffee.” “No coffee. Not till after I run.” My voice was still groggy with sleep. “Sit up. I’ll drink yours, and you can have my water.” I adjusted the pillows behind my back, looked at the pushed down covers, and glanced at him while trying to snag the sheet. He shook his head and gave me his “just-try-it” look. Killian was really into this naked thing, though he was completely dressed. All my insecurities returned. “You shouldn’t drink coffee before running,” I said grumpily to hide my awkwardness. He scanned my
Lyle made the trip worth his time. He ogled and leered, lifting his eyebrows and making a complete cake of himself. That was Lyle, and surprisingly Killian didn’t seem to mind and even played along. “Thanks for saving me. I think I’m giving up jogging. I’ll just stick to weights.” “Excellent idea. Weights are good.” Ogle, leer, eyebrow lift. This went on even after Killian took us to a late breakfast. I scarfed, both men watched, and I didn’t care. “She eat like this all the time?” Killian questioned Lyle. “I’ve invested in pizza stocks and made a fortune. She eats a large, topped with everything, all to herself. Touch a slice and lose a finger. Not with a knife or anything, she’ll just bite it off and eat it.” “Ha ha, funny.” Amanda and Lyle always teased me about food. Killian was great to go out with because he actually managed to eat a little more than I did. If I added the five waffles he ate this morning, he was holding his own. Lyle dropped Killian and me off at my apart
When we got to Killian’s house, he took me out back to his humungous swimming pool. I hadn’t packed my suit and looked around for a way out. “You won’t need it,” he said with a sexy leer, obviously guessing what caused my anxiety. He stripped me down, then himself, and pulled my hand until the water surrounded us. It was perfect. He began swimming laps while I leaned back on a rounded step and watched. Maybe he was a nudist. I’d never known anyone so comfortable in their naked skin. I admired his arms as he ate up the length of the pool, turned around, and repeated the process. I lost count of his laps and just enjoyed the pool’s cool water and my favorite pair of arms in the entire world. His naked ass propelling through the water wasn’t bad either. Eventually, those big powerful arms brought him to me. He circled my hips and lifted me half out of the pool. My palms rested on his shoulders as he held me up. For the first time, outside of me being above him in bed, I looked down a