Page 12 of Broken Saint
I continue down to her feet, trying to imagine what those shoes might look like wrapped around my waist, the heels digging into my ass.
My blood begins to heat, but nothing like it would have if I saw her last year. Especially not the year before that.
Someone near the entrance calls her name and she flips her head around.
She’s beautiful. Her face is flawless, her eyes bright blue, her lips full and stained red. Perfect for wrapping around…
She smiles at her friend, and it only makes it even better.
But still, there’s something missing.
Yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, she’s exactly the type of girl who’s warmed my bed time and time again over the years. But something stops me from getting up from the bar stool and walking over to introduce myself.
She wants me to. Or maybe not me specifically, but that’s why she’s here dressed up like that. It’s obvious.
It’s not her. It’s you,a little voice says in my head.
Something has been wrong with me for the past couple of months. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.
I’ve been convincing myself that it was the off-season, and I was taking a well-earned break. But it should have been a break from the grueling relentlessness of the season and then the playoffs. Not from fucking all the jersey chasers who buzz around the team like flies.
Flies?
I’ve never even considered them to be a pest before.
But as I rip my eyes from her and scan the bar, they’re all I can see.
Dressed to the nines, desperate for some player’s attention to validate their lives.
They’re perfect. What I’ve always wanted.
No commitment; no attachment.
So why, over the past few months, has the prospect of hooking up with some nameless, faceless woman become less and less appealing?
I still don’t do anything serious. But clearly, something inside me has decided I’m not interested in casual either. And that something is not my dick, because that is more than interested in any of the half-naked girls walking around this place.
“Colt. Colt. Colton,” a voice barks.
“Ow, what the fuck?” I hiss, lifting my hand to rub the back of my head.
“Dude, I said your name like six times. Where the fuck did you go?” Kane, our rookie wide receiver, asks.
“Isn’t it obvious?” someone else answers for me. “In his head, he already has that blonde stripped naked in his hotel room.” It’s Luca, my best friend and our quarterback.
“What blon—ooooh. My bad,” Kane says, leaning around me and spotting her still over by the entrance, animatedly chatting with a friend. “She’s got night-before-a-game ritual written all over her.”
“I don’t have a ritual,” I mutter, reaching for my drink—soda—and taking a sip.
Long gone are our college days where we’d happily get buzzed the night before a game and it wouldn’t impact our performance.
Now, we need to be sensible, professional sportsmen who fuel our bodies with nothing but goodness and go to bed at a decent hour to be ready and refreshed for the big day.
How times have changed.
A smile pulls at my lips as memories of Luca, his twin Leon, and the guys at Maddison Kings University in our freshman and sophomore years come back to me. Times before Luca and Leon got themselves whipped by their girls, and Kane Legend turned up to throw our worlds into chaos.
Good times. Good fucking times.