My hands splay flat against the door as we both pause, panting, reveling in being joined after so long. He draws out again, pushing back in with a grunt. We don’t make love. We fuck. Hard. When it’s over my legs give out and we sink to the floor, Brody’s arms still holding me from behind, his cock still inside me.

He nips at my earlobe, taking it between his teeth. “Again.”

“Again? Now?”

Brody grinds his hips, and every exhausted nerve ending in my body reignites. “Yes now.”

Brody

Jackson Reynard is one of our starting receivers, and he’s so good I never see field time. Until now. He’s blown out his knee. It’s not career ending, but it’s bad.

I had to step up and the pressure was too much. I walk off the field after ending the worst game of my entire football career.

It sends the media into a frenzy. My teammates are questioned on my play. My coach is questioned on signing me. My college games are rehashed on ESPN, each play picked apart by a panel of commentators in minute detail. The general consensus is that I choked. I got to the big leagues and couldn’t handle it. The kid needs time. But time is a luxury in professional football. It’s something a rookie doesn’t get. We need to come out shining like a diamond. If we don’t, we don’t play. If we don’t play, we don’t get better. If we don’t get better, we don’t get endorsements. We get traded. And eventually we fade from the limelight and just become some guy that played pro ball once.

The media got it partly right. Only it’s not the football I can’t handle, nor is it the attention that comes from playing professionally. It’s everything else. But I’m trying. I haven’t taken a pill in three weeks. I need to prove to myself that I don’t need them. The withdrawals leave me shaky. I’m tired but finding sleep is hit or miss. It’s not a detox. To use that word would lay claim to me being an addict and I’m not. I’m just cleaning up a little.

Soon after I’m subjected to a urine test. I stand in the cubicle pissing into a small container while sending up a prayer of thanks. The timing is a miracle and the relief leaves me sick.

My next game I play better, but only marginally. I can’t find my focus. The next there’s more improvement, but not enough. I’m not playing anywhere near my best level without enhancements, and pushing through the pain from every bruising hit I take is wearing me down.

Breaking down, I go back to the Adderall. It turns me into an improved version of myself, like a smartphone upgrade. It’s still me. I’m still the same person. I can just do more. The only issue is the insomnia.

After talking to the team physician, explaining my exhaustion and inability to sleep, he prescribes Ambien. Two weeks later I play like a god. I back it up brilliantly the week after that. Another week later I get Jordan for four whole days. It feels like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one.

With two days off from training, we spend it traversing Houston—holding hands, shopping, eating, being normal. We play tourist, visiting the Space Center and the zoo, and that’s where our relationship hits the national spotlight.

We’re stopped in front of the new gorilla habitat. Jordan is wearing one of my old western shirts over a fitted white tank top. The worn material is blue and green, and soft from countless washes. She’s teamed it with her denim shorts and a pair of hot pink converse, keeping her long hair loose. I love the way she dresses—casual and cute. No matter how big her profile becomes, Jordan hasn’t changed.

She has a brand new Canon slung around her neck and her eyes dance with excitement when she turns to me and lowers her camera. “Why did the Gorilla go to the doctor?”

It’s a new side of Jordan I’ve only discovered today. Her bad animal jokes. She’s had one for almost every exhibit we’ve seen so far today. “I don’t know, babe. Why?”

“Because his banana wasn’t peeling very well!”

I groan. “How many more of these do you have?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why? You don’t like them?”

“Don’t quit your day job is all I’m sayin’,” I tease, holding up my hands.

“You couldn’t handle my day job.”

I arch a brow. “Oooooh, is that a challenge?”

Jordan’s lips twitch. “You better believe it.”

I laugh out loud. “You’re on. This afternoon. You and Eddie against me and Jaxon in a soccer showdown.”

Jaxon visits every other weekend, and the Houston Wranglers signed Eddie on as a linebacker. I bought a house with my signing bonus, and Eddie moved in because there’s too much space for me to live there alone. It has six bedrooms—the master suite for me and Jordan, three rooms for each of our future kids, Eddie’s room, and a guest room.

It’s a beautiful house—one that Jordan is decorating piece by piece each time she visits from Seattle. I’ve no doubt she’ll pick something up from the gift store here today and I’ll find it sitting somewhere in the house days later. I usually hate clutter, but everything she sets out isn’t just there to look good; it’s a memory of our life together.

I look at Jordan, grinning. “Think you can handle it?”

Her eyes dance at the challenge. “Prepare to have your ass handed to you.”

“Au contraire,” I argue. Grabbing her hand, I bring it to my lips, still chuckling when I press a light kiss to the back of it. “I’ll win, and my prize will be you naked in my bed alllllll afternoon.”

“Keep dreaming,” she retorts.

We play in the local park, and Eddie and I lose by a long, ass-kicking mile. I thought having him on my team would be an advantage, and maybe it would’ve been if it were football. But Eddie and I are too big. Jordan weaves the ball around us like a magician, leaving us standing there like two stunned lumberjacks, wondering how she did it. She could’ve taken us both without having Jax there at all.

She returns to Seattle the following afternoon, and the next day photos from our mini holiday get splashed over the media via stalking paparazzi. The one in front of the Gorilla exhibit where I’m kissing her hand goes viral. I don’t know what it is about the photo. Maybe it’s the light in her eyes as she looks up at me. Maybe it’s the way I’m looking down at her like she’s my world. Or maybe it’s the way we look so relaxed and in love.

I see it first and send her the link via Facebook messenger.

Brody: They think we’re in love, but u just want my cock.

She replies a minute later, having just changed her profile picture to the new image.

Jordan: So true. Should I set the record straight and tell them?

I grin.

Brody: Maybe they can already tell by the way you walk funny.

With two brilliant games under my belt, and the Seattle Reign’s winning streak, we both become the golden couple of sport. Suddenly we’re everywhere. I get my first endorsement and soon I’m shooting ad campaigns for protein supplement company, Evolution. Jordan does a ‘women in sport’ feature with Marie Claire magazine. They photograph her in black and white. A face shot first, her eyes dark and smoky and her hair a wild tangle. It follows with a body shot. Her skin looks dark and slick, her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. They’ve shot her from the back, not a stitch of clothing on, but she’s holding a soccer ball behind her with both hands, and it covers her sweet ass. With her standing on tiptoes, it highlights every sleek muscle in her body.

I send her a Facebook message the minute I catch a five-minute breather from on-field training.

Brody: Ur a fucking work of art.

Jordan: Tell that to Nicky. My ears are still ringing.

Brody: I bet.

But messages aren’t enough. Skype isn’t enough. Football keeps me busy, and right now I have the world at my fingertips, but even knowing that isn’t enough.