Time Out: A Holiday Sports Romance Read online

  “Frozen?” I asked, our helmets almost clashing as I turned to question him.

  “That’s the one,” he said, sounding almost… surprised… that I might recognize it. “You know it?”

  “Sure,” I said, turning away from him just in time to narrowly avoid crashing into a tree. “That’s your big post-game tradition?”

  “Do you mind?” he asked, lips so close to my ear I could feel his hot breath as he spoke. “I’ll buy you anything you want?”

  I laughed, pausing at the nearest stop light then turning left toward the ice cream parlor. “Save it, champ,” I teased, as I steered through the quaint and surprisingly quiet streets of Worthington, Tennessee at 8 PM on a Friday night. “I already offered you a ride home.”

  “Still,” he murmured, gripping my waist as we rode through downtown, my body tingling—and not just from the scooter’s shitty shock absorbers. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

  “Besides,” he added when I didn’t answer him as we drew closer to the brightly lit ice cream parlor with a giant plastic cone on the roof. “It’s not often these days you meet such a good Samaritan.”

  I remained silent as I puttered around the parlor to park in the motorcycle zone. I was unaccustomed to guy-on-girl chit-chat, let alone the kind that involved a flurry of compliments. I parked the scooter, sliding off and dangling my helmet off the right handlebar before peering back at him. He sat there, charming and boyish in his helmet, before extending a hand.

  I paused, surprised at the intimate gesture, when suddenly I realized he needed help to get off. “Here,” I said, rushing to cover up my embarrassment. “Let me help you.”

  “I’m not normally so helpless,” he murmured, seeming embarrassed as well as my fingers laced in his own. “Honest.”

  “I know,” I said quietly, hoping he might not hear. “I mean, I saw you out there, on the field tonight. Until, you know…”

  “Was that your first time?” he asked as my voice trailed off, struggling to his feet and leaning against the scooter rack until I slid his crutches from the rack on the back. “At a Wildcats game, I mean?”

  I nodded as he stood to his full height, a crutch under each arm, towering a good three or four inches over me—and I was no shrimp. “But I hope it’s not my last,” I offered as slight consolation.

  “It’ll probably be mine,” he said, turning to hobble toward the door. I beat him to it by a couple of paces, pausing with my hand on the knob.

  “Is… is your injury that bad?”

  “It’ll heal,” he said, avoiding eye contact with me. “But not in time for the District championships. That is, if we even make it after tonight…”

  I heard the hesitation in his voice, a kind of bittersweet tone that made it clear this was a topic he didn’t really want to talk about. I nodded and opened the door, glad for the 50s sock hop music that was always blasting from the speakers high above the retro décor of the quaint little ice cream parlor.

  He was greeted familiarly by the customers and staff alike, a few of which—freshman girls, mostly—rushed up to get his autograph. I stood back, watching the adoration pour out of the giggling schoolgirls, one after the other. Craig handled it with a forced cheeriness he hadn’t possessed only seconds before when we were in the parking lot.

  Then it was over, like a wave that had just crashed on the shore. Ebbing away as the girls went back to their table, still giggling, but satisfied with their hastily scribbled signatures and clumsy selfies.

  He seemed to sag after the energy it had taken to please his fans and quietly, he approached the front counter. A cheery older woman—one I’d seen working there before on my own frequent visits—who clearly only had eyes for Craig, peered at him with a concerned, even motherly expression.

  “You okay, doll?” she asked, her tone matching her expression. “We were listening to the game on the radio, like we always do, when, well…”

  “You’re not listening anymore, Francine?” he teased, reaching for his billfold.

  She waved him away. “It’s on the house, Craig, you know that,” Francine said, her crooked name tag so shiny and bright, it was a wonder I hadn’t spotted it earlier. “And if you’re not playing, baby, why do I need to know the score?”

  Noticing the crutches then me, she gave Craig a knowing look. “I’m just glad to see you back on your feet after that nasty spill you took in the second quarter.”

  “Thanks to Avery here,” Craig said, lighting my face up with a fresh shade of blush.

  “Avery, is it?” Francine said, giving me a sheepish little wink. “And what can I get you for getting Craig home safe and sound tonight?”

  “We were going to split the Friday Night Special,” Craig announced, slapping five dollars down on the counter. “And no arguments, I’m paying this time!”

  Francine held her hands up as if surrendering and shook her head. “He can be a handful, can’t he?” she asked me. I returned her hands up gesture and blurted, “I wouldn’t know. We just met.”

  “That’s right,” Craig said, turning with wink as he readjusted his crutches. “Don’t scare her off yet!”

  He limped away, leaving me behind to gather up napkins and spoons and apologize to the cashier. “I think he’s a little upset about his injury,” I whispered.

  “I barely noticed,” she said, leaning forward to whisper back. “I think he’s just flustered by you.”

  I paused, frozen in place. Napkins in one hand, plastic straws in the other. “Me?” I asked. “What? Why?”

  “Don’t you get it, girl?” Francine asked, as if I was slow. “He never brings a girl in here!”

  “Less gossiping!” Craig called good-naturedly from a booth in the corner, far removed from the fans who’d assaulted him when he first walked through the door. “And more banana split making!”

  Francine and I giggled at Craig’s playful nature and winking at each other, I turned to join him. The booth was cozy and dare I say, intimate, reintroducing me to the spell Craig had on me. That was the only way to describe it—I was totally entranced.

  Not only could I hardly believe my good fortune at finding Craig on his way home early from the game, but here we were, sitting knee-to-knee in a corner booth, feeling isolated and alone from the rest of the ice cream parlor.

  “This really is a tradition, huh?”

  Craig shrugged. “Usually a solitary one,” he said quietly, peering down at the plastic spoon I’d set before him.

  I stiffened. “I could always leave,” I said, marveling at the way a mere word from him could set me on edge—or dissolve me in sheer bliss.

  He chuckled, waving a hand. It was large, masculine and distracting. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, as if struggling to explain. “I meant, well… it’s a private place I wanted to share with you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not every day someone does something so… nice… for me. Most people would have just passed me by.”

  I sagged, slightly. It was such a pat, generic answer and somehow, I’d been hoping for more. Why, I don’t know. To Craig I was no doubt merely just a Good Samaritan. And yet, for me, he’d become so much more since I’d spotted him on the football field just a short while ago. “Oh, I don’t know,” I teased, peering past him to the gaggle of comely co-eds still whispering about him. “I get the feeling plenty of folks would bend over backwards to… please you.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I know how lucky I am. I guess, I meant… no one who looks like you has ever done anything so nice for me before.”

  I snorted at the backhanded compliment. “Just look around, player,” I teased, nodding toward the leggy blonds and waifish redheads casting covert glances at our table. “You could have any girl in this place do all kinds of nice things for you all night long.”

  He chuckled, just as Francine appeared with our banana split, a heaping plate with not a banana in sight. “Don’t eat it too fast,” she warned, in
nocently, as if we really had stepped back into the 50s. “Or you’ll get an ice cream headache.”

  “Good,” Craig grunted, reaching for his plastic spoon. “Maybe it’ll take my mind off the pain in my leg!”

  “Oh dear,” Francine said, winking at me as she patted Craig’s shoulder before leaving. “It looks like you’ve found something sweeter than ice cream to take the pain away.”

  Four

  Craig

  Francine was right. Avery had taken my mind off the pain in my leg—at least temporarily. Now she sat, radiant and beautiful with her long hair flowing around her shoulders beneath the bright lighting of the 50s-themed ice cream parlor.

  “She’s teasing, you know?” I said, watching Avery slide her plastic spoon tentatively into a fat dollop of whipped cream.

  “She’s just being protective,” Avery said diplomatically, before she licked a chocolate sprinkle from her spoon. “How long have you been coming here?”

  “Since freshman orientation,” I blurted, though not sure why. I’d never brought girls here—or teammates for that matter. Nor did I ever tell them about it. It was my private spot. A place no frat boys, sorority girls or even jocks might come on a Friday night. “I had all this running around to do, from coach’s meetings to two-a-day practices, to settling into my new dorm. I just needed a place to hide out for a few minutes in between, you know? I stumbled upon this place and have been coming here ever since.”

  Avery nodded, thoughtfully, as if maybe she had a few hiding places of her own. “I can see why you’d be attracted to this place,” she said, admiring the cheesy 50s memorabilia that lined the walls as I in turn, admired her. “I don’t know much about you, but… this place seems like everything the rest of your life isn’t, you know?”

  “Exactly!” I blurted out in between gulping bites of rocky road and maple walnut ice cream. “It’s just, in here, even most of the fans ignore me. I can be myself without putting on some big show, you know?”

  I felt like a fool the minute those words left my mouth, and Avery seemed unimpressed. “I couldn’t imagine being such a celebrity,” she began before I stopped her mid-sentence.

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to sound like some asshole,” I replied, doing just that. “It’s just… well, you saw how it was when we walked in here. During football season, that’s… just kind of how my life is.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me for being famous,” Avery said, licking her spoon absently before putting it down and shoving the last few bites of the sundae in my direction. “It’s… such a different life than mine.”

  “Ever since high school,” I confessed, amazed by her natural, easy way that made me want to tell her things about my life I’d never said to anyone before. “It’s all I’ve ever known since I found I could play football. Fans. Groupies. Autographs…”

  “And now?” she said, nodding toward the crutches sitting next to me in the booth. “If your season is really over, how are you going to adjust to being normal like the rest of us?”

  “Normal? Can’t wait!” I chuckled, honestly relieved to have the season over. “Don’t get me wrong, I love football, but lately… I dunno… I’m wondering about my expiration date.”

  She made a curious face, arching one eyebrow over her soft brown eyes. “How do you mean?” she asked, snuggling into the worn leather booth as if she really wanted to hear the answer.

  “Quarterbacks only last so long,” I said, as if realizing it for the very first time. “And fame has an even shorter shelf life. If my backup quarterback walks on the field after me tonight and makes more than two touchdowns to win the game, you watch. The fans will forget about me in a heartbeat.”

  Avery shook her head, long brunette tresses rasping across her shoulders. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that, Craig.”

  “You ever heard of a guy named Chip Thompson?” I said.

  She shook her head once more. “He was the quarterback in my freshman year at Worthington,” I explained. “Got injured just before half-time during one of the last games of the season. I was just sitting there on the bench, minding my own business, never imagining in a million years I’d get to play that game. Sure enough, he limped off the field and I hopped right into his slot. I had a rocky few plays, but once I found my mojo, I scored three touchdown passes in a row. After that game, I moved to starting quarterback and well… I never looked back.”

  Avery looked pensive, smoldering, her full lips pursed, and her captivating brown eyes half-lidded. “And what about Chip Thompson?” she asked, as perceptive as ever.

  I shrugged, waving my spoon for emphasis. “He became my backup,” I said somberly, not proud of how my fortune meant things had turned out not so well for him. “Eventually, he transferred to state, my point is, half the folks who chant my name every game would chant someone else’s if they helped the team score a point or two while I was hanging out here with you!”

  She blushed slightly, then shook her head. “I’m sure an injury like this doesn’t help,” she said. “Have you… made plans for life after football? I mean, just in case you turn out like poor old Chip?”

  I shrugged and shook my head simultaneously. “Like I said, I’ve lived this life since before high school. Starting out in junior high, so…”

  “But your major,” she pressed, leaning forward slightly so that the sweater caressed her small, shapely, breasts. “You have to take classes to stay on the team, right?”

  “I’m a business major,” I said, as I did so often whenever the topic came up. “But, you’re right, that’s just to satisfy my academic requirements to keep my scholarship. I haven’t really thought that much more about it.”

  She sighed, pouting those ripe, full lips and making me wonder what they might feel like against my own. “Well, tonight’s probably not the best night to dwell on such things.”

  “No shit!” I snorted, for very different reasons. Now, the only thing I wanted to dwell on was her perfectly imperfect natural beauty—and I meant that in the best way possible. She was everything—literally everything—I never looked for in a girl.

  Where I’d always been attracted to blondes, she was a brunette, with rich, dark, hair. Where I preferred my ho’s rail thin and willing, Avery was ripe, curvy and aloof. She was sitting with me, but not quite with me. Where my standard Friday night lays wanted to talk about nothing but football, Avery seemed content to talk about anything but sports. I liked that. I liked her, suddenly realizing I was fantasizing about a girl I’d never met before today in ways that would probably get me slapped across the face if she knew my thoughts.

  After all, what made her so different from the usual skanks was what made her so dangerous as well. No matter how ripe or sultry, warm or curious, Avery didn’t seem like the type of girl who’d fuck on the first date then be fine with it if I never called her again.

  What I didn’t tell Avery about why I never brought other girls to Frozen was because they never wanted to wait that long to hop in the sack. For once, restless and horny across from Avery, I finally knew what they meant! And yet—unlike the others—Avery seemed in no hurry.

  I sensed it was going to be a while before I eventually got her into bed. And I was A-Okay with that.

  Five

  Avery

  “Sorry about the mess,” I said, when we walked through the front door. I followed Craig’s eyes over the dinette set, then the black couch with red throw pillows and finally, the black and white Eiffel Tower posters on the wall.

  He turned to me, solid on his crutches as we stood in the foyer, our bellies full of banana split sundae, and smiled. “You call this messy?” he asked, hobbling forward until he sank onto a barstool on the living room side of the kitchen counter. “You should see my place in the Worthington Dorms.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Isn’t that where all the student athletes live? The big glass building right across from campus?” I’d heard it was fancy with a bottom floor that was more like a shopping center, comp
lete with a Starbucks, a bank and its own 24-hour pizza parlor.

  He blushed, looking chagrined as he peered down at the matching placemats on the kitchen counter. “Hey, it’s part of my athletic scholarship,” he explained, almost defensively. “Which means it’s free, and I only have to share with one other guy, so…”

  His voice trailed off, soft and gentle, like his eyes and his full lips. I could hardly believe Craig Robinson was here, sitting at my kitchen counter, fiddling with the edge of the placemat and looking delicious in his oversized hoodie. “You don’t have to apologize for living in the nicest building on campus,” I teased, making him blush even more as I tried to slide a few dirty plates quietly into the kitchen sink without him noticing.

  “Hey, you don’t have it so bad,” he said, swiveling around on his barstool to take in the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my BFF and roommate since freshman year, Missy Sinclair.

  “You’re right,” I said, grateful for the off-campus apartment we’d been able to snag for a great deal from one of Missy’s classmates halfway through our sophomore year. “I guess neither of us can complain.”

  “Well, I have one complaint,” Craig said, winking as he watched me straighten up the kitchen.

  “Yeah?” I asked, concerned his leg might be uncomfortable sitting on the kitchen barstool. “What’s that?”

  He made a big show out of licking his lips, grabbing his throat as if he’d just crossed the Sahara. “All that ice cream has made me terribly thirsty.”

  I chuckled, relieved that the pain in his leg had subsided enough to let him crack jokes. “Is that right?” I teased, opening the fridge to reveal an array of brightly colored bottles from our recently purchased margarita sampler pack.