Fair Catch - A Football Romance

A
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T
his is a work of fiction
. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

A
NGEL

I
'm
a disappointment--to my family.

They wanted me to follow in their footsteps,

A career in medicine, curing the sick.

But, I took my own path, a hard and competitive path,

Where my passion lies.

Graceful, elegant, poised,

Ballet is my life, my dream,

My everything.

B
ut when I meet him
,

Plie, Passe, and Releve

Are quickly shadowed by the man 

Who intercepts my heart.

Suddenly, I'm thinking about touchdowns,

and scoring.

There's so much more to River Kelley 

Than all his fans realize.

He's strong, but sensitive.

Powerful, but delicate.

Determined, but giving.

N
ow
, I'm questioning everything.

My dreams.

My future.

My heart.

R
IVER

S
he may be a saint
,

But she's no angel in bed,

And it feels like she's been sent from Heaven.

She's the answer to my every prayer,

The woman who could dance into my fantasies,

And make all of my dreams come true.

B
ut when my
family jeopardizes our future,

I have to let her go,

Let her achieve her goals.

Let her fly, 

Like the angel she is.

I
f only
, I could find a way to have both...

A
ngel

My tight muscles begin to loosen in Marcus’s capable hands.

“How does that feel?” he asks, pushing against my leg.

"It hurts a little, but I don't want you to stop."

“I want to take this slow, Angel. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t have time for slow.” I take a deep breath, hold it, and slowly blow it out as he backs away from me. His kind, warm brown eyes plead with me to let him go easy, but I can't. I want this. I have to have it.

"Okay, I'll work you over, but you have to promise me something."

“Anything,” I say as he raises my leg again, leaning into me.

I see a glimmer of hope flash across his face. Maybe I should be more careful about offering
anything
.

“Let me take you to dinner.”

Marcus winks, and one side of his mouth lifts in a sexy smirk that would melt the panties off most women.

Not me.

“Are you supposed to be fraternizing with your clients?” I ask.

“Probably not, but I can’t help myself.”

I roll my head to the right and see us in a mirror across the room of the physical therapy room. We are a sight to see, two attractive people in what could be construed as a compromising position in any other environment. My leg is nearly horizontal to my torso. Marcus has one hand on the back of my thigh and the other cradling the arch of my foot, testing the limits of my hamstrings.

How to let him down easy? I could say I have a boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure he knows I don't. I could say I'm a lesbian, but I think he's too smart for that one. Maybe I should tell him I'm too busy. That's not a lie, but it's an ego buster, and Marcus is sweet. I turn to face him again.

"Thank you, really, Marcus. I appreciate the invitation-slash-bribe." He's smiling. Whew. This is going well.

“My audition is next week, and Miss Valentina has me on a strict schedule that consists of hours of practice and zero fun.” I wag my finger back and forth, emphasizing my lack of a social life.

“You should take a break and let me feed you.” He looks at me through my legs when he sits back on his heels with his chin down and eyebrows high.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“You should tell Miss Valentina to lighten up.”

“Ha, no way. You have not met Miss Valentina. She's scary and demanding. Telling her to lighten up would be like telling Miley Cyrus to keep her tongue in her mouth. It's just not going to happen."

“Hmm, intense, huh?”

“To say the least.”

“Well, I guess you’re going to have to have her do your physical therapy then,” he says, laying my leg down on the floor.

"You work for MBS. You're supposed to heal my mind, body and soul. You took an oath or something, didn’t you?”

He chuckles, and I sigh with relief. I'm glad he's not upset, or at least, he doesn't appear to be. Rejecting men will never get any easier, especially when they are as nice as Marcus. My career is my top priority, though, along with making my parents proud. I'm not letting a man derail me now. I've come too far.

My mother put me in dance when I was two and a half, the second I was out of diapers, and she regrets it every day. My father is a gifted neurosurgeon, and he had his heart set on both of his daughters being physicians, but he was only granted half of that wish. My older sister, Heaven, has been a pediatrician for three years now, and he couldn't be more proud of her. Dancing, on the other hand, is not an acceptable career, in his book, but I'm going to make him change his mind, no matter what it takes.

“I have so many dirty responses to that question, it’s insane. I’ll be a gentleman and keep them to myself.”

He stands and offers me his hand to help me up. I take it and let him tug me to my feet, even though I don’t need the help.

I've been coming to MBS since I twisted my ankle and pulled a hamstring two weeks ago. It's expensive, but MBS is a famous healing center for athletes with injuries. Their nurses also travel and, God willing, I will be touring with the San Francisco Ballet Company after my audition next week.

"Thank you," I say and curtsey deeply, with a flourish.

"Don't mention it. I'll see you tomorrow at two, right?"

“Yep, if Miss Valentina doesn’t cripple me in practice today.”

"You want me to come and slay your dragon? I'm a great knight in shining armor." He puffs out his chest, and I can't help but laugh.

"That's the perfect name for her, but I'm fine, thanks. She's tough, but I can take it."

“Okay, but if you need me, you still have my card, don’t you?”

He has given me his card twice. I didn't think anything of it the first time. He's a physical therapist building his customer base. But the second time, I was certain he was interested in stretching more than just my muscles.

“Yes, got it in my wallet—both of them.”

He grins, and I turn to leave. It's time to go and be tortured, and I can't wait.

R
iver

“What the hell is this?” I ask, shaking the letter I just found taped to my locker in Coach Bradford’s face.

“I’m not taking ballet classes. No way. I’m nimble and flexible enough to win two America Bowls. I don’t need to prance around in a tutu to get in shape.”

“Well, you’re doing it. Jerry thinks all of you could use some grace, so grace you’re gonna get.”

"I'm a football player, not a ballerina. What the hell?"

Kyle Jennings, the San Diego Sparks’ largest linebacker, joins me in Coach’s office—all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of him. "Yeah, what the hell?"

I try to imagine Kyle in ballet class. The thought of his enormous biceps curved above his head in a ballet pose almost makes me laugh . . . almost.

Coach stands behind his desk, shaking his head back and forth, waving his hands in the air, and looking at his feet.

"I don't want to hear any more complaining. You’ve gotta do it, so suck it up. Damn, what a bunch of babies.”

“Maybe we’ll get some hot dance teachers,” the ever-optimistic defensive end, Mason Johnson, says from the door behind us. He’s holding his copy of the letter in his hand with a big, cheesy grin on his face.

"I don't need a hot dance teacher. I’ve got a wife and four kids at home,” Kyle says.

I wish I had a wife and four kids waiting at home for me. Actually, I want a wife and five kids, but who's counting? Being one of seven kids in a large Catholic family, I've always dreamed of having a house full of rug rats and a sexy woman to share it with.

“Shut up, man. Do you want the paparazzi leaking pictures of you leaping in the air in a tutu?” I say.

"All of you shut up. There won't be any tutus, and the class is going to have airtight security. No paparazzi will be allowed in the building," Coach says, plopping back into his chair.

He reminds me of my dad when I was little, when he would flop down in his big La-Z-Boy chair at the end of the day. He would chase all seven of us around while my mom worked at
S is for Style Salon
as a hairstylist. Dad drove a truck at night, and Mom worked Monday through Friday cutting hair to support all nine of us. Things were hectic, but I loved being part of a big family.

Knowing when I'm defeated, I ask, "When do we have to start?"

“This afternoon. Be at that address on that letter or pack your bags and find yourself another team.”

I’m taking ballet.

My sisters took dance class when we were kids, and they loved it. If they find out about this and tell my brothers, I'll be the target of every joke at our family get together this fourth of July. Coach had better keep his word about the damn paparazzi.

"This is some ridiculous shit," Kyle says, storming from the office with me on his heels.

"We're gonna have to kick some serious ass if this gets out, man. My sisters are relentless. I'll never hear the end of it."

“My wife’s gonna love this. I don’t even dance at weddings. You haven’t seen relentless till you’ve met my girls.”

Kyle has three daughters, a house full of estrogen. Good thing he’s gone a good portion of the year. I’m never going to be a part-time dad when I have a family. I’m not sure how the hell I’ll pull that off when I travel with the team three-quarters of the year. I don’t have any prospective wives in sight, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

“I was going to lift this afternoon,” Kyle says. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets like a pouting kid.

“You can lift me.” I jump in front of Kyle and hold my hands over my head.

“Shut the fuck up, man, I ain’t lifting your ass nowhere.” Kyle pushes me aside like a feather and trudges toward the entrance of the Cavanaugh Stadium.

Kyle kicks a trashcan on his way to his car, and I chuckle. He’s more pissed than I am about this. I look at my phone and see that I only have thirty minutes to get to my first ballet class.

What does a guy wear to something like this? I’m pretty good at putting together a sharp outfit for any occasion. Mom says I have an eye for fashion. But dance class? I sure as hell don’t own a leotard, and if I did, Mom would be asking some pretty uncomfortable questions.

I swing open the door of my sleek black Bentley GT and slide into the driver's seat. Damn, I love this car. I’ve only had this baby for a month. It’s my first new car. I never wanted a sparkling new ride, but after being hassled by my teammates about my 1996 Chevy Blazer for five years, I broke down and bought this beauty.

Kyle calls it my bait car. He says I bought it to get laid. That’s the very reason I never bought something new. I detest gold digging women, and my old Chevy helped me weed out the worst of the worst.

I had a woman turn around and go back into her house when I pulled into the driveway in my old Chevy. I sent her a quick text thanking her for not wasting my time and went out to eat with a friend.

Now, I’ve become so well known that it wouldn’t matter if I showed up in a beater dressed in rags. Gold diggers can smell the money. My plan is to drive my luxury car and enjoy it while staying away from women for a while.

Yeah, right.