Winning Pass - A Football Romance

A
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This 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.

F
or Dustin
, my high school sweetheart. My past, my present, my future. Thanks for always finding me, even when I didn't realize I was lost.

P
AIGE

When my first love, my only love,

Elijah Witter was forced out of my life, 

I thought I'd lost everything.   

Never thought I'd feel whole again.  

B
ut I learned
that if you want something, 

You work your ass off to get it.    

And now, I've got everything I ever wanted. 

I'm curvy, confident, successful, and determined.

As an in-demand physical therapist,    

Nothing can stop me.   

B
ut when I
finally find Elijah again,   

And caress his torn and football battered body, 

I realize that I don't have the most important thing,

The only thing that matters.

E
LIJAH

A
s a wide receiver
, you have to be ready for anything thrown at you.   

Unfortunately, I learned that the hard way.               

After my mom died and my dad took over,                

My life was no longer my own.                                

I love playing pro ball,   

Love the thrill of the game and physical exertion, too.                   

I just don't love all the bullsh*t that comes with it. 

B
ut now
, things are about to change.                    

Paige Sullivan is back in my life,

She's intoxicating, sexy, and gets my adrenaline going,

Way faster than football ever could.

And nothing--or nobody--is going to make me fumble the ball.

This time, I'm holding on for good.

I
pull
the corner of his towel down, his tight muscles tensing up even more under my capable fingers. “It’s all right,” I remind him. “I’ll go easy on you.”

He lets out a soft moan and shifts on the table before relaxing again. “Ah, that’s good. Right there, but harder.” His voice is breathless.

I smile to myself and listen to him, grateful that this one isn’t so quiet. I love it when they talk. It makes things
so
much easier.

“Oh God, right there. Yes.
Yes
.”

“One more thing,” I say to him, now pulling the towel down to right about his mid-ass. “My finishing move.”

I maneuver my hands just so and let my memory of pulse points take over. Only moments later, he tenses up one last time before letting out a long sigh and relaxing, completely done. I adjust the towel, careful to maintain my professionalism and not stare at him for too long.

Damn, it’s
so
hard not to look at his back, his arms, and especially his ass and thighs . . . I mean, usually, it’s not a problem, but liver spots
kind of
freak me out.

Mr. Anderson, my seventy-years-young and spry patient, wraps the towel tighter around himself and eases off the table, looking exhausted but relieved. “That was amazing. I’ve never had someone attend to me like that. Kind of makes me wish you were around when I was fresh out of the war,” he says, winking a blue eye at me.

“I’m so glad I was able to help. We on for next week?”

“You’d better damn well believe it. Thanks, Doc,” he says, gathering up his clothes.

Not quite. I clear my throat. “I’m um, not a doctor. Just a physical therapist. But I look forward to it.”

After taking care of him, I survey my lobby area, chewing on my bottom lip. Now that I think about it, maybe the ‘greige’ color would work best in here. I head into the tiny break room of my brand new office, unable to keep my cheerfulness at bay. We’re in the process of painting everything, so I wanted to take on a few appointments today before starting. But Jack Anderson was my fifth client for the day, and it’s only noon.

I sit down with my lunch, searching for the remote to my old box set sitting on the end of the long table. The TV flickers on without any help from me, and I realize Stacey has the duct-taped remote in her hand.

“Hey, I was getting ready to watch something.” It’s almost embarrassing how whiny I sound when I’m talking to my big sister.

She purses her lips together to keep from laughing at me. “Oh yeah? What were you wanting to watch? You know there’s never anything good on during this time of day. Just stupid court shows and local news,” she says as she yanks the remote further out of my reach. “Besides, you always get to choose.”

I sigh. “It’s my office, Stacey. You’re the one who wanted to come work for me, remember? Speaking of which . . . I think I want to go with that gray-beige color for the lobby. It says, ‘Come in. We’re professional, but we still know how to relax.’ Right?”

She shrugs her shoulders and pretends to ignore me instead. Typical. I refuse to let her rudeness get under my skin and resign myself to eating my tasteless grilled chicken salad, frowning at the candy bar that Stacey’s putting away with no problem.

Even with putting the past behind me, I still struggle sometimes with the jealousy. I look down at my sister’s dainty wrists and the dozens of bangle bracelets she always wears, wondering how genes can be so cruel.

Stacey snorts, pulling me out of my suddenly somber mood. “Oh my God, it’s one of those ridiculous Old Sugar soap commercials again. This must be a new one. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

There’s a man dressed as a king, in full regalia, talking to a squirrel while holding a bottle of body wash. I raise my brow. I swear. The things advertisers will do to try to score some views.

“
Well, don’t take my word for it. What about his
?” the king says to the squirrel, pointing to another man off-screen. The squirrel looks over, and it cuts to an insanely gorgeous, beefy looking guy wearing a San Antonio Longhorns helmet and a pair of those tight black pants, showering under a waterfall, from what I can tell. The man is washing his perfect washboard abs with the body wash in slow-motion, and even I have to make sure I’m not drooling. He removes his helmet and looks at the screen dead-on.

“
Elijah Witter
?” you hear the squirrel’s cartoonish voice say. “
The football player
?” Something about this guy sets off alarms in my head, like rusted gears cranking to a start.

“
That’s right. And you should use Old Sugar’s new Manly-Man body wash. Because nothing says manly like smelling good
,” the football player says, giving the camera an overly exaggerated wink that oozes cheesiness.

My heart stutters. The camera has zoomed in on his face, giving me a good look at the football players’ hazel eyes, the shape of his nose, and the dimple in his chin. I look at the jersey that’s hanging on a rock next to him, displaying the name,
WITTER – 11
.

The commercial fades out, and I’m stuck sitting here, trying to piece it together. “Did they say that guy’s name is Elijah? Is he really a football player, or was he just acting?” I keep my tone neutral, although my insides are churning.

Stacey finishes her last bite and thumbs through one of the magazines. “Yeah—Elijah Witter. He’s a real football player. Rafael is a big fan of them, I think. At least, he’s always screaming for the Longhorns when they’re playing on TV. He gets a little—”

“Are those names like their real names? Witter isn’t a nickname or anything, is it?”

She chuckles. “Wow. No, Paige, they use their real names. I love you, hon, but you are hilariously unaware at times.”

I want to roll my eyes, but something’s holding me back. Witter. Elijah Witter? I don’t know an Elijah
Witter
. But I did know an Elijah once. One with those same soulful hazel eyes and dark mop of hair, and even that same chin that he used to joke on. This is one of those moments when a live DVR box would be so helpful. Then I would be able to rewind and pause on him.

The blood drains from my face. No. I don’t need to rewind it, because I know that face. I may not recognize that body, but I
know
his face. He’s older, way taller, and well, he’s beyond freaking gorgeous. But underneath all that lies the same twelve-year-old boy who stole my heart all those years ago.

I struggle to stand, the dizzying effect making it more difficult. It’s like all the air has been pulled from my lungs. “Oh. Oh God.”

Stacey pulls her attention away from the TV to look at me, her eyes going wide. “Jesus, Paige. What’s wrong?”

I swallow against the growing lump in my throat, my hands splayed out and bracing myself against the table. “It’s Elijah. It’s him.”

She looks confused. “You’re going to have to be a
wee
bit more specific—”

“Elijah! You know . . . my best friend?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me to even say, considering that boy and I haven’t spoken in fifteen years or so.

It takes her a moment, but she slowly gets it and cocks her head at me, reminding me of a bird. "Wait a second. You mean to tell me that Elijah Witter is
the
Elijah? Your summer boy from when you were a kid? Didn't you go full-emo after he moved away?"

I collapse in my chair, my head in my hands. "Don't remind me."

My sister leans her head against mine. I'm grateful that at least someone else in this world actually gets it. This isn't some little crush that ended easily. Elijah was my whole world for what felt like forever. And the summer feels like forever when you're only eleven years old.

"Wow. That's . . . I don't even know what to say. What are you going to do about it?" she asks me, placing her hand on my knee just like she always does when I'm upset. She may be bitchy to me when the mood strikes her, but thankfully, she tends to be more supportive now that we’re adults.

"Do about it? There's nothing
to
do, Stacey. He's probably some big goalie, and I'm just me. Doing my own thing here. Doesn't he live in Texas, anyway?" I groan as I hunch over and cover my face with a freckled arm.

"Wide receiver."

I raise my head and lift a brow at her. "Come again?"

“He’s a wide receiver. Goalies are in soccer and hockey, babe. Not football.”

“I honestly couldn’t give a shit less,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I’ve waited years to see him again, and now . . . now, he feels even further away.”

Stacey is finally quiet, looking down at her hands thoughtfully. I’d worked so hard to put myself in a position of acceptance and positivity. I made it as a physical therapist and even opened up my own office. After letting stupid shit get to me for far too long, things were looking up for me for the first time in forever. Yet here I am, facing the huge wrench that’s just been thrown in my life.

What can I possibly do? And even if I did do something, which just sounds nuts to begin with, why would Elijah care? I excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom, staring myself down in the mirror. My red tangle of hair sits messily on top of my head, my blue eyes clear for now until the past creeps further in. It’s hard to look at myself, especially with the hard work it took me to accept and even like myself. My eyes drift downward, taking in the way my curves stick out unapologetically. Well, I like myself on most days.

Am I reading too much into this? Maybe I should just let everything go and move on. Still . . . Elijah’s was a face I prayed a thousand tear-filled nights to see again. How can I just sit here and
not
want to do something about it?