Author’s Note: The following contains adult situations and mature language.
The single parking lot light strobs in the cold, black of a winter’s night. Snow flurries swirl in the blustery wind like pale glitter in the flickering light.
The dying fluorescent bulb casts a pale halo over the sole car in the parking lot, disappearing into the blackness before it is illuminated again.
The erratic dance of the light continues as I cross the parking lot, my hands shoved into the pockets of my coat. My scarf is swirled around my nose and mouth, keeping the bitter cold out of my lungs. My boots crunch slightly over the mixture of snow and ice that is collecting on the asphalt. I step gingerly when the light dips to black again, careful not to slip on the frozen patches.
When I called home just before leaving the library, Zack told me Chris had not made it back to the house just yet. I had tried to reach his cell but it went straight to voicemail. It has done so at this same time every night for the last two weeks, so I truly was not surprised. I knew exactly where to find him.
It wasn’t enough for Chris Powell to be the Knights’ captain this year. When the football team had first voted him as their choice for leadership, he wondered if he was deserving of the peer selected honor. The doubts about his ability crept in like the taunting, reappearing menace that they were in his mind. More than needing to prove to his teammates that he was good enough, Chris had to prove it to himself.
Now that the Knights have qualified for nationals, his determination to excel is has consumed him. They leave in two days.
The parking lot is barren for a reason. Everyone else has gone home. But not the captain. I make my way up the darkened sidewalk towards the entrance to the Knights football team’s indoor practice facility.
The bar on the double doors screeches and the hinges whine as I push my way inside. A jet of heat strikes my face from the vent overhead, instantly helping to thaw my frigid body.
The door slams shut behind me but I doubt the facility’s only occupant has heard me over the music blaring from oversized speakers suspended around the roof. The bass thumps, sending a vibration through my body.
I walk up the aisle between the bleachers but stop, hanging back slightly. I conceal most of my body at the edge of the bleachers, peering around them as I watch a master fine tune his craft.
The bass from the music causes the metal bleachers to shake, a slight rattle each time the beat pulses. I recognize the song as one of Chris’s favorites to listen to pregame. I pull the scarf from around my face.
I watch my love as he works. He is wearing a red Knights’ t-shirt, dark with sweat around the collar and stomach, the sleeves cut away in his preferred style. He wants nothing to impede the movement of his arms. As my eyes inventory the sinewy curves of his biceps and robust forearms, it is hard to believe any amount of cotton fiber would ever stand a chance against Chris’s strength.
Though winter came early to Hartfeld University, blanketing the campus in white powder in early November, Chris’s sun is still sun-kissed in a golden, bronze from his summer job and outdoor workouts during the fall.
His shorts stop just below his knees, powerful calf muscles accentuated over athletic tape around his ankles and cleats. A sheen of dampness glistens on his face, neck and arms, his brown hair tousled.
Chris grabs a stack of small orange cones and places one at the 15-yard line and two others spread over the 10.
He crouches down at the 10-yard line in runners position. Whatever sign for his start he visualizes, it signals go as he races back and forth from cone to cone, racing around one and then back pedaling at a vigorous speed around another.
I watch as his arms pump, the thread of each muscle timed perfectly and increasing his speed as the muscles in his legs propel him faster and faster like a stallion. After continuing the grueling speed for a minute, he slows, jogging a few steps before he rests his hands on his hips and takes a deep breath.
He takes the bottom of his shirt in his hand, lifting it to his forehead and wiping away the beads of sweat. A droplet hangs on the tip of his hair, dangling before the sweat drops to his eye, causing him to wince slightly. He rubs the already soaked material over his eye, turning around and I am greeted by the statuesque rippling of his abs. I suck at my teeth as I inventory his body. He does not see me.
He walks over to the sideline bench and I hold my breath as Chris pulls his shirt over his head, tossing the wet item onto the bench with a slap. He bends down and grabs a water bottle, squirting a long, cooling drink into his mouth.
The walk across campus in the approaching snow storm had chilled my bones to the marrow but now my body feels hot, burning like a bonfire. The heat seems to radiate from between my thighs up through the rest of me, clouding my mind and glazing over my eyes. My disoriented mind has a singular focus now. A yearning is present and I am a proponent of instant gratification.
Appraising Chris’s sculpted back, I stare with a strange fixation as his bicep curls again and he squirts water into his mouth. If only my wetness could quench his thirst tonight. I know however that although wet, there is no coolness at the center of my sex. It is hot for this man that I am utterly in love with.
Chris turns and I ease closer to the bleachers, concealing myself more from view. Peaking around them, I curiously gaze on as he walks over to quarterback target trainer, pulling on one side of the railing, moving the netting apparatus to the center of the 20 yard-line.
He walks back to the sideline and reaches into a bag and pulls out three footballs before marching to the Knights logo at midfield.
Balancing all three balls in his hands, he places two down on the rubber turf before staring down at the net. His movements are poetry and I study him as if watching a film in slow motion.
He drops back, his feet moving in a fluid back pedal as his arm rises. The Spartan-like muscles of his chest, his abs, and his biceps all communicate in unison as he launches the ball into the air, it spiraling at such a rapid speed the eye cannot detect it before zipping through one of the targets in the net with a clean swish. He bends down and grabs another ball, black pellets bouncing from the turf as his feet move quickly backwards again and another laser is thrown straight through the net.
He stops and walks back to the final ball picking it up before he trots back to the 40-yard line on the opposite end of the field. This time he stands flat footed and even over the music I can hear his umph as he propels the ball towards the net and into the third and final target.
At this, I step out from behind my hideout. I remove my gloves, shoving them into my pockets before I slowly clap my hands together, stepping out onto the turf.
Chris is jarred from his laser-like focus, jerking his head up briefly startled. When his eyes meet mine, he slowly begins to smile.
Before I approach he runs over to the sideline, fumbling with a small black box and the music is silenced.
When he stands and faces me again, his smile is exhausted but happy.
“Hey you,” I say with a grin.
“Hey,” he is slightly out of breath, the “H” pronounced more as an exhale than a word. His chest heaves up and down with each breath.
“Who’s winning?” I joke.
“We are,” he nods and puts his hands on his hips. He tilts his head to the side with a delighted smirk.
“Oh yeah? What’s the score?”
“Knights 107, other dudes 0,” Chris winks.
“Only 107? A little sluggish out there today?” I tease.
“Yes, that’s it. Fourth quarter I decided to go to the concession stands and get a beer. Cost us a touchdown,” he says with a straight-face.
“Well, for someone who drinks beer, you most definitely don’t have the belly to show it,” I say biting into my lip seductively as I purposefully look over his bare chest down to his abs. I reach out and run the tip of my index finger over his damp skin, tracing down to his navel. I feel his muscles tighten and he sucks in a breath.
“How long you been here?” He asks in a low voice, his stare meeting mine.
“Long enough….” I say vaguely. “Baby, it’s late. Snow’s coming. You should be at home.”
“Not done yet,” he says flatly and I step towards him.
“When did the other guys leave?” I ask narrowing the space between us. Sweat rolls down his temple, and he lifts his arm, wiping the side of his head on it.
“Some time ago, I’m not sure,” he shakes his head.
“Chris you are going to work yourself to death,” I say with concern. “Don’t you know how amazing you already are?”
Chris licks his lips and steps back from me, shaking his head. “I’m happy that you think so much of me and have so much confidence in me, but, football is…it’s everything. It’s my future, it’s our future. I was born for this but I can always be better. Stronger. Faster,” he emphasizes, his brow creasing.
“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself,” I say and step towards him again. I put my arms around his hips. The coat I am wearing felt like barely any shield at all outside, now it’s stifling. I know however the warmth I feel is not from the heater in the facility. The sight of Chris passionately pursuing perfection left me feeling a type of way that only his touch can relieve.
“I feel like ever since I was named captain, there are people waiting to see me fail. Some of the older guys on the team who got passed over as captain maybe. The media is monitoring my every move on and off the field. It feels like negativity is circling me. The best way I know how to combat that is to be great. To put in more time, to do more than anyone else. To show them I will do whatever it takes,” he says. He speaks with such passion I am moved. I want him to feel every bit of the success he is working for. He shakes his head and runs fingers through wet hair, slicking it back slightly.
I watch, unaware that I am licking my lips and holding my breath as he does. When Chris looks back into my eyes, my desire is obvious.
“So, were you watching me a little while ago?” He asks curiously.
“Mmhmm,” I nod slowly, my arms still around his waist. He slides his gloved hands down around my hips.
“Yeah? And what is your scouting report on Chris Powell, QB-1?”
Devilment plays on my lips, my eyes lifting at the corners. “Hartfeld University’s Chris Powell is a promising prospect. His ability on the field is nothing short of amazing and his work ethic is unparalleled. Still, my scouting report must be at this time labelled inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?” He questions arching a brow.
“I must observe how the prospect performs in other areas before I can give my final report.”
“Oh,” he nods, both brows lifted now. “Well then Miss, let me show you one area I have exceptional skills in,” he says bending his head, his lips nearing mine.
My aroused being responds to his deep kiss with a starving neediness. I reach up and run my fingers through his wet hair, pulling his mouth down harder against my own. His tongue presses against the seam of my lips, wet and demanding before meeting mine.
Our lips smack together as he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his body.
I pull my lips free and he rests his forehead against mine. His gloved hands reach up and cup my face. Breathlessly we both gulp in air.
“Are you sure we’re alone?” I ask staring into rapturous blue eyes.
“Positive,” he says breathing heavily.
“Cameras?” I ask him.
“Only on the outside of the building, at least…I think,” he says.
“Worth the risk,” I determine and rise up on my toes to kiss him again.
The coat is suffocating. As Chris’s lips relentlessly coax mine into a thirsty response, I let go of his waist and unzip the coat.
He lets me go just long enough for me to slide it off my arms and throw it down on the field. I yank the scarf from around my neck and throw it down.
My hands wrap around his neck, resuming our kissing.
I reach down between us and run my hand over his shorts, finding him already hardening. I squeeze, drawing a moan muffled by our kisses from his lips.
I continue to massage him, my hand squeezing and rubbing his growing member through the clothing barricade.
I slip my hands inside his shorts and boxers and stroke him as I rake my fingernails from my other hand over the chest and stomach muscles I had admired just minutes before.
“Fuck,” he groans between our kisses and I squeeze him tighter and stroke him faster in response. He moves his mouth from mine to my ear.
“I want to feel you wrapped around me,” he whispers in a hoarse voice. “Right here.”
I look into his eyes and nod my approval.
He reaches down, unzipping my jeans, his fingers dexterously moving to unfasten the button.
“Turn around,” he says with a command that surprises me.
I realize however I am on his turf. This is Chris’s world, where he is the most comfortable. When he stands between two endzones, he is in charge. I am normally just a spectator, but tonight, I let the captain lead me on the field.
I do as he says, turning around and looking towards the other end of the field.
He leaves his gloves on. I close my eyes and coo when I feel his gloved hands on my hips, tugging my jeans forcefully down my hips along with my panties.
I am exposed as he pulls them down to my knees.
Chris helps to guide me down to the turf and I rest on my hands and knees, my bottom lifted for him. I am staring at the wall on the opposite end as I hear the rustling of clothes.
Then gloved hands return to my hips. The quarterback always needs his equipment when he works, just like any workman needs their gloves.
I moan in anticipation, my thighs restricted from opening wider, I feel Chris unlace one of my boots, sliding if off my foot and dragging one pant leg and my panties off. He doesn’t bother to take them off both legs and his gloved hands are on my hips again.
There is a pressing from behind as he pushes himself inside me, stretching me. He pulls me back as he pushes in and our rhythm begins. He presses a hand down on the small of my back, instructing me to arch for him.
I begin to moan wildly, this erotic scenario only a fantasy in my head, never believing we would have the opportunity to play it out.
He rocks his hips back and forth before our pace picks up and soon I am crying out over and over again as our bodies smack together.
He grips my hips, as his thrusts become more powerful. Biting into my lip to keep from screaming, I look back at him. From under my lashes I see over my shoulder a different Chris Powell. The same intensity of his gaze during a game is there now. He grunts and moans softly, his breathing rapid as he thrusts harder and harder. I cannot contain my cries now and they echo through the empty facility.
“Chris, yes!”
I look back at him again, and he lets go of my hips but continues to thrust. With a ripping of Velcro, he unfastens a glove, biting the finger of it and pulling it off with his teeth. It drops to the turf between us and he reaches around my thighs and begins to rub my womanhood as he continues his thrust.
My cries become screams now. My fingers dig into the faux green fibers of the turf, little black rubber pellets finding their way under my nails as I grasp at the ground desperate for something to hold on to.
“Are you going to come for me here?” Chris leans over my back and whispers to me as he continues to rub my sensitive bud, his thrusts deeper and harder.
“Ye-…yes! Oh my god, Chris!” I shout and ball my hands into fists as pleasure courses through my veins and erupts with like a volcanic explosion.
My inner walls grip and pulse around him and he shouts loudly as he forces his hips into me faster. With guttural shout, Chris pumps hard once more before I feel the warm release within.
He lies over my back, his mouth near my ear, his heavy breaths lifting my hair with each exhale.
“You, you are incredible, you know that?” I ask.
He chuckles lightly. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.” He kisses my cheek and puts a hand down next to mine, balancing himself. His fingers reach out to play with mine.
“I have an update on that scouting report,” I say as he sits up and slides himself out of me.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” he questions. He wipes his forehead on the back of his arm again.
“Prospect is skilled in all areas, delivers peak performances and his abilities are sure to reach a climax,” I say and take in a deep breath.
Chris lets out a laugh as I turn and look back at his smiling face.