6. Scarlet

SIX

SCARLET

"Oh my God! I can't believe I told him it shouldn't be asking too much to be a good girl and a good girl ," I wail, hitting my forehead on the steering wheel.

I would give an entire week's supply of not only coffee but caffeine of any kind to be able to take those words back. One minute everything was fine. I was rambling on with more detail than he probably cared to get about my friendless, loveless existence, minding my own business while working my fingers into his muscles. His well defined, smooth, corded, lickable muscles.

Then the next, I'm saying I want to be someone's good girl and am one word vomited sentence away from saying I want to be his good girl. His good girl who gets told to crawl to him, take out his cock, and suck on it until I gag, and every other mortifying fantasy I've been getting off to lately.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I repeat, punctuating each reprimand with another hit against the leather.

And okay, maybe things weren't entirely fine. Because while I've given Roman a number of recovery massages as well as several other players on the team, it has never been like this.

Touching Remington and mapping the ridges and valleys of his muscles. Listening to the subtle changes in his breathing and the groans and grunts that slipped free. The ever present drawl of his words growing longer, thicker, and more pronounced. Watching his body tense and flex before slowly relaxing. Smelling the clinging traces of eucalyptus and rosemary from his soap before they combined with the lavender and peppermint balm as it melted into his skin.

With every touch and sound, I was transported to a special kind of hell. One where my body grew warm and flushed. My skin prickled and zinged, drawing my nipples taut and alert. My weight shifted from foot to foot as I clenched my thighs against the swelling throb of my clit and rapidly dampening panties. The urge to rub against him like a cat in heat until I came driving me mad.

Even now, I can't help but squirm as I recall it. That torturous need to touch and push the boundaries of what's acceptable as I had talked about with him coming to life with an agonizing frenzy.

Hands down, massaging Remington Tate was the most sexually charged, frustrating, and arousing situation I'd ever been in. And like an absolute moron, I agreed to go live with him. To trap myself in his home, where I'll be surrounded by an infinite number of tiny details that create the sum of the man and of course himself, twenty-four seven, without escape. Because apparently, I'm a masochist.

Groaning again, I quell the visceral need to slip my hand between my thighs and rub my pussy through the fabric of my leggings right here in the damn parking lot where anyone could see me and instead punch the start button of my SUV with my knuckle. The soft hum of the engine and awakening lights of the dash pull me out of my mortified misery enough to finish throwing my stuff into the seldom used passenger seat. Dropping my phone into the center cup holder, I tap away at the screen to pull up a playlist of a dozen songs I currently listen to on repeat but pause when I go to hit play.

My mind is a merry go round of obsessive thought, the ride only just beginning.

He called me baby girl. As effortless and unapologetic as breathing, he repeated it to me in the light of day. Traces of all potential, however improbable, excuses I concocted for its occurrence last night obliterated. He consciously called me baby girl. And while every touch and smile have worked to slowly steal and claim pieces of my heart this season, it's that endearment that makes me weak for the idea of him, of us, and all the possibilities of what we could be. My daydreams and late night fantasies, all seemingly within reach because of that simple, breath stealing endearment.

But to be an us, I would have to be open with him, honest, transparent, and share something I no longer talk about if I can help it. We can't have a relationship otherwise. Because for as much as I've come to want and crave sex—have learned my body and developed a more than healthy appetite for it—I'm terrified that I've been broken beyond repair and am crippled by the idea of transferring that burden to yet another person.

With that merry go round picking up speed, I know I need to get off before I spiral. I need a distraction, time to empty my mind and box the effects from my past back up. I need to shop, get a manicure, or maybe both.

The Home Team

Today 11:32 AM

Scarlet

Decided to hit the mall in Green Hills. I'll bring dinner home ??

Daddy

Use your AmEx

Scarlet

Dad

Daddy

Scarlet

Scarlet

I have my own money, you know

Daddy

Yes, but I haven't gotten the joy of taking you shopping and carrying my weight in bags in a while. Let me buy them for you

And your books. Can't forget the mountain of books you buy despite having a Kindle

Scarlet

They're called shelf trophies. You know, like a serial killer lol

Daddy

Because that's not alarming… remind me to call Christy's office on Monday. Need to be sure I haven't been raising a sociopath all these years

Scarlet

Haha… you're SO funny ??

Daddy

Thanks, I'll be here all week

Compromise? You buy THREE new outfits on the AmEx as a gift from me

Scarlet

ONE

Daddy

One AND a pair of shoes

AND NOT WORK CLOTHES!!!

Scarlet

Deal

Daddy

Okay, have fun and be safe, Princess

Love you

Scarlet

I will. Love you too ??

And Daddy… thank you ??

Daddy

Always, Princess.

The Home Team

Today 6:17 PM

Ro-Boat

Squeaks, where are you?

Daddy

Thank God you're more observant on the field, son

Ro-Boat

What is that supposed to mean?

Scarlet

Look up, dipshit ??

Daddy

?????♂?

Scarlet, be nice

Scarlet

I'm always nice ??

Ro-Boat

Bull shit! You're as angelic as Lucifer

Oh…

Fine, when will you be back

Scarlet

If you must know, Warden, I just got home.

Where are YOU?

Ro-Boat

None of your business, Squeaks

Scarlet

You have my dog. Of course it's my business

OMG!! Roman if you're out getting Winnie a pup-cup, I'm locking her gassy ass in your bedroom with you tonight!!!

Daddy

Ro, don't you ducking dare! That dog should be considered a crime against the Geneva Convention when given dairy

Ducking*

DUCKING**

Jesus Christ… I hate autocorrect

Scarlet

??????

Ro-Boat

??????

Squeaks, she looked so sad when I didn't get her one. I had to go back

Scarlet

Admit it, you LOVE my dog

Ro-Boat

Never! That chicken shit gives Dobermans everywhere a bad name

Scarlet

WAIT!!!

Are you saying you already gave her one???!!!

And Winnie is NOT a chicken shit!!! You take that back!!! ??

Ro-Boat…

Ro…

Roman

ROMAN ELIJAH JONES!! YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!!!

Daddy

Fuck… Let me go see if I can same day deliver gas masks…

Ro-Boat

??????

Plotting my revenge, I toss my phone and keys on the counter alongside the drink carrier and massive bags filled with Chick-fil-A I picked up in lieu of popping one of Mary Anne's meticulously balanced and portioned premade dinners for us in the oven.

Glancing at the chore chart and deciding I also don't want to do dishes tonight, I grab a stack of paper plates from one of the drawers and throw them up on the island's counter and begin unboxing and plating everyone's food.

"Fingers off my fries!" Roman shouts just as I'm about to pop a massive waffle cut fry into my mouth under the guise of taxes.

Smirking as I eat it anyway, I squat to the floor as the sound of precious puppy feet without traction on the hard floors echoes from down the hall.

"And to think, I brought you one of those raspberry blondies you like."

"Really?" I ask hopefully around my mouthful just as 70 pounds of pure puppy love tackles me. Ruffling Winnie's ears as her little stump of a tail wiggles with such ferocity it looks like her butt is shimmying, I coo, "Did you have a good day with Uncle Roman?"

Laughing as she licks my face, I respond, "I know he did. That's because he's a bad influence. Letting you have whipped cream, shame." Meeting her dopey, brown eyes, I melt completely as she rests her chin on my shoulder. Smoothing my hand along her fur, I ask, "What else did you do? He didn't use you to pick anyone up again, did he?"

"It was one time!"

"According to you, ‘one time is all it takes.'"

"Different circumstances."

Cocking an eyebrow at him before shaking my head, I stand up and ask, "What'd y'all do today?"

Ruffling my hair, he answers, "We went for a run; played at the dog park—by the way, add Pomeranians to the list of things that terrify her. After, I took her to see the mammas and littles at Phoenix House where she had the time of her life rolling around with the babes and showing them how to crawl; then she took a nap with Dad on the couch while I answered emails, paid invoices, and all that other shit I hate managing. And after, I took her for a ride in the bed of my truck to get a pup-cup. All in all, a better than good day."

"You really should hire someone to manage the business side of things. You absolutely hate it and during the season are always scrambling to get everything done in time."

"Yeah, and where am I going to find someone I can trust with all that? Money's one thing, but the locations of the homes? Nah, I'm not risking it. Unless of course you want to reconsider…" he leads on, his eyes bright and hopeful as he rounds the island. Picking up several of my shopping bags from one of the stools, he holds them out in confusion and shakes his head, "I'll never understand why you buy so many clothes. It's not like you need any of this for work. You wear athletic clothes every day, most of which is provided through endorsements so you don't even have to pay. That's a win-win if I ever saw one."

"Spending my work days in leggings and sports bras is exactly why I buy the stuff. Unlike you and Dad, I don't particularly find Hobo Athlete Chic to be a flattering look. I spend all my time surrounded by a bunch of smelly dudes. When I'm not at The Nest, I want to feel pretty and girly and not like one of the guys."

"I don't think you could ever be mistaken for one of the guys with this ," he sneers, his icy hued blue eyes turning glacial as a lacey thong dangles from his middle finger. "Who the fuck did you buy this for?"

"Will you get out of my stuff?" I screech, snatching it from his hand and diving over the counter to grab the rest of my bags from him. "Stop it!"

"Seriously, who are you wearing this shit for?"

"No one!"

Yanking the matching bra out from the delicate tissue paper before I can rescue it, Roman scoffs, "Yeah, because this fucking says, ‘For my eyes only.' I wasn't born yesterday. You only wear something like this when someone is going to see it. So who the fuck is he?"

"You're such a guy. Women can wear lingerie for no other reason than to make themselves feel pretty. Proven fact, women feel more confident and powerful when wearing sexy lingerie whether for show or not."

"Scarlet."

"Roman."

"Children," Dad calls, coming up from the ground floor of the house where our gym is, wiping his shirt over his bare chest and face to soak up his sweat. "Play nicely."

"Do you know what your daughter is buying?" Roman accuses.

Opening the fridge, he quips, "A dress? Shoes? More serial killer trophies?" as he pulls out a red sports drink and begins to guzzle it down while leaning against the counter.

It takes only a moment before his eyes zero in on the pink lace cup bra that Roman is dangling over my head as I try to jump to grab it. Choking on his drink, our dad coughs as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, his gaze comically wide.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," Roman jeers triumphantly. "There's matching dental floss in the bag too and fuck knows what else."

"I didn't buy the dental floss, did I?"

"No," I snap. "You bought the cropped sweater to go with my tulle skirts and the suede booties." Shoving my brother as he makes me jump for my underwear, I growl, "You're such a hypocritical ass hat, Ro! You wouldn't give one flying pig fart beyond how fast you could get it on the floor if it was anyone else's."

"Because they're not my little sister!"

"I'm 21! I think by now I should be allowed to date and fuck without your constant interference."

"And on that note!" Dad announces over the both of us. "Roman, give your sister her… undergarments back. And Scarlet, as long as the boys you show interest in keep running scared the moment Ro pops up behind you, please don't…"

"Fuck them?" I supply, smiling sweetly up at our dad's pained expression while holding my hand out for Roman to give me back my bra.

"Yes… that."

Stuffing the overpriced piece of lingerie back into its bag, I push a plate towards my brother, grumbling, "Here, jackass."

"Scarlet," Dad warns.

Giving Roman a sickeningly artificial smile, I force out, "Love you, Ro-Boat."

"Love you too, Squeaks," he mutters, taking his plate and plopping into one of the chairs at our breakfast table.

Kissing the top of my head as he takes his own plate piled high with two sandwiches, a dozen and a half nuggets, a large order of fries, a salad, and three fruit cups balanced on top of it all, Dad puffs up, "And they said I had no business being a father at eighteen. Look how well you two turned out."

"Yeah, as well-mannered and behaved as a pack of wild dogs," Roman laughs. "I mean seriously, Dad. A shirt? Something? We're eating."

Taking my own seat, I tilt my head and chide, "He who lives in glass houses should not cast stones. Or do you not remember last weekend when you came down for breakfast in your briefs with a hickey on your neck?"

"Says the girl who wanders around in our jerseys without pants in the morning, ruining a time honored fantasy amongst athletes," he retorts, stabbing a forkful of lettuce in my direction.

Posing with my hand under my chin, I say, "You're welcome," before popping a nugget drenched with sauce in my mouth.

Flicking a blueberry at me that our dad intercepts and eats, Roman asks, "So, how's Crutches? He gonna be good? Or should I start getting used to Knox?"

Picking around the slices of strawberry, Dad answers, "You should be fuckin' working on becoming seamless with Knox regardless, but yes. I talked with Jennings earlier. He's taking Remington in for surgery tomorrow morning, and afterward, Scarlet will take him to Gatlinburg to begin his rehab.

"Princess, will you pass the sauce?" he interrupts, pushing the fruit cup away and opening up his sandwich to dump the condiment on top. "Thank you."

Not missing a beat he returns to saying, "It'll be ten weeks of recovery while Jennings is on paternity leave which puts Tate at…"

"Early to mid-December," I supply, plucking one of the discarded strawberries from my dad's bowl.

"Yep, December for a return to full training. It'll be tight, but he's in good health, and we know Scarlet will crack the whip if he's not giving 110% every day."

Frozen with his spicy chicken sandwich halfway to his mouth, Roman slowly clarifies, "Gatlinburg?"

Shrugging as I see the wheels beginning to turn in my brother's head, I feign indifference and dismiss, "Yeah, he lives there in the offseason and since he's out until spring, it's his offseason."

"And we're okay with this?" he asks our dad, completely ignoring me.

"Um, last I checked, I don't need your permission, Roman."

"She's doing her job."

"No, she's doing someone else's job. She's in clinicals and not an actual trainer."

Putting my hands on the table, I slowly ask, "Are you saying I'm not capable of rehabbing him?" Winnie comes beside my chair to put her head in my lap, a soft whine in her throat, urging me to soothe her and myself.

"Princess, that's not what your brother means and you know it."

"Then enlighten me, Dad. What exactly does he mean?"

Raising his hands in the air, Roman asks as if we're all too dense, "Does no one else see a problem with this? She's going to live with Remington. In fucking Gatlinburg. While we're across the country for the final series and on the road for playoff games. Seriously? Am I the only one here seeing the whole picture?"

"Rehab for a professional athlete is a full time job, Ro. You know that. It's not uncommon for trainers to live with clients or members of the team they work for post surgery," Dad answers.

"But Squeaks is a student ."

"So? I'm the best in the program. Who else would they trust with this? Besides, you heard Dad yesterday. Jennings was already going to have me working with Remington's hip once the season was over. It's the same thing."

"Yeah and for that you would have been going to The Nest then coming home. Not living with him. Therefore, not the same fucking thing!"

Patting Winnie's head as she whines a bit louder, I steady my voice and ask, "Roman, what issue do you think we're not seeing?"

"My issue is that no one, not you, Dad, or Jennings, seems to see that Tate is trying to get in your damn pants!"

"Would you be saying this if she were a man?" our dad asks, the silent role of mediator he dons when we argue melting away.

"No, because?—"

"Good. Because if my own son is bringing that sexist bullshit onto my field, we're going to have a serious issue in this house."

"It has nothing to do with you being a woman, Squeaks," he pleads. "You know I think you're the best. Fuck, we all know you'll be running the whole damn show by the time you're thirty. But you both forget, Remington may be able to read the entire team, and every other team in both Leagues at the drop of a hat, but I can read him . He hates thinking he'll be an inconvenience to anyone.

"Remember when his car died and instead of asking one of the guys for a ride, he took a damn rideshare to and from The Nest for two weeks until he had time to buy a new one so no one had to go out of the way or be delayed because of him? And y'all expect me to believe that guy decided making a trainer come live with him isn't going to be a hindrance to her life? Nah, the fucker wants in your pants."

"You're being ridiculous," I scoff. "He's not making me do anything. We talked about it this morning. What personal life do I have to hinder? Go ahead, Ro; answer. I'll wait."

When he remains silent, I huff, "Yeah, that's what I thought. My apartment in Chattanooga is little more than a hotel where I sleep between lectures. Instead of packing a bag each week to come here, I pack a bag to go there. Beyond classes where the professors have already agreed to make modifications for me to go remote, there's nothing and no one worth keeping me there. No friends, no boyfriend, so why stay? For nights studying in the library while the rest of my classmates are in their own study groups that they conveniently forgot to invite me into joining? Thanks, but I'll pass," I snap, standing up from the table.

"Scarlet," Dad says, the rich, dark blue color of his eyes dimming as he looks at me, the helpless feeling of being unable to fix what's upset me plainly reflected on his face.

Kissing his cheek and wrinkling my nose at the smell of dried sweat on his skin, I murmur, "It's okay, Daddy. I wouldn't want to associate with people who can be so callous to a stranger anyway." Grabbing my plate, I circle the table and kick at Roman's foot, muttering, "You can be a real butthead sometimes, you know that?"

"Yeah… I'm sorry, Squeaks. I just worry. What if you need us?"

"Remington isn't him, Roman. Until ten minutes ago, you would have laughed at anyone who even made the insinuation."

"And I never would have thought that fucker?—"

" That wasn't your fault, Ro," our dad says, his knuckles of the hand holding his fork turning white.

"But—"

"No buts," I declare. "Now, I'm going up to pack, take a bath, and try to get some sleep. I'm assuming after this, I'll be seeing you both bright and early in the morning." Directing Winnie up the stairs as I stack the handles of my shopping bags up my arms, I call out, "Love you," happy to shut the door to my room once upstairs.