17. Olivia

CHAPTER 17

OLIVIA

I t's nice to know that Miles does in fact see me as a taxi service. Last night we were lying in bed and he all but begged me to come and pick him up from practice today. I suppose I should be happy that he thought to ask instead of just assuming, for a change, but still. It's clear that I'm just a means to an end to him.

I pull up ten minutes after the time I would call on time because he's always late, and I'm expecting to find him waiting by the door, pretending that he's mad with me. But even though I linger for ages, he's nowhere to be seen. The game is definitely over, and it's very likely that he's just gone off with someone else without telling me. It's none of my business to be concerned. And yet…

Two more minutes , I tell myself, but I barely make it twenty more seconds before the pacing becomes unbearable. I turn to the door, sigh and step inside.

Going down into the changing rooms is not my favorite thing to do. It stinks and it's usually full of boys who think they're God's gift to women, and half-naked men that I don't want to look at. I creep my way down the dingy stairs, my shoes sticking ever so slightly to the floor. I grimace and try not to think any harder about it, concentrating instead on the way I'm going to recommend the bulbs in all these lights be changed.

Sure enough, as soon as I open the changing-room door, my nose is assaulted by the delectable stench of sweat and mud — that kind of musk you get when too many boys have been sat in a room for too long without any ventilation. I want to take a deep breath, but that won't help the gag reflex, so I settle for trying to draw breath in through my mouth instead of my nose.

"Miles," I call out. "Are you here?"

"Hang on," he yells. "Sorry, I was just cleaning off my shoes. My boots got muddy last week when we played that away game in Michigan, and Jacobs keeps telling me off about getting mud all over our turf. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Okay," I say. I shuffle my weight from foot to foot as I wait, holding my arms awkwardly, not sure whether to cross them or leave my hands at my sides. This isn't exactly the kind of place I want to get caught lingering in.

Then there's some weird banging and rustling from the corner that Miles is hidden around. I don't want to rush over and look too emotional, but then there's another huge bang and a grunt, and he's taking ages anyway, so I dash over to him.

"Miles, what the hell are you doing?" I demand as I round the corner, then have to try and cover my surprise at seeing him half-naked bashing his shoes against the floor. My gasp is a total fail and it makes him turn to look at me.

He looks up and grins. "Hello, you."

I fold my arms, pretending to be unaffected. "You realize that's not the most efficient way of cleaning shoes, right?"

"True, but it is a pretty efficient method of getting a girl to come down here and look for me." Miles winks, tossing his shoes to the floor, a trail of mud bouncing after them as they go.

"There are easier ways to get into my pants than this, you know," I scoff. I swallow hard as he slowly rises from the bench and approaches me, unashamedly looking down at his well-toned abs and muscular arms as if to make me look too. "Have you even showered?" I ask.

"I'll shower when I get home," he says, then adds in a voice so low it's almost a growl, "Right now I have other things on my mind."

I giggle a little as he takes another step towards me. "What if we get caught?" I protest weakly, any arguing power I had vanishing as he puts his hands on my waist and I melt into him.

"No one's here," he whispers, pushing me backwards until I hit one of the lockers with a crash. It vibrates metallically and Miles smirks, leaning in close to me, pressing his body against mine. "And I don't see you saying no."

I groan and stop fighting as his lips hit my neck, letting my hand come to his chest so I can trace his abs as he keeps trailing his way down my throat. "No," I murmur. "I'm not."

His teeth scrape over my collarbone and I moan, reaching down to the waistband of his sweatpants. It's no secret that he's turned-on right now; his erection is pressing into my leg insistently and his breathing is heavy against my skin. He reaches down to undo the button on my pants too, slipping his hand inside until it's pressed against my heat.

All that stands between my wetness and his fingers is the thin fabric of my underwear. I moan as he applies pressure, slowly giving me just a little friction. He can probably feel how wet I am, even through my panties. It would be so wrong for him to fuck me here, but the thrill of the idea of it is making me even wetter.

"You're so sexy," he mumbles, his lips moving down to my throat where he sucks on my skin, no doubt giving me dark hickeys in places I can't hide them.

I push on his head, my fingers running through his hair. "Just tell me to stop, and I will," he murmurs, at the same time rubbing his fingers over my clit again.

I moan shamelessly. "I didn't say that, now, did I? Just don't leave any marks for anyone to see."

"All right, then," he says, and undoes a couple of buttons from my blouse so he can free one of my breasts from my bra. He dips his head down and scrapes his teeth over my nipple. I yelp at the sensation, his mouth and his fingers both doing their best to drive me absolutely wild.

"Stop teasing me," I hiss, reaching down to squeeze his ass.

"Would I do anything of the sort?" he grins, before returning to doing that thing with his tongue that makes me feel wild.

"Yes! You're doing it now!"

"Oh, is that what this is?" he says innocently. "And here I was thinking you were having a good time."

I growl, flinging my head back against the metal lockers. The sound echoes through the empty changing room, rippling through the air. I'm not sure how he manages the maneuver, but from inside my pants he manages to push aside my panties enough to twist his hand and push his fingers into my folds. I moan again, unashamedly, his fingers exploring deeper and deeper.

He presses a finger further into me, and I grip tighter to him, ready to let myself go completely despite everything.

And that's when we hear the door from the field slam shut.

Miles jumps away from me like he's been electrocuted, and I scramble to do all my buttons back up, brushing my hair with my hands in an effort to look at least slightly presentable.

"I knew this would happen," I hiss, glaring at him as I desperately readjust my clothes.

"You weren't complaining a second ago," he says as he pulls a T-shirt back over his head and buttons up his pants.

"Miles, this is bad. We can't do this."

He doesn't have chance to reply, though, because his teammates walk up on us. I lean against the lockers, trying to look discreet and casual and not like I'm still totally wet and flustered.

"Yo, Miles, dude," says one of the guys.

"What's hot?" says another, then he spots me and awkwardly adds, "Oh, hey, Olivia."

They all know me, of course. I've interviewed and taken photos of all of them more than once. I don't like all of them, but at least they respect me, most of the time. They know I'm an important part of their careers, like it or not.

"Why are you here?" says Raphael suspiciously. He's one of the difficult ones, always trying to prove himself as a big, tough man to mask his insecurities. He might not realize it, but I see right through him.

"I've just come to pick Miles up," I say, hoping that my breath doesn't sound shaky. Raphael raises a suspicious eyebrow, but doesn't say anything else.

"We don't usually get girls down here," jeers one of the guys at the back of the crowd.

"Yeah," says Pete, muscling through the others. "Only when Raph brings some hot chick down to brag about in front of everyone."

"Well, you wouldn't get any of that from me ," says Miles. "Especially not with her."

I understand completely why he says it, but it still feels like a slap in the face. I have to clench my fists to stop myself from recoiling.

Raphael laughs, then looks at me and adds, "Yeah. No offense, Olivia."

"Lots taken!" I snap, eyes prickling with tears. It's stupid to be upset about this, but I can't show weakness in front of the guys. I force my face into my very best glare to flash at them all, drawing myself tall to show them I won't be intimidated.

"Sorry," they all mutter.

"You better be," I say, suppressing my triumphant smile. "Okay, Miles, are you ready?"

"Yeah, I'll just grab my bag," he says.

I flash the boys another smile, then turn on my heel and march away. I cannot get out of there fast enough. It was a bad idea, and I knew it. I should never have gone down there at all.

Miles follows me out to the car, and as soon as we're alone again, he tries to say, "Olivia, I'm sorry."

I cut him off before he can start giving me that look that I feel so weak for. "Don't even bother. I get it. I do. It's whatever."

"Livvy—"

"Don't call me that!" I snap.

"Sorry," he says again.

He doesn't say another word for the whole drive back to his place.

We barely even say goodbye when he gets out, and as I drive home, I take the long way so I can think about everything. About the way he is to me when we're alone and the act he puts on around everyone else. About if I can ever really trust him when he can swap roles so easily.

About whether there even is an us to talk about at all.

The best bit about the car is it's a place to cry where no one's going to see.

Just what has Miles done to me?