50. Corey

“Let’s go. Get there!” I clap my hands. “Drop that shoulder. You don’t want to give the defenders a fucking handle to take you down.”

“You need a break?” Nolan asks.

I shake my head, not tearing my attention from the field where the wide receivers are running through a drill that focuses on footwork and speed.

“Burst,” I yell at a freshman as he hauls ass down the field like someone’s chasing him, ignoring the play’s instructions.

I leave Nolan at the sideline and catch up to the freshman. “If you run at full speed, the defensive backs will catch you. Glide, and then burst.”

He nods, but the glazed look in his eyes says he doesn’t care what I have to say.

“You’re fast,” I tell him. “Last year, you were probably the fastest guy in your league. Am I right?”

He nods again, but pride sparks in his features.

I shake my head. “You won’t be anymore. Guys like Palmer are exceptions. He’s so damn fast that he can operate by his own rules, but most of us can’t. That’s why we’re learning fundamentals—skills that will keep you from fumbling or getting laid out and your knee busted.” I point at the line of cones that marks where the change in speed should occur. “Fucking glide or get off my damn field.”

“Five bucks says he sprints his next time through the circuit,” Nolan says as I return to the sideline.

“You should probably offer a hundred,” I tell him, shaking my head as I watch the next person start.

“You want to go out tonight after our evening practice?” he asks. All morning he and Palmer have been trying to distract me like I’m about to lose my shit. “She’s only gone for a few days.”

His forehead pinches with a look of pity, but he doesn’t voice his obvious doubts that her return might be temporary.

“Next summer, it will be us leaving,” I remind him. “It’s either now or then.”

Nolan gives me a pained look, as if he, too, feels like he’s losing to time.

I return to my dorm fifteen minutes before Fallon’s plane is scheduled to land. The day has crawled by.I stand in front of my open fridge, knowing I need to eat something, when my phone beeps with a text. It feels like I can breathe for the first time in nine hours as I see Fallon’s name.

Fallon: I made it!!!

Me: Did you find the car service?

Fallon: …car service? We just landed. We’re still on the tarmac.

Me: They’ll be holding a sign with your name on it near baggage claim. Find them. They’ll take you to your hotel.

I knew she’d argue with me. Otherwise, I would have told her before her flight this morning.

Fallon: I’m staying with Janessa.

Me: She has a twin bed, babe. You don’t want to sleep on the floor and then go to tryouts. The hotel is two blocks away from her.

Fallon: This is too much. I can’t accept this.

Me: Yes, you can.

Fallon: I can’t afford to pay you back.

Me: I don’t want you to. I’d rather be there, supporting you, but this is the best I can do with the season so close.

Me: They should already have your bags. Text me when you find the car.

Anna’s first bout with leukemia taught me how few things are within my control—repeatedly—yet I still loathe every quote, motion picture, and song that replays that reminder. The idea of Fallon wandering around a foreign city where she doesn’t speak or read the language or know the customs has occupied too many of my thoughts for the past twenty-four hours. Thus, while she packed, I worked to minimize every difficulty she might encounter.

Fallon: I don’t know how to thank you. This is too big for a simple thank you.

Me: You being safe is all the thanks I need.

Fallon: Are you heading to practice?

Me: Yeah. But I want you to text me when you reach your hotel. I’ll keep my phone on me until I hear from you. Then you should get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day, and you’ve got a lot of ass to kick.

I pluck a protein bar from the tiny pantry and manage to eat most of it as I make my way back to the facility for night practice. These sessions will leave us bone tired in a few weeks as we’re pushed to every physical limit to prepare for the season. For now, they just leave us exhausted.

Fallon: I found the car.

Me: Good. I hope you’re able to get some solid rest. Block everything out. Or, if you need help falling asleep, you can watch one of the movies on our Media Training list. I can think of at least two titles that put you to sleep in minutes.

Fallon: I blame you and your couch.

Me: Pretty sure it was three practices a day.

Fallon: I’m pretty sure it was the comfort of you.

The facility feels like it’s a hundred degrees as I step inside.

“What the hell?” Lenny asks, following behind me. “I’ll hang the soccer team by their toenails if they sabotaged our air conditioner.”

We round the corner where others are griping about the heat and working out tonight.

“We’ll condition tonight,” Hudson announces, dismissing tonight”s weightlifting session.

Thankfully, Fallon’s message confirming she arrived at the hotel comes right before we head outside, where the heat is only marginally less intense as the sun hangs low in the sky.

The workout barely scratches the surface of my distraction. I have no idea how in the hell Nolan managed for so many weeks.

“Are we taking a field trip today?” a freshman asks as we break for water, referring to the trips we’ve been taking regularly to run near the women’s soccer team.

“Not tonight,” Hudson says without looking at me, earning a couple dozen protests. “Let’s line up.” He claps his hands. I’m grateful for him. The last thing I need is another visual reminder of Fallon’s absence.

Fallon: This hotel is INSANE. INSANE.

Fallon: Did I mention TOO MUCH?

Fallon: I can’t believe you booked a suite!!!

Fallon: Seriously, this is too much. Wayyyy too much.

Fallon: I hope your practice goes well. I’m going to meet Janessa for dinner. I’ll text you when I get back. XO!

Fallon: I just ate my weight in Patatas bravas. You would have loved them, Corey. They were soooooo good. And churros. So many churros. Someone is going to have to roll me to the field tomorrow.

There’s a two-hour window break between this message and her most recent, which reads:

Fallon: Would you rather skip Halloween or Christmas?

“You were a machine out there,” Palmer says, shoving my shoulder as he walks past. “I nearly forgot that I’m the fastest motherfucker on the team.”

Hudson chuckles.

“Give me a second,” I say as someone cracks another joke. I mentally calculate the time zone difference between here and Madrid, realizing it’s past one in the morning there. I shouldn’t text her in case she left her volume up, but I’m a selfish asshole and want to talk to her.

Me: Prior to moving here, I’d have skipped Halloween. Now, I’d skip Christmas.

The dots beside her name instantly appear, and relief reaches every part of my body.

Fallon: I need more details for that response.

Me: That’s not how our game works. It’s my turn unless you disagree.

Fallon: It’s an impossible question. I love both.

Me: Babe, it’s your question.

Fallon: Fine. We’ll celebrate them on the same day. The Nightmare Before Christmas-style.

“Fallon?” Nolan asks.

I nod, glancing at my friends, who wear matching smiles of understanding and goading.

“Get out of here,” Grey says. “And tell her good luck for us.”

I nod and head for the exit without showering because the facility feels even hotter than it did before practice.

Fallon: Did I mention this hotel is too much?

Me: My father has a deal with The Banks Hotel. It’s the only place he stays. It didn’t cost me a penny.

Fallon: They probably think I’m your dad. I received a welcome gift.

Me: They’re preparing you for your future of stardom.

Fallon: Are you still at practice? Am I distracting you?

Me: I’m walking back now, and I want you to distract me.

As soon as I hit send, I call her.

“Hey, you.” Her voice is a comfort I feel through my muscles and bones to something so much deeper.

“I won’t keep you long since it’s late, but I needed to hear your voice.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“How was the flight?”

“Insanely nice. I’m questioning if hot towels are an urban legend because I didn’t get one. But I could literally stretch out, and the food was great! Oh, and the cake. Oh my gosh, the cake. Corey, I was ready to lick my plate, and they totally noticed because they brought me a second slice.” She laughs, and the sound, like her voice, is a comfort that cocoons around my heart.

“Was it chocolate?”

“Four layers of chocolate perfection, with raspberry between each one and possibly the best chocolate frosting ever made. It was the cake I never knew I needed in my life.”

I chuckle as I step into the dorm.

“I spent most of the flight watching footage and reading about Spain’s coaches, so I’ll have some idea of what they’re looking for.”

Though I’ve seen brief clips of Fallon playing, I’ve never seen her fully immersed in her element first-hand, and though I’m proud as hell, I feel a twinge of jealousy that so many strangers will witness her playing before I do. “What time do you have to be there tomorrow?”

“Six.”

“Shit. Babe, you need to go to sleep.”

“I’m so nervous and tense that I can’t. I’ve been lying in bed for two hours. I need you to distract me. Tell me why you’d skip Christmas now but not before?”

“Anna loves Christmas. We’d start decorating on November first when she was sick because the lights and the trees cheered her up so much.”

“And now?”

“I still like Christmas, but I have some costume ideas for you to wear with me as your only audience.”

She chuckles. “We don’t have to wait for Halloween for that.”

“I’ll send you an entire wardrobe of costumes you can wear while we video chat.”

She sputters. “For phone sex?”

“It might be the best we get until February when my season ends.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Maybe we should practice.”

Blood rushes to my cock. “Fuck yes,” I say as I make my way into my room, dropping my things by the front door. I toe off my shoes on the way to my bedroom. The faint scent of her greets me from her sleeping here last night. I sprawl across my bed, finding more traces of grapefruit that have me thinking of a dozen images of her naked and all the things I’d like to do to her right now if she were here.

Fallon clears her throat. “I don’t really know how to do this.” She laughs, and it’s filled with timidness, but there’s a familiar note, assuring me she’s curious.

“Are you in bed?”

She hums a yes. “In the middle.”

“What are you wearing?”

“In reality, or should I describe one of these fantasy costumes?”

I chuckle as I imagine the humor dancing in her eyes. “Reality.”

“In my rush of packing, I forgot pajamas.” Her voice is softer, with the edge of timidness. She clears her throat. “So I’m wearing a T-shirt and underwear.”

“Next time we go to the beach, you should forget to pack pajamas.”

She laughs. “I didn’t wear pajamas at the beach.”

My muscles are both too tight and too loose at the memories she sparks. “Close your eyes and imagine we’re back there. Lie on your back and imagine you’re gripping the headboard while I trace over your body, touching your breasts. Your stomach. Your thighs. I’d paint you with my fingers, touching you everywhere except your nipples and between your legs until you begged.”

Her breath hitches.

“Then, I’d tease your nipples. Rub them between my fingers and pinch them until they were so hard and sensitive you’d be shivering like you do when you get really turned on.”

Her next breath comes out pitched.

“Are you touching your nipples?”

“Yes.”

I groan. My cock is so hard, it’s painful. I slip my hand under my athletic shorts and grip myself, trying to ease the pressure and give myself a single stroke. “Good girl. Now, imagine me running my tongue over your nipples, teasing you until you tell me you might come.”

She moans softly. “My nipples are so hard.”

I stroke myself again. “What do you want next, baby? Where would you want me to touch you?”

“My clit.”

“Run your fingers over yourself. Are you wet?”

“Soaked.” She moans. “I’m so turned on right now. I’m literally aching for you.”

I close my eyes, imagining her as I stroke myself harder. Faster. “Me too, baby. Rub your clit. Find that spot that makes you squeeze your eyes shut and your whole body tense.”

Her breaths increase, and so does my fist.

She whispers my name, and I’m pretty sure she’s seconds from coming apart, but her breaths even out too quickly.

“I’d be tasting you right now. Fucking savoring you with my tongue while I traced your wetness over you, dragging my finger from your core to your clit. Drawing the same path over and over. Hard and fast, then slow and lazy until you were dripping.”

“Yes,” she says. “I want you doing that.”

“Then, right as you’re ready to climax, I’d slide my finger inside of you.” I squeeze myself. “Finger yourself, Fallon. Show me exactly where you want me and how you want me to touch you.”

She moans again, a breathy sound that I could get drunk on. It’s the sound she makes when I press against her core.

“That’s right. Stroke and rub. You feel so good. So tight. So wet.”

She moans again, and I nearly blow my load.

“Now, add a second finger,” I tell her. “Stretch yourself and feel that ache ease.”

Her release is a muffled sound in my ears as my heart crashes against my ribs, wanting her so badly it physically hurts as I arch and then come.

I’m still shuddering, my eyes closed as I imagine my cheek resting against Fallon’s chest.

“I miss you,” she whispers.

My heart aches at her admission, reminding me how I miss her like I would oxygen or sleep—in a way that is necessary and fundamental to existing.

“Try and get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow. Text me when you get a chance.”

“I will.”

The line is silent for several seconds. Neither of us knows how to end the call because goodbye isn’t nearly enough. Not for how I feel. Not for what she means.

“Night, Corey.”

“Goodnight.”