The game, p.7
The Game, page 7
I growled but didn’t say anything. I felt like I was trapped. A prisoner of other people’s expectations and juggling a million tiny balls trying to keep up the façade. I got up and walked over to the sliding glass door between the living room and balcony, staring out over the busy road that separated us from the lake. The leaves were starting to turn, even though it was warm in the early August sun. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting with all the changes and pressure.
A door opened and the tropical smell of coconut and plumeria wafted out of the bathroom, followed by the sound of another door opening and shutting. Abby was done in the shower, probably rifling through her things trying to find new clothes, maybe wrapped in a towel as she carefully balanced on her crutches. Maybe she needed my help…not that she’d ever admit to it.
Abby’s halting limp as she came down the hallway toward us distracted me from the view. She had thrown on warm-up pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt to guard against the chill of the air conditioning and her hair was damp, leaving wet trails on her white shirt. A buzz of the intercom indicated the arrival of dinner and she hobbled over to the island, where she plopped on a high stool. Sylvie busied herself by pulling out glassware, plates and paper towels. The strange mood that Abby had walked in on dispersed as we ate and Sylvie started to list off the things she had planned for us.
I was to start working with the club’s main philanthropic organization, running free camps for inner-city schools and guest coaching at their teams’ practices, and she wanted Abby to help out with them somehow as well. It would be good for us to be working together in the public eye, she claimed. Bah. I tuned out and focused on eating.
Abby’s laugh pealing out like bells interspersed with a completely unexpected delicate snort pulled me out of my ferocious concentration on the best pizza I’d ever had in my life. The beer wasn’t bad either.
“Sylvie, you can’t be serious,” she managed to say in between adorable little snorts. “A morning show appearance? Sue? The Bean?”
“Dead serious. You two are a couple and you need to be out and about in the public eye. That means learning the town, checking out the sights. Getting your photos taken and meeting fans,” she said with growing excitement. “I can see it—you ask a tourist to take your picture, we make it seem like Matti’s proposing again. It would be adorable.”
“I can barely walk,” said Abby as she calmed down a bit.
“What’s the Bean? And Sue? And we’re doing a game show?” I asked, completely confused.
“Sylvie wants us to go check out this sculpture in Millennium Park—it looks like a big, mirrored bean. Sue is the name of the massive Tyrannosaurs Rex skeleton at the Field Museum, another major Chicago landmark,” Abby explained and snorted again. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she’d realized the noises she was making were less than—well, ladylike.
I swatted her hand away. “And I’m supposed to pretend to propose, again?” I asked and started to grin. This could be fun. Abby smacked me in the arm as I leaned over to steal her pizza. She pinched my thigh and I howled. “That hurt, you monster.” I leaned toward her and she started laughing and ducked away, throwing her other pizza crust at me, which I managed to catch and shove in my mouth.
“Yes,” Sylvie interrupted and glanced back and forth between us with an eyebrow raised. “I want you out in the public as soon as Abby is more mobile, becoming part of the city, being recognized and raising your profiles. Can you do that?”
I checked Abby out from the corner of my eye. The flush from her cheekbones traveled down to her chest beneath the loose collar of her shirt as she nodded along with me.
“Good, because it starts tomorrow morning bright and early with Abby’s first doctor appointment.
“Then, Matti,” Sylvie continued, “you have to check in with the team for your first workout. Abby, while you’re at Northwestern, maybe you could drop in and say hi to Coach Williams if there’s time. He knows you’re in town and would probably love to see you.”
Abby nodded silently and finished her pizza. Her fingers twisted the paper towel into a rope and she started to wrap it around her fingers—something I’d learned she did when she was nervous. I reached over and covered her hand with my own.
“And maybe your family?” Sylvie asked
Abby’s fingers tightened beneath mine on the towel and her arm muscles tensed. I squeezed and she slowly released her hold. “No, Sylvie, I think I’ll be okay without talking to them,” she said evenly.
“Oh, fine. If you change your mind, let me know,” Sylvie said after a brief pause. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement on how to handle the next few weeks. Now, this old lady is ready for bed. You two can handle clean-up and I’ll see you bright and early for your first appointment—Abby, eight o’clock.”
The door to the guest room shut behind her.
“I guess that takes care of the sleeping arrangement question.” I got up and started to load the dishes into the dishwasher.
“I can move into the guest room when she leaves. Since she’ll only be here for a few days.”
I changed the subject, not wanting to admit that I would totally be okay with maintaining a shared sleeping arrangement. She clearly still found me unworthy. “What did Sylvie mean about your family? Are they nearby?” Her face changed in an instant, from open and laughing to shuttered and dull.
“Yes,” she said quietly, and began to twist that paper towel again. “I don’t speak to them, we’re not close and, no offense, but I’m really not interested in talking about it.”
“Fair enough. I didn’t mean to offend you. My family is really close. They’ll probably want to adopt you by the end of this,” I joked and was rewarded with a faint smile.
I finished the dishes and wiped down the counter. “Come on.” I offered her my arm. “Let’s head to bed.”
We slowly moved down the hall and I could see the pain on her face. “Have you taken any pain meds today?” I asked, and she shook her head. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to get dependent on them,” she said with a wince.
“Abby, you’ve got to take this seriously. You need the meds.”
“Let it go.” Her voice was sharp. “You’re not my mother.”
I shrugged and opened the door to the master bedroom. Our suitcases were lined up against the very far wall of the large space that was dominated by a huge modern platform bed. It was high enough that it would be easy for Abby to get in and out and big enough for both of us to have plenty of space. It was covered in a pristine, fluffy white duvet and the pillows puffed up like clouds. Abby’s suitcase was open and a small trail of clothes draped out of it. Already making her mark on our shared space. I like it.
“This is nice. Plenty of space for both of us.”
She nodded. “Yeah, the bed is huge. Mind if I take the bathroom first? I only need to brush my teeth and stuff.” It wasn’t really a question as she was already rummaging through her suitcase. She pulled out a small red leather case.
Sleeping in long sleeves and warm-up pants? This had disaster written all over it—I slept warm, and usually naked. Hopefully this would prove to be a matter of modesty in an unfamiliar situation because she was going to be hot if we were sleeping together. I shut the blackout curtains over the floor-to-ceiling windows and dropped my dirty clothes in a pile with hers. Barely managed to pull on clean underwear and a pair of old team shorts as she came back into the room. The elastic on the shorts was shot and they sagged over my hips. Her jaw dropped when she caught sight of me, and I smirked.
“Is that what you’re wearing to bed?” she managed to squeak out.
“I’ve been told I’m like a furnace when I sleep, so I’m usually naked. Take your pick—short-shorts or nada.” I shrugged and walked into the bathroom.
By the time I came back out she was sitting up against the backboard reading, her lower half under the covers, right leg elevated on a pile of pillows. She made eye contact and quickly returned her attention to her book. Her eyes darted back toward me again a moment later and snagged.
“What?” I asked as I slipped beneath the covers.
“Um, nothing?” she said uncertainly, but she wouldn’t stop staring at me. “You have a lot of tattoos. I didn’t realize there were more than the ones on your arms and legs.”
Hmm, was my little fake fiancée a fan of ink? I smiled internally. “Yeah, I do.” In fact, I was pretty much completely inked. Arms, shoulders, chest, back, a few on my thighs and one on my left calf. Mostly traditional American designs, all chosen in one-off sessions. “Do you like tattoos?” I asked curiously as I attempted to scan her body without looking like I was ogling her.
“I guess? I mean, I don’t have any, but I’ve always kind of wanted to get one.”
“Then you should. Who’s stopping you?” I yawned and stretched, lying down and turning toward her.
“No one, I guess. My family raised me pretty strictly. It was never an option and I’m a little scared of needles. But these—” She reached out as if her hand were a moth drawn to the open flame above a candle burning at two ends inked on my bicep. “These I like.”
My arm sizzled where she touched me lightly and she snatched her hand back as if the candle’s flame had physically burned her. We stared at each other for a moment, the clean smell of her tropical shampoo wrapping around me, practically strangling me. I wanted to touch her, draw something on her that would be as indelible as the ink on my own arms.
She turned down the corner of a page, closing her book with a snap. “Good night,” she murmured as she leaned over and clicked off the reading lamp, cloaking the room in complete darkness.
“Night,” I said and closed my eyes, fighting the desire to roll into her and pull her against me. A security blanket against the unknowns of the next day. If I were to tattoo something to remind me of her and this night, it would be an anchor, maybe a bird cage. Something grounding, but entrapping at the same time.
Chapter Nine
Matti
That night, I dreamed of peaches—peach pie to be exact. Once upon a time I’d played on a team with an American whose mom used to ship him pies made with peaches from his grandmother’s orchards in Georgia. How she had gotten them to Cologne still fresh was a mystery that probably cost an outrageous amount of money. But they had always been fresh and cloying, tasting like summer. Sometimes he would make vanilla bean whipped cream the way his grandmother had taught him to put on top. When he was in a generous mood, he’d share and, up to that moment, I was sure it was the greatest thing I’d ever tasted.
Up to that moment only because I had my tongue buried in Abby’s pussy and it tasted better than that perfect, summer golden honey-syrup that had drenched the peach slices in the filling. Her hands were knotted tightly in my hair, pulling me so deeply into her that I could barely breathe as I held her thighs down and spread wide to allow my broad shoulders between them.
I alternated smooth decisive licks of her slit, delving in and out for more of that delicious flavor, and twirling lightly around her clit before sucking hard while she cried out for more. My name was a broken curse that tumbled from her lips as I slid one then two fingers inside her and curled them toward where my tongue nibbled on the sensitive nub. Abby screamed and shattered around me, her walls fluttering and gripping my fingers tightly as she came.
As her shudders subsided, I kissed my way up her body. Those icy gray eyes, now softened like molten silver, stared up at me in surprise. Her eyelids were heavy but her hands were still tangled in my long hair and she pulled me down for a kiss. I settled above her, caging her in with my forearms and nipping at her chin, jawline, and up to the delicate shell of her ear. I whispered, “God, Abby. I love you so much.”
She shivered and pulled me down to blanket her completely and whispered back—
“What? Matti, what the hell? Wake up!”
My eyes opened slowly, and the warm little package that had been curled into me had turned into a shrieking ball of arms and legs all trying to extricate themselves from my embrace. A cat meowed above my head and I felt little claws and toe beans kneading away at my loose hair and scalp. Abby’s flailing arm caught me in a very unfortunate place and I doubled over in the fetal position. She rolled upright with a face as red as a traffic sign.
“What did you say back there?” she asked in a deadly calm voice.
I stared at her wordlessly, still able to taste the phantom peach pie of my dream, smell the scent of her tropical bath products as they heated up with her arousal.
“Because I heard something that I’m really not sure I ever want to hear again.” She paused and inhaled. “Also, if you’re dreaming about fucking someone, could you at least have the courtesy to not give me a sleep-talking play-by-play?”
“Uh, yup. I’m sorry. Did I say something offensive?” I asked more than a little nervously, hoping against hope that my declarations of love had been completely garbled or silent.
“No, some mumbles that sounded like ‘pussy tasting like peach pie,’ and you were snuggling me like it was your life’s mission—I literally couldn’t breathe.”
She stared down at me, her eyes fixed on my crotch, where I’d pitched a tent. Truly impressive, given the confines of my underwear. The head of my cock twitched under her beady eye and I nearly bucked toward her. I wanted her hands, her mouth, anything, all over me.
“Peach pie,” I said with my eyes closed again. “It’s my favorite, my absolute favorite.”
“Mmhmm,” she murmured, and maybe it was my imagination, but that hum seemed closer and the smell of plumeria or hibiscus seemed to be tickling my nose more strongly, as if maybe—just maybe—she’d been dreaming the same dream as me and wanted to see it through to the end.
“Kiddos!” Sylvie’s grating voice cut through the thick air and I opened my eyes in time to see Abby pulling back, flushed and breathless, the whites clearly showing around her gray, now stormy, eyes. She grabbed for her crutches, heaved herself off the bed and limped to the bathroom. The door shut behind her with a decisive crack as our agent’s fist pounded on our bedroom door. “Abby Belinda, Matthias, get your asses out of bed. We’re going to be late to the first appointments!”
“Relax, Sylvie. Abby Belinda is up and in the bathroom and I’m getting dressed,” I shouted back to reassure her.
“Gonna make the coffee. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re decent.” She clattered off down the hallway. We were going to need some rugs or Sylvie’s spike heels were going to destroy the hardwoods.
The covers pooled in my lap as I sat up and scrubbed my hands through my hair, catching in a rat’s nest of tangles while I listened to Abby tunelessly humming in the shower. I frowned at my still twitching cock, which was perking back up as a picture of a rosy and deliciously wet Abby rubbing herself down with a sudsy washcloth invaded my mind. “Down, boy,” I said as I pressed my left hand, hard, on my crotch. Jesus.
* * * *
Abby’s first appointment was with an orthopedic surgeon and trainer at Northwestern University. Sylvie left us in the waiting room and bowed out, saying she’d had enough of hospitals and medical professionals since Abby’s accident and wanted to go grocery shopping for us. Abby had my hand in a death grip, her face was white, jaw clenched, as we waited for the team to assemble in the private room we’d been ushered into by a set of fluttering nurses.
“It’s going to be okay, Abby—” I tried to promise, but the door swung open and interrupted me. I felt Abby stiffen further and her grip somehow tightened, cutting off the circulation in my hands. One look at the wildness and fear in her eyes and I stopped trying to wriggle my fingers loose. I shifted closer and she leaned into me.
“Abby, great to meet you. I’m Doctor Mitchell, lead on your care team,” said the young, jocular doctor with the receding hairline. It was incredibly immature, but I was relieved that this team of doctors didn’t have any fairy-tale princes or superhero types.
She nodded and cocked her head at me. What did she—oh.
“Hi, I’m Matti—the fiancé,” I said and extended my hand to the doctor.
“Yes, another famous soccer star! Delighted to have you both here. Let’s dive right in.” He was all business as an intern bustled in and put up some scans on the light box and flipped the switch. A mangled leg, knee bent at an impossible angle, glowed from the screen. I winced.
“As you can see,” he said, “we have a tear in the ACL—definitely your second if not third—and the meniscus is badly damaged too. Surgery is the first step toward recovery, then extensive physical therapy. Luckily, you’re in the right place here. In the last year our team has reconstructed the ligaments and knees of over five hundred athletes, from high school to professional.”
“How long till I can play again?” Abby asked quietly when the big braggart stopped to draw breath.
The medical team glanced at one another, then a young woman with a bouncy ponytail stepped forward, clipboard crushed to her chest. “That’s up to you. Your knee will feel almost normal after surgery, but full recovery to active playing status is a different animal altogether. It will ultimately depend on how much you’re willing to invest in your therapy. I’m Angela, and I’ll be your physical therapist, by the way.” She shot a toothy white American smile at us.
A little more medical mumbo jumbo, surgery scheduling and we were done. Very efficient, almost German. We hobbled out and found Sylvie sitting in the waiting room. She looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head slightly, hoping that Abby wasn’t paying attention. Sylvie grimly smiled to the nurse over our shoulders and hustled us back out to the car, one of my hands still clutched tightly in Abby’s iron grip and the other around her waist, holding her upright.
Abby’s face remained set, her eyes remote and staring into the middle distance as our agent pulled out of the parking spot and sped towards the exit.
“Hey,” I said, “that wasn’t terrible news. They’ve scheduled your surgery for next week and, depending on how your rehab goes, you have a great chance at getting back to playing.”
