Authors: Jasinda Wilder
By the time Becca and I were on the way home late that evening, she was chattering a mile a minute about all the plans she and her mother had made. Apparently, we were having a small spring wedding, around March. We were inviting only those closest to us, mainly Enzio and Leena, Nell and Colt and their parents, a few of Becca’s friends from the university, Coach Hoke and few of my closest buddies from the team. Becca would be about ready to pop by that point, as she was due at the end of April. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, Becca had already been looking at wedding dresses and had found one online that would be perfect for her to wear eight months pregnant. I wasn’t quite sure why we didn’t just get married sooner, like in December or January, but when I suggested that, Leena and Becca both just gave me matching
what are you, stupid?
kind of looks.
“I’m not getting married in the winter,” Becca had declared, and that was that.
Enzio had smirked at me, drawing me into his study, where he poured me a glass of thick amber scotch. I almost never drank, so the scotch burned all the way down and settled in my stomach like a ton of bricks, but after the first few sips I’d started to like the heat of it.
“It’s best to let the women have their way with these things,” Enzio had told me, clapping me on the shoulder. “They will ask your opinion, perhaps, but it doesn’t really matter, unless you are fool enough to say you don’t care, which is the wrong answer. I remember when my niece was married, I saw this whole thing play out. The poor boy Maria married was hopelessly confused, always not understanding when they asked which napkin he preferred, or which flower arrangement was best, and they would never pick the one he liked. ‘Why ask me if you aren’t going to listen?’ he wanted to know all the time. It is women, I told him. You cannot understand their ways, especially as it comes to weddings and parties.”
I nodded at his words and sipped the scotch, feeling a warm buzz settle over me as I finished the tumbler of fiery alcohol. Becca drove us home when she realized how buzzed I was, and giggled at me whenever I spoke, the words slurring slightly.
“You’re funny when you’re drunk,” she said, pushing me into our apartment and guiding me to our bedroom.
“It’s weird. I don’t like it,” I told her. “I feel disconnected.”
“Well, maybe you should just lie down and let me have my way with you, then.” Becca shoved me backward so I stumbled and fell onto the bed, then caught my foot in her hand, unlaced my sneakers and drew them off, then my socks.
“Sounds good to me,” I mumbled, watching her as she reached for the button of my shorts.
When I was naked, she stepped away from me and kicked off her flats, then reached behind her to unzip her skirt and let it fall to the floor. I felt myself hardening at the sight of her thighs and muscular legs, the lacy red “V” of her panties. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly from the bottom upward, gradually revealing a bra that matched her underwear. I swallowed hard at the sight of her standing in her bra and panties, skin dark and firm, black eyes roving my body. I lay still and waited, licked my lips, and shifted back on the bed, pillowing my head on my crossed forearms. She unhooked her bra and tossed it aside, her heavy breasts swaying as she moved. Her panties went next, and then she was naked and crawling over the bed toward me, pressing a kiss here and there as she climbed over me, a predatory gleam in her eyes. Her knees settled on either side of my ribs and she leaned over me, draping the soft, heavy heat of her breasts onto my face and dragging them downward, kissing my chin and my cheek, my shoulder and my chest.. She slid and slid, her body flush against mine, until I pressed against her damp, hot opening and glided in. She never paused in her downward slide, pressing me into her folds until our bodies were joined hip to hip and we were moving together, her forearms on my chest, hands cradling my face and her lips devouring mine, the seal of our kiss shifting with each rock of our bodies.
Soon Becca was moaning in rhythm with our thrusting, her motions growing erratic and frantic, and then she collapsed onto me with all of her weight and gasped a breathless shriek into my shoulder as she shuddered and came apart. She thrust madly against me then, pushing up to sit straight, lifting up with her thigh muscles, and sinking down with violent desperation. She held her hair back with her hands, head tilted to the ceiling, balancing effortlessly, riding me hard, her full breasts jiggling with every motion. I cupped them in my hands, leaned forward to suckle a nipple into my mouth, eliciting a whimper from her, and then I fell back as my own climax washed over me. I gripped the curve of her hips in my hands and crushed her down onto me, watching her face contort with her second orgasm, watching her breasts bounce so perfectly, and then I came and came into her, calling her name in a low growl. I sat up as my climax rocked through me, pulling Becca’s legs around my waist, cradling the back of her head in a tender kiss, her hand on my neck near my shoulder, the sheet draped around us, our hips moving in perfect synchronicity, our hearts beating together.
We sat like that, breathless as our climax receded, bodies entwined and meshed and merged, eyes locked and searching, exuding love in silent exchange.
“Marry me,” I whispered.
Becca froze, staring into my eyes, and then a delirious smile spread across her face. “Yes. Yes! Oh, Jason, yes.”
“I know I’m supposed to have a ring and ask you on my knees, but—”
“No, this is perfect. That wouldn’t have been you.” She pulled my mouth against hers in a fierce kiss, then drew away just enough to speak, her lips whispering against mine. “I love this proposal. It’s perfect. It’s us.”
She tightened the grip of her legs around me, moving slightly as if to test my readiness for round two. I was still buried inside her, and the slick warmth of her body around mine was an intoxicating drug in my system, her scent in my nose an aphrodisiac, her lips on mine and her hands skating over my arms and back and chest sending blood thrumming through me, and then I was ready once more, hardening and lengthening inside her, needing her all over again.
I lifted up onto my knees, Becca’s weight held in my arms, then crashed forward on top of her, fitting my hips into the “V” of her thighs. She never unlocked her legs from around me and refused to loosen her hold on my neck, gripping me close and rocking against me, our thrusting bodies grinding together in a wild and reckless pace, each taking what we wanted and giving everything we had, crying out and grunting and sighing and moaning and whispering each other’s names. She came first, as she always did. I followed soon after, and then we wrapped each other up in a serpentine tangle of limbs and fell into sleep together.
*
*
*
Jason
September, one year later
I danced along the sideline at a full sprint, the toes of my cleats digging into the turf at the very edge of the white line, arms outstretched, eyes locked behind and above me on the brown and white bullet rifling toward me in a perfect spiral. I felt the defenders in front of and behind me, jostling me, shoving and pulling at me, but I ignored them, bulled my way through them. The ball was a laser, shot from Drew’s hand straight where I’d be in about….three seconds. Ten more steps. I strained, feeling my balance wobble as I struggled to stay inside the line, between the defenders, and on pace with the incoming ball. My breathing was ragged inside my helmet, and I barely heard the shouts of fans screaming my name. I liked that part, I had to admit.
Then I heard her, above them all. “
Go, go, go! Get it!
”
Such a sweet voice, shouting loud just for me, a momentary distraction as the ball spun into the waiting cage of my high-stretched fingers. I was airborne, although I didn’t remember actually making the leap. The ball slipped through my fingers, and I felt desperation flare inside me.
A single-second distraction caused by just the sound of her voice, but it was enough to possibly cost us the game if I didn’t make the catch. We were down by a single TD, and this could tie the game, giving us a chance to win my first game as an NFL wide receiver. I was still airborne, coming down on one foot, the ball balanced on one palm. My other foot hit, my breath left me in a
whoof
as gravity took over and tried to crash me through the turf.
I had the ball in both hands now, captured in my gloves.
Wham
.
A defender slammed into me from behind, his burly arms around my waist, shoulder in my ribs. I went flying with him, knocked airborne by his brutal tackle. I focused every ounce of strength I possessed into clutching the ball in my hands. Time slowed as I sailed forward, green turf and white lines blurring. I saw an orange cone at the L-intersection of two white lines, and realized I was near the end zone. I extended my body toward the thick boundary line of the end zone, stretching my arms as far as they’d go, willing my momentum to carry me far enough. Time unfroze, and the earth crashed up into me, knocking the breath from me as the defending player landed on top of me. I heard a distant roar, but it could have been the blood in my ears, or the crowd going wild. I struggled for breath, sharp pain shooting though my chest, signaling a bruised or broken rib. The other player, a huge beast of a guy named Nate Johnston, was also a rookie, and I’d played against him in college a few times. Nate rolled off me and scrambled to his feet, then extended his hand toward me, his black skin shining with sweat, teeth showing brilliant white as he grinned at me from inside his helmet.
“That was a fuckin’ spectacular catch, Jay,” he rumbled, jerking me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I gasped.
I leaned forward, still unable to catch my breath. I was bowled forward by my teammates crowding around me, jostling me and slapping me on the back. I realized I’d made the touchdown at that point, and glanced at the sidelines where Becca stood with our son Ben on her hip. I kissed the tips of my index and middle fingers and pointed at them. Becca grinned at me, then lifted Ben higher, taking his little arm in her hand and waving at me.
Benjamin Kyle Dorsey was born on April 19th, and he had his mother’s curly ink-black hair, but my green eyes. He was the center of my world, and the highlight of my every day. Becca and I were married on March 20th, on a sunny but chilly Sunday, and everyone we loved was there, except Kyle and Ben. We’d set a place at the head table for them, left empty with cards bearing their names on the stacks of china plates.
I gave Becca one last glance, then turned to celebrate my first career touchdown with the rest of my team, still struggling to fully catch my breath. I followed the offense players off the field for the extra point, slumping onto a bench, pressing a hand to my side, where each breath seemed to stab through me.
Doug, the trainer, came over to me. “Okay, Dorsey?”
I shrugged. “Hard to breathe. Might’ve dinged a rib on the landing.”
Doug knelt in front of me, poking and prodding under the pads, then got up to his feet with a grimace. “I think it might be broken. We should get you to the locker room so I can look at it.”
“I’ll be fine. Just tape it and get me back out here.”
Doug shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Dorsey. If it’s broken, you can’t play.”
“Then it’s not broken.” I didn’t bother telling him how many times I’d played with bruised ribs.
I’d never tried to play with a broken rib before, but I knew I had to do it. I wasn’t about to get benched my first game. Each breath, each motion was pure fucking agony, so bad my eyes stung and watered when I stood up. I stretched gingerly, stifling a gasp when the motion sent a lance of pain through me.
Doug was no fool, though. He saw the wince on my face. “You tied us up, Jason. Jarred’s got the next drive. Come on back, let me look.”
I knew I had to at least let him tape it, so I followed him off the field.
“Jason, what’s wrong?” I heard Becca’s voice from one side and saw her jostling through the crowd to the edge of the stands, cradling little Ben against her chest.
I moved to stand beneath her. “I’m fine, baby. Nate caught me in the ribs, but it’s nothing. Don’t worry, okay?”
Becca knew me, though, and she saw the pain in my eyes. “Don’t be a tough guy, please? Sit out if you’re hurt.”
“Fuck that. I’m fine.”
“Watch your language around your son, Jason Michael Dorsey.”
Doug snickered beside me. “Oh, snap, you got the full name.”
I glared at him. “Shut up, Doug.” I turned back to Becca. “Sorry, babe. But I’m fine, I promise.”
Doug moved away and beckoned to me, glancing back at Becca. “I’ll make sure he’s really fine, ma’am. Don’t worry. He doesn’t play unless I give him the okay.”
Becca seemed relieved, but the worry never left her eyes. I forced myself to perfect stillness while Doug examined my rib, refusing to so much as wince.
“Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely bruised, if not cracked. I’ll have to get some X-rays done to be sure. You’re definitely not playing with it like that, though.”
“The hell I’m not. Tape it and get me back out there.” I stared him down.
“Dude, seriously.” Doug was a younger guy, thin and fit, carrying himself with authority despite the newness of his position. “It’s not worth it. You don’t have anything to prove. You just made a catch that’ll be pure gold on the
Sports Center
highlight reels. Sit it out, take care of yourself. Be smart so you can go back to playing that much sooner. If you play and it gets broken further, you’ll be out for weeks.”
I hung my head and rubbed the back of my neck. I knew if my dad was standing over me, he’d insist I play. Men play hard, and they don’t sit out. Unless you can’t move, you play, no questions asked.