Page 36 of Studs Up
I leaned into the corner of the counter, and I cringed.
“About the call ups,” I started because we couldn’t room together.
“Yeah,” he interrupted, talking to someone else. “Gotta go. Things have been pretty difficult, and I’m looking forward to releasing some hard tension.”
He hung up, and I was left wheezing and with a raging erection.
“Fuck you,” I said to the deadline. I dropped my phone, and it clattered on the counter. I intended to press my palm to my dick to get it to go down but found myself pulling my cock out instead.
In the days after our brief tryst at the hotel, I hadn’t stopped masturbating and then deeply regretted it after I came. I hadn’t broken the rules yet, but I knew I would. The minute I saw him again, I was going to be reduced to nothing more than a cock starved, Nolan Reed obsessed groupie.
I had to stop it. All of it. No more calls. No more texts. No more masturbating. Cold turkey. Turn it off. Box it away. No more Nolan Reed. The most important thing was not to room with him at the next call up.
…
Just before a film session with the entire team, Coach Santos grabbed our attention.
“Shut up,” he snapped, and the chatter died down. “I have an announcement to make.” Bernie stood off to the side, holding what looked like a trophy cradled in her arms like it was her firstborn child.
“We have an award that was sent in by a fan. Monroe,” he pointed to me, and I raised my eyebrow. Fans sent all kinds of things to the front office. More often than not, it was panties for Charlemagne.
I stood to a variety of whoops and claps.
“If it’s the best dick award, we all know that’s Charlemagne!” Rafa called, and everyone laughed, even Charlemagne. He stood and spread his arms.
“I happily accept,” he announced.
“Sit down,” Santos grunted.
Santos slapped me on the back and beckoned Bernie, our equipment manager, forward. She dutifully handed Coach the trophy. It was a cheap knock off Oscar, made of poorly casted plastic. The seems were uneven, and the two pieces of the award were glued together.
“I would like to present to you the Oscar for Best Dramatic Performance in Professional Sports.”
Yup, on the little plastic plaque was Oscar for Best Dramatic Performance in Professional Sports typed in ink.
Laughter and clapping came from the team as he handed me the Oscar. It didn’t need a note. I knew exactly which asshole sent this to me.
“Speech!” Alex shouted from the back.
I humbly obliged.
“Well, I’d like to thank the assholes that made this possible. Fuck you,” I held up the Oscar. “As for the fan that sent this in, well, fuck them too.”
Another round of laughter.
“You are such an asshole,” I said when I got home. I broke my vow before I even remembered I made it when I placed the call.
“For what in particular?” He asked, but I heard the grin.
“Best dramatic performance in professional sports,” I said dryly.
“Congratulations, you earned it.”
“Fuck you,” I said, trying to keep my laugh contained. I adjusted the Oscar on the shelf until it was straight. It wasn’t going on my actual award shelf, but I wanted it around anyway, so I put it with my Jade succulent and one of the air plants.
Now would be a great time to mention that we shouldn’t room together. Doing it over the phone felt like the cowardly thing to do, but I was afraid to be close to him again because I was sure that my determination would break.
It was already crumbling. I shouldn’t have called him. I should have just texted, but the sound of his voice was something I was grasping onto. I don’t know how many times in the last few weeks I had listened to every single one of his pre and post game interviews.
