Final Play: A Sports Novella (Players Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  From the Author

  Final Play

  By Stella Marie Alden

  Copyright (C) 2017 Stella Marie Alden

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  From the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 1

  CJ Quinn

  Slowly my eyes open, blinded by the stadium’s lights which I know damn well shouldn’t be straight overhead.

  Where the hell am I?

  “How many fingers am I holding?” Doctor Pranyama rests on his knees waving a brown mass in front of my face.

  “Two.” I must’ve guessed right, because he pats my shoulder pads and nods at my teammates huddled around me in a tight circle.

  The coach squats in the vacant spot left by the doc. “You with us, son? If so, get up and smile at the cameras. Folks are worried.”

  Still dazed, I nod and grab my friend Hacksaw’s outstretched hand. His firm grasp pulls me to standing while the whole world spins. Then, with one of his arms around my waist, I throw mine over his shoulder, and head towards the sidelines.

  When I wave at the crowd, the Giants fans show their enthusiasm by shouting, blowing horns, and stamping their feet in the stands. Although it does nothing to lessen the throbbing behind my eyes, it feels pretty good. Then I shoot a smile at the Fox camera guy running alongside us, hoping he’ll get a good shot. No doubt, my attempt will look more like a grimace on the evening news but hey, I tried.

  Finally, we reach the blessed bench and the doc shoots some shit into my arm. The game begins again and out on the field, the Panthers have the ball. Dammit. I must’ve let go when I got sacked but we’re still ahead by six. We can do this.

  “How long was I out?” I suck down Gatorade as Hacksaw studies me.

  This, I only allow because we’re friends. Anyone else, I’d shove off the bench with my cleats.

  After removing his helmet and mouth guard he says, “About sixty seconds. You look like shit. You okay?”

  “It was da nada.”

  Thank God, I wasn’t out long enough to get me kicked off the field. What with the Player’s Association all freaked out about concussions, owners are over-reacting. Sure, brain injuries suck but it’s part of the game.

  Hacksaw’s focus returns to the game and he mumbles something finding a chink in our opponent’s armor.

  Agreed. And now that my brain is straight, I’m downright pissed. I can’t even remember the last time I got sacked under a deep pile of bodies. “How the fuck did you let those guys get through?”

  Eyes glued to the field, his bald black head reflects the night lights as he shakes his head back and forth. “Ask Truck and Turk. Wasn’t me. I always have your back. I fucking love you, bro. Want to have your babies.”

  “Fuck off.” I grin and let it go.

  Shit happens. But generally, not to me.

  Suddenly, the crowd roars as the Panthers drop the ball and I stand. Time to go to work. That’s why I get paid the big bucks.

  Huh? The coach waves me away and sends in the new kid.

  I shout to our offensive team running onto the field, “Give number twenty-one my love.”

  That fucking guy punched me in the ribs when no one was watching and needs a lesson in Giant’s retribution.

  Running backwards, Turk smirks, and makes an a-ok with thumb to forefinger.

  First and ten, my replacement fucks up royally. If the coach keeps him on the field, all my pain was for nothing. Dammit, even unconscious, I throw better than the newbie. It’s no surprise when Coach glances my way and waves me back into the game.

  Two grueling hours later, I’m soaking in ice but feeling pretty good about the win. That is, until the doc stops by. “My office. 9:00 AM.”

  I’ve had worse injuries in grade school but grunt out my agreement.

  Apparently, he doesn’t believe I’ll show because he stuffs an appointment card in my hand.

  Seriously?

  I drop it in the water, then hand it back, all soggy but you got to understand. This guy’s a real dick-head, a sneaky bastard. None of us like him. Sometimes, he won’t even tell us what’s in his needles. The least he could do is wait until I’m dressed to hand me his fucking card.

  Whatever.

  After kidding around with the guys for a few, I head out of the locker room. A home game to me means just one thing, spending time with my new wife, Mel.

  She’s got this light blond hair that’s almost white and deep blue eyes the shade of an Iowa sky. Holy shit, my cock still goes wild at the sight of her. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, none of the other WAGS come close to her girl-next-door beauty.

  And there she is, waiting outside the door but…

  Oh shit. What’s this? Her eyelids are red and her nose runny.

  She almost tackles me as she jumps into my arms. “Oh my God, I was so worried.”

  Then she hits me on the chest with a fist. “Never keep me waiting like that. Understand?”

  I drop my bag so as not to whack her with it and hug her back. Fuck. She’s right. I should’ve sent someone out to tell her I was okay. Married only a few months she’s not used to being a football wife and I’m sure as hell not used to having one.

  I kiss her, thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world. Those tears are for me, not for the millions she’ll be out if I get ousted from the team. It’s totally amazing how my money just doesn’t interest her. I give her a healthy allowance which she never spends. My brother says she hands back the checks and tells him to invest it in our future.

  I never heard of a woman like that.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, babe. Okay? Just part of the game.” I rub her back and kiss the top of her head.

  Then she slips out of my embrace, stands on tiptoes, and cups her palms to my cheeks with blue eyes blazing. “Getting a concussion is serious and when Coach sent you out to play some more? I tried to run down into the sidelines so I could kill him but some guards stopped me. Is he still in there? I’m going to march right in there and give him a piece of my mind.”

  “You two can talk later.” Chuckling, I kiss her soundly, twist her toward the limo, and pick up my stuff.

  There’s no way she’s going into a room full of naked men to discuss my career but I’ll let her think so.

  Jack, my driver, is waiting clear across the stadium parking lot. This gives her plenty of time to let off steam.

  “It’s, it’s… well it’s like ancient Rome and the Colosseum. It’s downright barbaric.”

  “Sur
e, it is, baby, but with no lions, just Panthers.” Pretty clever pun, on my part, but she’s not laughing.

  Honestly? I get what she’s saying and I love her even more for her concern. “I got an appointment with the doc tomorrow, okay?”

  Grinning, she reaches behind my head, and pulls my mouth to hers. Her lower half presses into my rising need as I take our kiss deeper. Man, I can’t wait to take my wife to bed. How weird is that?

  Jack clears his throat. “You two may want to get a room.”

  Mel blushes brightly and I just laugh. In a way, my driver is right. What I’m thinking could easily take place in the large back seat of the limo.

  Smiling as he reads my mind, Jack opens the door, we climb in, then he runs around to the driver’s seat.

  He glances back and says, “Great game, CJ. But you okay?”

  “Never better.” I wink and don’t tell him or my wife about the fierce headache.

  Then, as we drive onto the thruway, the privacy glass goes up and Jack puts on headphones.

  Thank God for tinted windows as I take up where I left off in the parking lot. My sweetheart tastes of strawberry lip gloss along with a unique flavor that’s all her. Then, I mimic what’s on my mind by dipping my tongue in and out of her mouth.

  Squirming closer, she moans, twists, and untucks my shirt. Then, with her short nails digging into my back, she takes our kiss deeper.

  My cock is now fully interested as I drag her onto my lap. It’s funny how I used to wonder how a guy could make love to only one woman the rest of his life. Now I get it. Every time she comes near, I want to rip off her clothes. If other guys are around, I want them to know she’s mine. If no one’s around, I just want to fuck her into exhaustion. I have this thirst for her that can never be sated.

  When traffic comes to a dead stop, I grin and work at this tiny row of buttons down her shirt. Frustrated, I give up and pull it over her head, popping a few in the process. A few months ago, if it weren’t for one of those pieces of plastic, I wouldn’t have found her when she was kidnapped.

  She finds the lost pearls on the cushion, sticks them in her back pocket, and gives me a playful tap on my chest. “You should let me unbutton my own shirts.”

  No way. I’ll buy her a hundred, just to tease her and see her smile. This is our thing, a thing that ties us together. No doubt, as we grow old, we’ll have a hundred others. That’s good because by then, she’ll stop wearing blouses.

  She snickers when I fight with a new bra that snaps in the front and slaps my hand away. “I got this, hotshot.”

  I guess I can be a bit rough on her wardrobe. It’s just that she drives me so fucking wild. It’s always Christmas. I’ve never had any patience at unwrapping presents.

  Eager as me for sex, she kicks off her shoes, shimmies out of her jeans, and shoots one knee across my lap, facing me in a straddle.

  I slide the bra straps down her arms, releasing her ample breasts. Like a magnet, my palms jump to worship her, my fingers kneading the soft, silky mounds of flesh. I love how she arches back to give me fuller access and moans.

  While I play, her pupils darken, and she leans forward with a heated kiss. Biting my lower lip, she digs her hands into my hair and devours me. Then, without glancing down, she unbuckles my belt, opens the first button of my jeans, and releases my cock. Her fingers circle me tight and her thumb caresses the sensitive tip.

  Fuck, that feels so good.

  “It’s your fault, you know.” I fondle her ass, and chuckle, wanting her jeans off, now.

  “What is?” Her hands pause, making me sorry I said anything.

  “The whole ripping off your clothes thing. You’re too damn sexy.”

  Leaning forward, I kiss down her neck, her breastbone, then take one sweet breast into my mouth. I nip until the point gets hard and she groans, gyrating down at the base of my cock.

  She shoots me this cute little smirk. “The other wives say their guys are too tired after a game to get it up. I’m doing an experiment. Seeing if it’s true.”

  “What will you tell them?” I close my eyes while her clever fingers explore.

  “The truth. Your hot cock never disappoints.”

  Laughing, I kick off my shoes, then lift her up by the waist to help her slide off my pants and boxers.

  When she settles back down on top of me, she rubs her wet folds along my length, sexy as all hell. Then I reach a finger into her slickness, find her nub, and circle around it the way she likes until she’s panting, and quivering, almost coming apart.

  Quickly, I place the tip of my rod under her entrance and push up while she sheaths me to the bone.

  Fuck yeah. She puts her sweet ass into the air, spreads her knees wide, and slides up and down my length.

  Whoa, that’s awesome.

  My hands still on her hips, I grind little circles into her, cores touching. Then I’ll be damned if her head doesn’t fly back, eyes closed in ecstasy, chest within range of my mouth. With an invite like that and tits begging to be sucked, that’s what I do. When her inside muscles clamp tight around my cock, it’s so damn good that I moan.

  Sweet Jeez, she is fine. Still latched onto a breast, I drive up into her fully while clutching the globes of her bottom. That makes her crazy and she rides me fast.

  I have to let go in order to breathe, enjoying how her boobs bounce. It takes every ounce of control to not release because this wild side of her makes me rock hard.

  Unable to wait any longer, I drive deep where she needs me to be. She screams, shaking everywhere, muscles pulsing around my aching cock. Shooting my finger to her clit, I fucking explode. Oh man, inside her deep, the whole world stops revolving as I finish into her soft, quivering folds.

  After, our hearts beating like mad and our bodies dripping with sweat, her head drops onto my chest.

  “That was out of this fucking world.” When the sex haze disappears, I gently pull out, and reach for a soft towel to dry between her legs.

  Then I grab an ice cube from the bar and place it there.

  She screams, “What the fuck!”

  “Just creating a little steam, honey. You are one hot baby.”

  Laughing she grabs another chunk and throws it down my back. Then we’re all ice and tease, cooling off, and still glad for the endless traffic jam.

  Eventually we make it back to our home in Bushwick. I like it better than Manhattan because most of the people there are used to seeing me hang out. More likely than not, they’ll give the paparazzi a bum steer.

  After a great steak at a local restaurant, Mel queues up Netflix and snuggles under my arm, her lips all over mine. “Love you.”

  “Love you, more.” I kiss her, not holding back the passion starting again to swell under my waistband.

  She pulls her long blond hair out of its ponytail, big blue eyes staring right into mine.

  Other guys in the NFL have all sorts of famous women for wives that look great on camera that crave money and fame. Me? I love my down-home Iowa-bred honey.

  As Mel undresses me, she lets out a little squeak. Some of my bruises have turned some delicious shades of yellow and orange where number twenty-one sucker punched me.

  I chuckle. “Looks a lot worse than it is.”

  “But-”

  “Enough. You going to fuck me or not?” I carry her into the bedroom and we make love until we can’t anymore.

  In the morning, breakfast is just a quick cup of coffee because she has early clients. I could insist she quit her job but I would never. She loves being a physical therapist as much as I love football.

  Once she’s out the door, I give Jack a call. Time to see the doc. Funny how my stomach gets all screwed up on the ride there. I guess it’s normal. What guy would want to know if his brain has turned to mush. A quarterback may not go down as often as guys like Hacksaw, but still, I’ve been banged up a lot and seen stars more times than I’d like to admit.

  After the CT scan and MRI, the doc puts some images up onto a
computer monitor and stares at me like it should mean something. I have no idea what the hell it is but from his tone, I get that it’s not good.

  He hands me a form to sign but I don’t like how he’s sweating and shaking as my pen hovers over the bottom line. With dyslexia, I could miss something important. Besides that, my older brother would kick my ass for doing something so stupid. Of course, then I’d have to punch him back and after, we’d both be sorry. Regardless, I’m not signing this stupid paper.

  I pointedly fold his damn form and shove it into my back pocket. “I’ll bring it back after I get a second opinion.”

  Doctor Pranayama jumps in front of me as I start to exit his office, a really bold move for such a small guy. “I suggest if you want to continue playing you keep this between us.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I get up into his face but with the Super Bowl so close, I pause for a second as he holds another pen in front of my face.

  “Just sign the bloody paper. Now.”

  No one gives me orders, except maybe the preacher-man and my mom. “Right. I just need to have my lawyer give it a look-see, first.”

  The doctor frowns. “Very well but if someone asks to see your paperwork, your career is through. Think it over. If it gets out you have CTE, kiss your big bucks goodbye.”

  CTE? That’s brain damage. No way.

  I push him aside, walk out the door, and slam it behind me. Once back in the limo, I Google CTE.

  Chronic traumatic encephalopathy? Fuck it all to hell. The doctor might as well have held a gun to my head and shot me. I’m as good as dead.

  My dad was a pro ball player, too. They said he had Alzheimer’s but I always wondered. Now it makes a lot more sense.

  Chapter 2