Semua Bab Rough Play (An MLM Sports Romance): Bab 1 - Bab 10

ANDRE's POV"Hello, Sailor."Lexie slipped her hand into my sweats and wrapped her fingers around my cock through my briefs. I shuddered.Not a lot. Just enough. Just enough for her to feel it and smile against my mouth.“Oh my God,” she murmured. “You’re so fucking hard.”“We don’t have time,” I said.She kissed me anyway. Soft the way she always did, like she was asking. I pulled her in deeper because I was the one who decided how things went. She stroked me slow through the cotton and I felt it everywhere.Lexie pulled back and looked up at me.“Your sister isn’t home, is she?” she asked.“Piano lessons until seven,” I said. “We’re good.”She smiled and kissed her way down my throat, my chest, my stomach. I put my hand in her hair and let her take her time because I was never in a rush.She pulled my sweats down and wrapped her hand around my cock. Slow strokes. Getting familiar the way she always did. Then she ran her tongue up the underside from base to tip and I exhaled through

RICHARD's POVThe house was dark when I got back.Uncle Darren's truck was in the driveway. I walked in quiet the way I always did. Force of habit. Survival habit.The smell hit me first. Cigarettes and stale alcohol soaked into the walls so deep I wasn't sure anymore if it was the house or just what air smelled like now. I moved through the living room and didn't bother turning on the light. I knew every obstacle by memory. The single chair facing the TV with its ring of empty beer bottles around the base, cheap stuff, the kind that came in cases of thirty. Unwashed plates on the floor next to it. A fork still sitting in something dried and brown. The television was off but the cable box glowed green in the dark like it was the only living thing in the room.Uncle Darren was my mother's youngest brother. The one who never enlisted, never finished school, never built a single thing. He was also the one who collected a pension check from a veteran's benefit he inherited when grandpa di

ANDRE's POVThe opening whistle kicked off the game and the crowd lifted.My name first, the way it always was, rolling through the stands like a wave finding its shape. I caught the ball off the kickoff, tucked it, and moved.The first ten minutes were ours.I broke through a gap in their defensive line off a quick ruck reset, fifteen yards before their flanker dragged me down, and the crowd reacted like I'd scored already. We recycled fast, spread it wide, and Davis nearly went over in the corner before their fullback got a hand on him at the last second. The Wolves scrambled. Held on.We kept the pressure on. I called the plays and my team executed them the way they always did, clean and fast and without hesitation. Two phases later we pushed them back to their own twenty-two and the crowd was fully ours. The chants were loud and the cameras were tracking me and everything felt exactly the way it was supposed to feel.But we were the better team and everyone in that stadium knew it

RICHARD’S POVBriggs was already smiling when I walked in.Not his usual expression. His usual expression was neutral with a side of waiting for something to go wrong. This was different. He had the footage pulled up and his coffee was still hot and he was leaning back in his chair with the specific energy of a man who had slept well for the first time in a while.I sat down."Hell of a game," he said."It was one game.""It was one game against a program that hasn't lost at home in three years." He turned the laptop toward me. "Let me show you something."He ran the footage from the opening whistle. Paused it every few minutes, pointing out what he liked. My positioning off the breakdown in the second half. The timing on the tackle in the fifty-second minute. The way I was reading the backline a full beat earlier than he'd seen from me at Eastbrook."Your instincts are ahead of schedule," he said. "You're making reads out there that players in their third year at this level still can

RICHARD's POV Wednesday practice was supposed to be straightforward. Contact drills, lineout work, a forty-minute conditioning run to close it out. Briggs had the session mapped to the minute and I was in it fully, going through each rep with the kind of focus that made the rest of the week bearable. My body knew what to do out here. That was the one thing I could always count on. Then Marcus nudged me mid-drill and nodded toward the sideline. A girl was standing there. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a jacket that probably cost more than Darren’s monthly pension check. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She was watching the practice with her arms folded and she was looking directly at me. “That,” Marcus said, already stopped moving, “is Sofia Morano.” “Who?” Marcus turned to look at me. Fully turned. Like I had said something in a language he didn’t speak. “You’re kidding me right now.” “I don’t know who that is.” “Her dad owns the Meridian Group.” He stared at me. “As in Merid