The End Zone

Sage is quick to deliver on the text messages front.

Sage: I can explain.

Sage: But not right now. You’ll have to wait a few weeks.

Sage: You’ll need to trust me on this one.

Sage: You really think I’m cheating on you? Are you high or something? Have you been asleep the past DECADE?

Sage: I hope you weren’t upset in front of Elle.

Sage: Answer me.

Sage: I’m coming back home, and my coach and manager are not going to be happy about it.

Sage: There’ll be a lot of ass-kissing afterwards. We’ll have to entertain them AND their wives to smooth things over. But you asked for it.

Sage: You better be naked when I get there. I’m taking the next flight home.

Sage: At the airport now. So. You think I’m cheating on you. Do you also think I’m brain-dead by any chance? Why the hell would I cheat on you in our house? I can afford a nice hotel room.

Sage: Although I’m guessing that’s not what you want to hear…

I’m holding my first glass of wine. It looks good in my hand. You know what else looks good? A cheeseburger. I decide to neglect the wine, pick up my phone and Uber-eat it. Life is too short to pick up your own food. Especially when your husband may be cheating on you. I call Elle’s babysitter, because there is no way I’m picking her up from pre-school piss drunk. “I need you to take Elle for a few hours after school.”

“Count on it.”

The hours tick by. The cheeseburger is consumed, digested, and reminds me why raw onion is the work of Satan. I’m currently watching Friends. If Jennifer Aniston bounced back after Brangelina, this, too, shall pass. Right?

Wrong. I feel like throwing myself off a cliff.

The only thing stopping me is Elle.

But somewhere deep down, even though my husband is offering me zero explanation for the lipstick, I’m still not convinced Sage has cheated. I just feel…angry. And sad. And happy. And horny.

Jesus Lord, what is happening to me?

I stand up to get myself another bottle of wine when the door opens.

I’m not expecting anyone.

I look up at the overhead clock. Jesus, it’s already the afternoon.

I swivel my head back toward the door.

My husband is standing there, looking just about ready to murder someone.

Someone unreasonable.

Someone hormonal.

Someone like me.

Sometimes dicking your wife is not a matter of want. You need to do it as a national service.

Like, when she starts to have random, weird, unhealthy thoughts that are completely unwarranted. I can’t tell her who the lipstick belongs to, because it’s part of a surprise. A surprise I’m hoping will result in a lot of anal. Not—in fact—a divorce.

“What the fuck, JoJo?” I drop my duffel on the floor and advance on her. We are twenty-five now. Older and wiser than we were when our one-time roomie hookup took place. She should know better than to think I’d bang some random, and in our house, of all places. Jesus Christ, who does she think I am?

Sage Poirier. The guy who banged his way through every girl in college. What else should she think?

JoJo does what she always does when she knows I am going to catch her—she runs. This time, she darts to the bathroom, slapping the wall as she rounds the corner. Big mistake. I was thinking about bathroom sex all throughout my speedy flight from Colorado. She gallops to the en-suite in our room, and I’m on her heels, faster and stronger and with the instincts of a pro athlete. I wasn’t drafted to one of the most popular teams in the NFL for nothing.

“Not so fast, little rascal.” I hook my arm around her waist and jerk her into my raging erection. I’ve been thinking about that sad, sulky face of hers the entire flight back home. I’m going to get so much shit from my coach and manager for bailing on my team, and this is so out of character from my sensible, reasonable, not to mention sane wife. The least I deserve is a sex worthy of my trouble.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, baring her teeth.

“What the fuck does it look like?” I grind my cock into her ass and the friction alone could start a fire. Goddamn JoJo and her love for yoga. Her body is lithe and tight everywhere, yet her skin is the softest thing I’ve ever touched. It’s like I was born to be weak for her, and only her. No one else but her. “I’m baking a cake. Nope. Wait. I’m claiming what’s mine. And it just so happens to be a very mouthy, very impulsive wife who thinks very little of me.” I flatten my palm on her lower back and bend her over our Jack and Jill sink in one swift movement. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Jolie is panting hard, her body quivering under my big palm, shaking, anticipating. I’m not sure if she is more angry or turned on. Doesn’t matter. Either will get her to come so hard she’ll turn into Jell-O.