Super Big Game - An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

This isn’t something I’d admit to anyone, but I get mad anxiety thinking about choking under pressure. It keeps me up at night, with insomnia, and if I don’t follow a strict bedtime routine, I’m likely to not be able to get any sleep at all.

It’s like I’m a fucking toddler or something. But it’s the only way I’ve been able to deal with the stress of being a star wide receiver for one of the best teams in the country.

Once I’d gotten to my car, I’d realized I’d left my phone in my locker and had to head back to get it. When I’d first approached the locker room, I’d been surprised to hear voices, especially one of the female variety.

But then I figured that a reporter had been able to be snuck in for some special quid pro quo. Coach Kramer hated it, but it wasn’t incredibly unusual for a player to trade secrets with a reporter, for favors of a different variety, if you get my gist. I just hadn’t expected anyone on the team to be willing to do so during such a crucial time for us.

Coach Kramer had already given a big speech about how we weren’t to talk to the press or do anything that could ruin the team’s good name or good vibes leading up to the Superbowl. Of course, he’d managed to let that leak to the media, and most journalists knew better than to try to even ask any of us, knowing we wouldn’t break the code. I didn’t expect any of my teammates to break the code, anyway, so I wasn’t sure what kind of journalist would be ballsy enough to try.

But then I’d realized that the situation was not what I’d assumed, which, to be frank, involved rough sex and some loud noises during orgasm. And the guy in here wasn’t a teammate after all!

I had no idea who he was and at first, I hadn’t even recognized the girl. I had just been trying to jump in and help out.

Now that he’d let her go and her hair is out of her face, I realize I do recognize her, though.

“You’re Stacy Allen,” I inform her, as if she hadn’t already known this. “I mean. Hello. I’m Elias.”

This was a dumb thing to say, too, since of course she knows who I am. Any journalist worth her salt would, and Stacy might be rather new to the scene, but she is already worth a lot of salt. But I am just so completely dumb founded that I’m not even making sense.

I hadn’t even realized I’d taken her into my arms. I had been operating merely on pure instinct and adrenaline by this point.

But, wow, Stacy Allen.

Talk about a journalist with balls, or, um, ovaries.

She is rather legendary around here.

Stacy doesn’t know it, but all the players are impressed with her, and not just because she has curves that would rival a supermodel’s, and a pretty face that is somehow a perfect cross between girl next door cute and make-up ad sexy.

No. Almost all the female sports journalists are attractive – it seems like some sort of requirement to be in her industry – and, while Stacy outshines them all, it isn’t that. It’s that even though we know she’s new to her job, fresh out of school and still in training by her infamous hard-as-nails boss, she’s tenacious as fuck.

No one seems capable of walking off the field or out of the locker room without giving Stacy at least a little something she can run with. And even when we try hard not to – like tonight, for example, since we’re under strict orders from the coach to keep our mouths shut, no matter what – she seems to observe what’s going on so well that she can make a story out of anything she sees happening around her.

Suddenly, I begin to get a little worried that I’m hugging her. I know she was under attack and that I was trying to prevent it, but it could definitely look bad.

Would she use even this gesture of kindness as fodder for an article?

I mean, it’s certainly newsworthy, and I can’t fault her if she wants to go public with the grave injustice that was taking place before I stopped it. But will she include the fact that I’m looking down at her with admiration and respect in my eyes, at the very thought of having Stacy fucking Allen in my arms?

And what about the fact that I’m looking at her not only in admiration, but lust? And that it’s making me get a hard-on as she’s pressed up against me, her belly up against my cock, because she’s rather short and I’m tall, and her head lying right under my pecs?