Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(74)
When I crack my eyes open, my vision readjusts to the light as I gaze at my Cumcasso painting on the wall. Not half bad for a match-day inspiration. Smiling, I cup my hands and splash water on the mess, effectively rinsing my artful load down the drain to join all the other match-day loads I’ve blown on the exact same shower wall.
Ritual complete.
So yeah, I guess that means Camden Harris jerks off to images of football. And yeah, sometimes he refers to himself in the third person. There are creepier ways to spend a Saturday morning.
Truthfully, football and sex are all relative when you think about it. Loads of sweating. Loads of heavy breathing. Loads of fluids. They’re both about slipping inside of a goal, finding room between two welcoming slits. It’s not easy. It’s a tight fit sometimes. But hell, does it feel good when that opening happily transpires, allowing your balls to hit the deepest point possible. Then the crowd—or writhing woman beneath you—goes wild.
That analogy isn’t one I share with any of my brothers, who all say jerking off before a game takes the edge off and tires you out. But this season has been the best of my life. There’s no way I’ll tempt fate and change course now.
“Could you be any more pervy?” Tanner’s muffled voice shouts through the bathroom door.
“What the bloody hell?” I cut off the water and wrench the glass door open.
“I can hear your barks of passion all the way down the hall. You sound like a chimpanzee caught in a bug zapper.”
My face screws up. “You’re the one standing outside the bathroom door,” I snap as I snatch the towel from the warming bar and wipe my chest dry. “I’d say you’re the pervert in this scenario. Piss off!”
His voice trails off as he retreats with a half-hearted protest, grumbling something about golden showers being next. I step out and wrap the towel around my waist, flinching as the fabric brushes against my sensitive tip.
Tanner can be a right bastard some days. Not only does he annoy me to no end at home, but he makes me sweat on the pitch just trying to keep up with him. Truth be told, he’s always been a better footballer than me. The Arsenal scouts have been inquiring about him ever since their striker retired last year, leaving the Gunners a man down up front. Of all the London-based teams, that’s the one I want watching me.
Then I went and scored nine goals by midseason. That’s unprecedented. Now it’s anyone’s guess who they’re interested in signing.
I stroll over to the foggy mirror and swipe away the mist. I shake the moisture out of my wet hair before I look at myself.
My blue eyes darken with determination. “Season’s almost over, Camden. Just do what you’ve been doing and let the balls fall where they may. You are football. Football is you. If you want a Premier contract, now is the time to prove yourself once and for all. Show your worth.”
Then, an errant thought tumbles into my head and a sly grin spreads across my face. “But when football season is over, it’s the season of women. And you’ve always been better than Tanner at that game.”
“OH MY GOD, I’M knackered,” I say as I stroll into the on-call room and flop myself onto one of the sterile blue hospital cots, which have zero give. The hard plastic smarts against my vertebrae at the force.
My fellow resident and friend, Belle, glances up at me from her own cot. Her dark eyes are partially closed and tired, similar to my own at this time of day. “Your timing is perfect,” she says, her voice perking up. “I just looked at the schedule. You’re on a nine-day stretch with me. We must discuss.”
I turn and prop my head on my hand and nod at the prospect of hitting the workweek finish line with my friend. “I saw that this morning, too. We’ve got three days down already, so I’m telling you right now that on day nine, we’re hitting Club Taint.”
“Hell yes,” she agrees with a lascivious smirk. When she sits up, her long, inky hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. I stare at it wistfully as she adds, “Club Taint is always a wild time. I’m so excited that we’re on the same rotation. Last time I missed you going out and I refuse to miss it again. Little Miss Innocent raging through the clubs of London is as good as Boxing Day in my book.” She exhales heavily. “You’re staring at my hair again, Indie.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Sorry.” Feeling a flush of heat in my cheeks, I drag myself up and stride over to the wall of lockers, knowing my fair skin does a crap job of concealing my emotions. It’s not that I’m into girls. I’m just into that silky, straight, shiny—
“Your obsession with my hair is bordering on creepy, darling.” Her tone is light, but her humour is dry as usual.
I crack open my locker and stare at myself in the mirror. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” I sigh, silently surrendering to my fate. My messy wad of curly, red hair is in its standard messy bun on top of my head. Coming in on the ninth straight hour at work, it has grown from the size of a kumquat to the size of a melon. I attempt to smash in some of the expanse, but it’s futile.
I push my cheetah-print glasses back up my nose and force a confident nod of acceptance over my appearance. These glasses are living proof of just how far I’ve come out of my shell since childhood—how much I’ve changed.
It sounds odd for a silly pair of glasses to carry so much meaning, but my upbringing was unique to say the least. I grew up in all-girls boarding schools. If that wasn’t bad enough, in year three, a teacher caught me reading The Catcher In The Rye and made me take some fifth grade level practise tests. Next thing I knew, they advanced me three whole grades. I was thrust into a classroom of girls all wearing training bras and talking about boys.