“I shall wear the name with pride,” he called back, and chuckled.
A few hours later, he was back in the bleachers, seated next to Diane, Morning Whorey’s real-life wife. They drank beers and chatted and he sketched as the bout went through jam after jam. Chelsea took a few hard knocks at the beginning, but she’d found her stride and was delivering a beat-down to the other team’s blockers. Diane gave him play-by-plays since he still didn’t know the rules of the game. Not that it mattered. He spent most of his time watching Chelsea and suppressing inappropriate feelings of lust every time she bent over and flashed her yellow panties under that impossibly short skirt. She was kicking ass, though. The bout had been tight the entire time, and when they hit the halfway mark, Chelsea looked up in the stands, scanning for him. He waved, and she blew a kiss in his direction before skating off with her team for the halftime powwow.
“So how’s married life?” Diane asked, peering over his shoulder at his sketchpad. Her beer sloshed over her hand. “Oh, my god. Holy shit. Is that Chesty?”
He slid away a foot, edging away from her beer. “It is. I just sketch for fun. It’s not very good.”
Diane thumped into the bleachers next to him. “Are you kidding? That’s fucking incredible. Do you think you could do a sketch of Whorey when she comes back out? Please?”
“I can try,” he said, switching to a fresh piece of paper. “What’s her number?”
“Sixty-nine, of course.” Diane giggled. “God, that’s amazing. You should do the trading cards for the girls.”
“What? No—”
“I’m serious,” Diane said. “They hired a photographer for the trading cards but he sucked ass. All of the girls hated the photos. They’d probably love drawings of themselves.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sebastian demurred, picking up a new pencil and watching the halftime show with mild interest. His thoughts were on Chelsea and his sketches. What would she think of him doing sketches of the other girls?
She’d tell him to go for it and to be brave about his art, because she was fearless.
Maybe he needed to be more fearless, too.
When the girls skated back on the track, he looked for Morning Whorey, and then began to sketch her angular face and the expression she made when the jam started. At his side, Diane squealed and clapped her hands, beer forgotten. “That’s so her! That’s amazing, Sebastian!”
He grinned and took a sip of his beer, feeling a bit more relaxed about his art. Someone else had seen him draw and the world hadn’t ended. Wasn’t so bad.
The Rag Queens fell behind for a time, and his sketches were forgotten as the stands erupted between each jam, cries of disappointment erupting every time the jammer banged her hands against her hips, calling off the jam. Then, Good Whip Lollipop managed to score a Grand Slam on the other team, bringing the score within two points and three minutes left.
Then, the Rag Queens tied them on the next jam.
By that time, the crowd was on their feet, and Sebastian was caught up in the excitement. “This is the last jam,” Diane yelled in his ear. “Time’s gonna run out so they have to hustle.”
His gaze flicked from the jammer to the pack, just ahead of them. The women were tense, ready to start. The whistle blew, and the pivot moved out in front. Then, a second whistle, and the jammers took off. As he watched, Chelsea skated in front of the other team, then widened her legs as she skated, deliberately blocking as much floor as she could. The other team’s jammer tried to jump her extended leg and managed to knock both of them to the ground. He held his breath as Chelsea went sprawling, his worry for her overriding his enjoyment of the game. But she quickly picked herself back up and skated back to the pack. Meanwhile, Good Whip Lollipop was busy fighting her way through the pack to score. She passed one player—
And pounded on her hips with her hands, signaling the end of the jam.
It was over. The Broadway Rag Queens won by one point. The audience roared their appreciation as the women skated a victory lap around the track, arms raised in triumph.
The crowd surged forward out of the bleachers, moving to the floor, and Sebastian went with them, heading unerringly for Chelsea.
She spotted him as he approached the track and sped up, skating through the crowd to fling herself into his arms with a happy squeal. Her face was red with exertion, her ponytails damp with sweat, but she was exuberant. “We won,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck even as he lifted her into the air and hugged her.
“You were fucking amazing! I nearly lost my mind when you did that last move at the end to block the jammer—”
Her eyes lit up with pleasure at his compliment. Then her gaze flicked to his mouth, and she impulsively pressed her mouth to his in a hard kiss.
Sebastian was startled—Chelsea didn’t kiss impulsively. He knew now that she had issues with intimacy because of her past. He was resolved not to push her, to let her lead. He’d follow wherever she led. And if she wasn’t eager for kisses, he was fine with that.
But the lips on his weren’t hesitant in the slightest. They were excited, eager, and as her mouth slicked over his, she licked the seam of his mouth. She was asking—no, demanding—for more from him.
He gave it to her, then, his arms tightening around her body as he hungrily returned the kiss, his mouth devouring hers. His tongue met and clashed with hers, and their teeth banged together once, and then it was just endless deep kiss after endless deep kiss. A thrust of tongue, a sultry moan deep in the throat, the nip of her teeth, all of them drove the world out until it was just him and Chelsea, locked together.