Team Player

By Cate Ellink

She's never been shy about what she wants – and now she wants them both...

Hannah Maynard, sports reporter, is sure it's only her lust–filled fantasies linking Australian rugby league captain, Charlie Maxxin, with relative newcomer, Lyle Smythe–Jones. She and Charlie have shared quite a few steamy sessions over the years, so surely he's not in a relationship with the young, unflappable player she's dubbed Marble Boy? 

Hannah lures Charlie to dinner and his reaction is all the answer she needs. But she doesn't want to report on the biggest secret in Australian sport – she wants to take part. However, it's not just Charlie's decision and it can't be just casual. If Hannah wants in, she has to be all in, with Lyle, with Charlie, and with the hottest action any of them have ever experienced.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781489249074

Cate Ellink

Cate Ellink became intrigued by the erotic when her grandfather used to pass books to her father saying, "Don't let the girls read page X." Although her mother and sisters never bothered to chase those pages, Cate always did. Invariably, her imagination was better than what she read. While pursuing a career in science, Cate amused herself by writing about ordinary events and giving them an erotic twist. It's taken more than a few years to bravely expose her mind to the public. While the events in her stories may have occurred, it's highly likely that her imagination is far more exciting than the reality. Cate lives near the beach in NSW with her long-suffering husband. This is Cate's first novella. She has two short stories published.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘What retirement rumours have you heard?’ Charlie Maxxin, captain of the Glebe Gannets Rugby League team, asks as soon as our dinner orders have been taken.

‘Retirement?’

‘Isn’t that the R-word? Isn’t that why I’m having dinner with you?’

I laugh. I had mentioned the R-word but it wasn’t ‘Retirement’. No wonder Charlie organised dinner in double-quick time. I thought he was keen to catch up. We’ve been friends for years. I guess you’d call it friends-with-benefits. I was a rookie journo when he was a rookie player. We’ve grown up together and often have catch-up dinners, sometimes more. It began with a dinner crowd but it’s ended up just us. I like it better this way.

‘I thought we were just having dinner.’ Going for the innocent grin doesn’t pay off, I know as soon as Charlie’s eyebrow quirks upwards. It’s the cutest thing. But the curl on his lip makes it a little meaner than cute. Which is odd. Charlie usually falls for my teasing, which just reinforces what I’m about to say to him. In my mind anyway.

‘It’s another R-word I wanted to talk about.’ I wait a couple of extra seconds before I say the word, ‘Relationship.’

I could be way off beam, so I expect him to laugh but the shade of white he goes, in only a second, is worrying. But also a little satisfying. I’m a damn good journo and this has been niggling at me for a while. If I’m right, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever come across. All my fantasies have been revolving around this idea for weeks and I’d give my eyeteeth to be a part of it. But first, it has to exist outside of my imagination.

Charlie’s lack of colour makes me think my delusions may not be too far out there.

‘What have you heard?’ Gruff, hesitant and wary.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’m onto something. ‘It’s more an observation.’

His eyes widen and his throat bobs. He’s swallowing fear because he hasn’t yet touched his beer. ‘Whose?’

‘Mine.’ His smoky grey eyes are his greatest asset and they’re capturing and keeping my stare. Not that I want to turn away from him. He’s all kinds of hot. Colour has popped back into his face, streaking across his harsh cheekbones. He has this deep cleft in his chin that’s now filled with dark hair. I won’t tell you what I’ve managed to do to with that over the years. He’s muscular, of course, and huge, with a deep gruff voice. When I first met him, he terrified me. So dark and dangerous, I’d never want to meet him in a dark alley. Now. Now I want him up against a wall of that dark alley, flushed with need. It’s been a while.

‘What have you seen?’ He’s leaning across the table, speaking through his teeth.

‘So much, Charlie. So many little things about you have me all het up with need.’ Okay, so I wasn’t going to come on like this, but something about the way he’s glaring at me make these wrong words spurt from me.

Those eyes go all dark. He stands, grabs my arm a little firmly, and growls in my ear as I stand. ‘We don’t want this in public, do we?’

I turn and meld my body across his, teasing a little too much, but he’s so hard to resist when he goes all macho. ‘I’d do this anywhere, as you well know.’

I can’t do much but chuckle as caveman-Charlie appears. He almost drags me from the restaurant, not for the first time. They must hate us coming here. The first time I was far from sober. We were young, I’d hit on him all night, we were both way beyond horny and he looked after my needs in the best way possible. This time we’re both sober, not that being drunk bothered me before. How can you regret sex with Charlie Maxxin?

Just so you know, I don’t sleep with every hot sportsman I interview. But sportsmen have great sex drives, and I like sex. So if it happens, it happens. I never complain. And I don’t confine my exploits to men. If a hot sportswoman and I hit it off, I’m not knocking it back. This is the age of equal opportunity, right?

When we’re both inside Charlie’s huge 4WD, safe from ears and eyes, he turns on me and nails me with his stare. His great paw closes over my thigh, not at the knee as if he was a teacher, but higher because he’s claiming some rights and he’s got a big enough hand. ‘What are you asking me, Hannah?’

‘Two things.’ I lean forward, right up against his face. My nose brushes the side of his but I don’t break his gaze. ‘Are you fucking Lyle Smythe-Jones, and are you open to me joining in?’

Charlie’s gasp and withdrawal answers the first part of my question. The way his eyes flare, and his lips part, are so damn sexy. Not letting him get too far away, even in the confines of his car, I follow, brushing my lips across the gap between his.

‘It’s so fucking hot, Charlie.’ This time I swipe my tongue across his bottom lip and his hand moves higher before it tightens on my thigh.

‘I want to watch you with him. He’s your perfect foil. Small to your large, light to your dark. With youthful vigour to match your strength.’ With each word my lips rub against his, teasing us both. His lips are silken soft, snuggled inside his hairy beard, which isn’t too coarse at all. Imagining them together has me dripping with need, but knowing that they are has made me hotter than I expected. Squirming in the seat isn’t helping any, but it’s not hindering either. I’m getting wetter.

‘Han.’ He growls as his hand rubs against my cunt. Knew I shouldn’t have worn jeans, but I hadn’t come expecting sex in the car park.

‘Take me home, Charlie. I can get my car later.’

Charlie’s a great fuck. Always has been. We’re good together and bonk when we’re both free. It’s mutually beneficial, or I assume it is for him. He keeps coming back. Now that his hands are expertly massaging me, I realise he and I haven’t screwed in months, and I need him.

His curse is loud and strong.

My eyes almost drop from my head. That curse was a little inappropriate only because it snaps him from his lust-haze. His hands grip the steering wheel, leaving my cunt needy.

‘I can’t, Han. Fuck. I can’t.’ Rough and torn, that’s how he sounds. Not like Charlie at all.

Jesus. It’s serious. My eyeballs should be in my lap about now. ‘Because of him?’ I can’t believe that even as I ask it. Charlie loves women, or he gives a damn fine show of loving them, or me. I mean, loving their bodies, their cunts, their boobs, kisses, hips, curves. But Christ, he glares at me and doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. Shit. ‘How the hell do you keep it quiet?’

Charlie falls back against the seat and drops his head into both hands. He shakes with pent-up emotion; at least I’m guessing it’s that. ‘We just hoped no one would even think of it. God, Han, how did you work it out?’ He glances at me. ‘We’re going to have to be more careful.’

‘I know you.’

‘Shit. So anyone who’s slept with me will guess?’

‘Well, there’s half the population,’ I mutter under my breath, lips twisting.

Charlie jabs me with a finger into my ribs. ‘Says you.’

I’ve lost count for myself but I’m not telling him that. ‘I don’t think it’s that bad. No one’s probably as warped as I am. For a while I was teasing myself with the idea that it might be happening. It was the hottest fantasy as I watched the after-try hugs. He’s always there, often first to grab you. It made me horny watching. The end of game intensity between you two is something else. Sometimes you can be in amongst all the other players and yet your gaze is locked with his as if you’re sharing more than we all know. Sometimes, more lately I think, your hand drifts down his back as you’re speaking to him during the game. It could be nothing—but he does it to you too and Jesus, that’s gold for my filthy mind.’ I’d love to add that I haven’t seen him in ages but it sounds so needy, so I skip that.

Charlie tips my chin with a finger. ‘Will it get you hotter to know it’s been going on for a while?’

The breath rips from me. I’m like a rag doll, a soggy-cunted rag doll. I want to ask a thousand questions but I can’t say a word.

Charlie runs his hands through his hair as I slump into the seat. His forehead rests against the steering wheel but I’ve nothing keeping me upright.

Is he good? I want to ask but I know he is. Charlie wouldn’t be with him if he wasn’t. And he must be better than good, because Charlie wouldn’t risk his reputation for mediocre.

I want in. I want in so badly, I’ve no idea how to explain. Knowing the secret means I’m almost in. Watching would be the next step, but joining them … fuck, joining them would be the biggest trip of my life.

I sit up. Square my shoulders. Take a breath and turn to Charlie. ‘If you want to keep this secret, I could help. Let me join in. There’ve been rumours about you and me for years. We could make this work.’

‘It couldn’t work. How would you work in sports journalism when you know the biggest secret in sport and can’t spill it?’

‘I could quit.’

‘What?’

Years back, Charlie knows, I refused to quit my job and it cost me a relationship. But that wasn’t this. This would be mind-blowing. Charlie is one of my few long-term friends, and none of the others have benefits. We could make this work. Neither of us are young, we both know our minds, we’ve been around, enjoyed life … but Lyle.

‘Han, you can’t quit.’

‘I’ve got other things I could do.’ This is true. I’ve been somewhat dissatisfied for a while and have been putting feelers out for other work options. There are a couple of things that interest me but I can’t let anyone know I’m even thinking of a career change. Journalism is cut-throat and if anyone knew I was contemplating a change, I’d be cut.

‘Are you serious?’

‘About quitting? Maybe.’ I take a breath. It’s been on my mind. ‘About wanting in on the hottest fucking relationship on the planet. Hell, yes.’

Charlie groans as he stares at me. For the longest time he does nothing but stare. Then he rolls his eyes before hitting his head against the steering wheel a couple of times. Nothing hard, just enough to let me see his frustration. ‘Shit, Han.’

‘You miss me, don’t you?’ I slide my hand over his groin and across his rigid cock. ‘Just a little tiny bit.’ I don’t get all those words out before his hand’s grasped my wrist and removed temptation.

He shoots me a glare. So hot. So needy.

‘Jesus.’ The breath whooshes from me. ‘I’d play nice,’ My promise sounds needy and desperate. That’s not the way to become involved. Maturity, secrecy and a whole lot of luck are what this will take.

I lean back into the passenger seat, giving Charlie space. ‘I’ve sprung this on you. I know you can’t make a decision now. Talk to Lyle, see what you reckon when you’ve had time to think it through.’

Charlie grunts. ‘He’s not going to like it.’

‘Me joining in, or me knowing?’ Lyle can hardly judge. He barely knows me. He only sees the tough journo.

‘Both.’

I laugh. ‘Tough. Tell him that sliding his hand on your arse in a game is asking for trouble.’

Charlie groans, making me laugh more.

I’ve rolled the dice, now to see how they land.

Chapter 2

Almost ten days after first talking to Charlie, I’m at a media conference for the Glebe Gannets, doing my job, when my heart skips a couple of beats. Lyle Smythe-Jones is the player representative for today. Every question I had planned seems to evaporate.

While I’m brain-scrambled, he appears composed and unfazed. He even meets my gaze and nods a brief acknowledgment before taking his place before the media contingent. I stare at my notepad but if I had notes they aren’t there now. My page flares at me. All white light reflected in the late autumn sunlight.

Jesus, I know the biggest scoop in Australian sport and I’ve no inclination to spill it. It’s unlikely that Charlie’s going to invite me to join them since I’ve heard nothing. Knowing that and knowing Lyle’s largely responsible for that decision, I’ve still no desire to out them. I don’t even want to pose a question today in case he’s worried about what I might ask.

Holy fuck. This isn’t me. I live for my job.

I clench my hand around my pen and give myself a mental talking to. Now is not the time to make a life-changing decision. Take this feeling and add it to all the rest. Go home, think on everything.

With great effort, I focus on the media conference. Questions fly at Lyle and with his usual aplomb he answers each in turn. During a pause, close to the end of the allocated time, he glances at me. I bite my lips before asking, ‘No injury concerns in the team this week?’

It must be the stupidest question I’ve ever asked. He’s not going to say if anyone is hiding an injury, and with the team social media responsibilities, everyone knows who’s obviously injured and how their recovery is progressing.

‘No injuries, Hannah. Thank you.’ His lips curve into a gentle smile, as if he appreciates my soft question.

And my silence.

A few moments of chatter and the media conference is concluded. I leave immediately because I don’t have an answer if anyone asks why I’ve been quiet.

I have a lot of thinking to do.

***

The next afternoon when I’m sitting across from my editor, Max Elton, after finishing up for the day, I calmly hand him my resignation.

‘What in blue blazes do you think you’re doing?’ He bellows across the entire city. ‘You are not resigning.’

If I thought I’d be able to keep a lid on it for a while, I was kidding myself. Every staff member left in the building looks up. Mouths flap and then phones are picked up. I’ll be on the sports pages myself for no sporting achievement at all.

Resigning when everyone knows you’re a career gal isn’t simple. It’s insane.

‘What reason can you possibly give to justify this?’ Max thumps my resignation onto his desk, still yelling.

‘It’s personal.’ I may as well not have spoken for all the use those words do. Max isn’t going to buy that. I don’t do personal. I’m impersonal, unbiased, and as tough as they come.

I also don’t do love, or lust. Especially not if it threatens sanity, livelihood and privacy.

But I’ve lost that Hannah Maynard. The one I’m left with is drunk on lust, living on dreams, and desperately waiting on a call from Charlie. This show of faith might tip the scales in my favour. Who am I trying to kid?

‘Personal? What the hell kind of personal would make you quit?’

There are no answers to that. I look at Max, still a cauldron of seething fury, and lean slowly across his desk towards him. ‘I don’t need a reason to quit. I’ve given a month’s notice. Deal with it.’ I stand and walk out. His words follow me, but I’m no longer listening. After packing up for the day, I head home.

My thoughts aren’t full of Charlie, as they have been. No. They’re full of Lyle Smythe-Jones. He’s arrogant, opinionated, talented. He’s never been charitable to me, although he probably knows about my flings with Charlie, which may explain his animosity towards me. But yesterday, he was different. He seemed his usual wary, aloof self but the couple of times he met my gaze, I found his expression softer than I expected. As if he was questioning, not just rejecting.

Or maybe it’s me who’s changed, or who’s wishing he’d changed.

From the moment Lyle came onto the rugby league scene as a seventeen-year-old, his cold arrogance was difficult to stomach. I dubbed him Marble Boy, and maybe he knows that too. It suited him and the nickname has stuck in the tabloids. At the time, he had a passing resemblance to Michelangelo’s David. Blond curls, lily-white skin, prominent straight nose, and a muscular body that looked petite beside more seasoned players, like Charlie. Huge light blue eyes, with an arctic stare that flashed ice when he was asked something he struggled to answer, added credence to the nickname.

I’ve never been his favourite person. A tinge of regret for the nickname strikes.

When I’ve changed and I’m deciding between boiling the kettle and pouring a scotch, some bastard starts banging on my door.

It’s like they want to break the door down. Mrs Jannup from next door will be out with her torch, curlers and dressing gown in a moment. Whoever’s trying to thump my door down seems pissed off. The only person I’ve pissed off recently is Max and he wouldn’t bother coming here to yell at me. Would he?

‘What?’ I stomp to the door. Mercifully, the thumping stops even if they don’t have the decency to answer me. I glare through the peephole and the thumping starts again, inside me. My heart’s going to pound right out of my chest and through the door.

Slipping off the chain, I turn the lock and open the door. I open my mouth for a greeting but not a sound comes out. I swallow, lick my lips, and have another go. ‘Lyle, um, I didn’t expect you.’ Dumb words, but I manage to wave a hand to invite him in, you know, before the sports media find him on my doorstep like a spurned lover and have me banging him as well as Charlie.

I try not to snort at my mental humour. I don’t want to be explaining that at the moment. Luckily the closing door muffles my snorts.

‘We need to talk.’ Marble Boy looks pissed but I show him through anyway, even offer him a drink, but he declines.

The couch is pretty comfy, so I tuck my feet up and sit facing Lyle. Not quite a defensive position, more like a ready-to-comfort-myself position. I wait to hear what he has to say but I’m betting he’s here to reject my offer.

Lyle’s twenty now, still not a big man but his body is filling out beautifully. His skin remains like alabaster but his curls have been shorn to a close-cropped fuzz over his pale scalp.

‘I miss your curls.’ I hear the words and my eyes scrunch, my hands fly across my mouth. If a genie was here right now, I’d ask for the couch to eat me, or maybe go back in time a few seconds, or turn Lyle deaf or forgetful. Jesus.

Lyle springs from the chair as if I’ve blasted him from it. He stalks around my lounge room more agitated than before a big game. His chest rises and falls far too quickly for my breaths, so I quit looking at him, even if he is beautiful.

I have nice artwork on my walls and a huge bookcase. Usually I can scan these and relax, but not with Lyle in the room, and not after I’ve been an idiot.

An apology isn’t going to cut it. Blurting out something stupid and then apologising isn’t smart. Maybe he’ll forget it. Maybe the world will stop spinning.

‘I know nothing about you,’ he says.

I snort. ‘You know I’m a big mouth who speaks first and thinks a long time later.’

His lips twist a tiny fraction as if he’s trying to not smile. Okay, smile is an exaggeration.

What can I say about myself? ‘I’m a sports junkie who makes a living writing about it.’

‘I heard you quit.’

‘Shit. It’s out already?’

He nods. And that probably explains why he’s here with a good head of steam.

‘I haven’t heard from Charlie, if that’s what you’re worried about. I quit anyway.’

He rubs his palms across his head. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘I realised I needed a change.’

‘Hannah, you’re a pain in the arse, but a solid reporter. Why would you quit the job you love?’

‘Because there’s more to do. New things to explore.’ I’m not giving him anything else. There’s no way I’m pressuring him. This decision needs to be theirs. My decision, mine.

‘It’s because of yesterday, isn’t it?’

I shake my head. ‘I’d never make a decision that quickly.’ That’s the truth.

‘So yesterday cemented it for you.’ He’s so damn sure of himself it’s not even asked as a question. How can he be so young and certain? I try not to laugh at myself because I suspect I was no different.

‘I was worried that you and Charlie would be concerned whenever I asked a question.’

‘I’m always worried about your questions. It’s not bothered you before.’ He gives something that could be termed a smile as I shrug and try not to grimace. He follows up with, ‘What are your plans for work now?’ The intensity of his challenge isn’t lost on me. If he thinks I’ve made a knee-jerk reaction without plans, then he doesn’t know me at all.

‘I’m starting out doing some research for a friend. She’s a well-established author of sporting books. I’m going to give it a go and see if it’s something I’m good at and keen on. It’s always interested me but it’s quite an isolated workplace, which concerns me.’

His eyes widen and his lips part while I speak. Then he asks, ‘Who are you writing about?’

‘Luskin Star.’

‘What?’

‘A racehorse from the 1970s.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

I don’t answer with words. I uncurl from the couch and lead him into my office. The pile of racehorse books and printed notes will leave him in no doubt that I’m doing the work and it wasn’t a rash decision.

‘Wow. You aren’t kidding.’

I grin and bite back a snarky comment, like, ‘sometimes it’s not all about you’. Instead, I say, ‘Can I get you a drink now?’

‘Thanks, but no.’ After a brief hesitation while he follows me back to the lounge room, he says, ‘I do have a question for you though.’

I nod, and once I’m back on the couch, wave my hand. ‘Shoot.’

‘How do you see it working, Hannah?’

Without him saying, I know we’re talking about my proposition to Charlie. I don’t bother mincing words. ‘That really depends on you. Do you do women, or only men?’

He recoils as if my words have venom. They aren’t venomous, I’m just asking. He’s young and for all I know is exploring his sexuality, rather than being a confirmed homosexual. I swing both ways, have all my life. Sometimes you know what team you’re on, other times you want it all. I don’t know who he is any more than he knows me.

Lyle holds his head and turns away. His shoulders hunch yet his spine’s rigid. His shallow irregular breaths make me think he’s not in control. Unsure what to do.

Why would he be like that?

The only sensible reason is that Charlie’s sent him here to meet me, or get heavy with me. Lyle wouldn’t know where I lived unless Charlie gave him the address. Charlie would do something like push Lyle here to talk to me, get a feel for me, see if he liked me and could work with me. If ‘work with’ is the right term for whatever we have in the pipeline.

So this might be my Lyle test. To see if there’s some connection or spark between us. Charlie would do something like this. I’m sure he would. He knows me and I’m not afraid of sex.

There’s only one way to find out if my guess is true.

I unwind myself from the couch and move behind Lyle. He’s probably heard me because I wasn’t deliberately silent, but he hasn’t flinched. He isn’t as tall as Charlie, only an inch or so taller than I am, so it’s no trouble to slide behind him and tuck my chin on his shoulder. My left hand sits over his hip, and my right lies over his shoulderblade. On top of his clothes. I’m not going to scare him right away.

‘Do I repulse you, Lyle?’ My words are deliberately pitched low, and breathed against his ear.

He doesn’t really move but there’s a ripple through his body.

‘I’ve had sex with men and women. I’m not ashamed of it. I enjoy sex. It’s a beautiful part of life. Do you believe that too?’

After waiting a while and receiving no response aside from his shallow breathing, I press the tip of my tongue to the point where his earlobe meets his neck, then sweep it over the edge of his ear. ‘I’d like to see you naked, Lyle. I’d like to touch you. I’d like to watch you touch yourself.’ Each sentence is whispered slowly into his ear, and judging by the shallowness of his breathing, he isn’t repulsed by me or my words.

‘Can I take your shirt off, Lyle?’

‘Only if yours comes off too.’ Much higher pitch than usual, thready and breathy. Perfect.

It takes me a second to throw off my shirt. I expect Lyle to have taken his off too but he hasn’t