Page 50 of Falling Offsides

Even if it’s just from a distance.

I change cameras to the one with a direct view of the couch. The new screen loads slowly, glitching once before sharpening into a crisp image of her lying on her front with her legs kicked up in the air, eating cake and reading while a bass-heavy track plays in the background.

She’s perfect.

The brand of perfect that makes the world outside of her fade. Pale to nothing.

Courtney is the kind of perfect that’s already changed my life in the one week she barreled into it.

Samson perks up, clearly agreeing with my unspoken thought with a goofy expression on his face while he watches our girl on the screen like it’s his favorite show.

“Yeah,” I whisper, stroking between his ears. “She’s pretty great, huh?”

He keens contently, resting his jaw on his paws while I continue scratching the scruff of his neck.

We stay like that for hours. Courtney potters around, folding laundry and checking her camera’s memory cards in between chapters. We watch.

When she settles on the couch for good, curling up with her book, I carry the laptop into the bedroom, dim the brightness, and set it on the nightstand.

Just before I kill the video, I see her yawn. Hear the soft thump of the blanket as it settles over her hips.

Then I lie down. Samson wriggles into the space between the pillows. Every time I try to force myself to sleep, a thought pops up in my head to check on her again.

I’m too fucking wired. Too buzzed by her. Wondering what she’s looking at on her phone while her book rests open on her chest. She’s like that, for a while. On her phone, swiping back and forth, pinching at her screen. Then she goes back to her book and I kill the video, leaving only the audio like a lullaby when I roll onto my back.

In the dark, staring at the ceiling, her face is still the only vision in my head—lit up by string lights with the most delicious blush on her cheeks. She’s branded on my brain. That look she gave me at dinner—when I talked about my family. Like I matter to her. Beyond the arena and the stats and everything that makes my number, 39, popular.

She saw past all of that. She saw me. And I can’t stop obsessing over the soft, curious smile she held me with.

I zone into the rustle of pages, the creak of the couch… Courtney’s breathing, soft and steady. Allowing it to blanket me.

Then—another sound.

Quieter. But… I recognize the breathy hum, a pleasured sigh like the ones she was making over the cake this morning.My cake.

Some shifting…

A hitched breath in her throat.

Holy fuck.

My pulse races out of the stocks at the realization that followed by the very vivid image of Courtney touching herself.

I know it’s in my head, but it couldn’t be clearer. My throbbing cock doesn’t need any more than the B-roll playing in my thoughts.

Her dainty, manicured hands roaming over her body. Her bratty mouth gaping open with her hoarse gasps. Those fucking hypnotizing baby blues darkening to a wanton midnight.

I can see it all like it’s right there in front of me like her throaty mewls are surrounding me.

Soft sighs. Muffled moans.

Then—fuck—the whisper of my name.

My. Name.

“Auguste.”

Again.