Chapter 2: Morning After, Before Kickoff
The first thing Jordan registered was heat.
Not the radiator kind—that clanking beast had been broken since October—but the living, breathing warmth of another body pressed against his. Maria's back curved against his chest, her ass nestled into the crook of his hips, and her dark curls were everywhere. Spread across his pillow, tangled under his chin, tickling his nose with the faint smell of lavender and something else. Something that smelled like him.
She was wearing his green Packers sweatshirt.
He knew without opening his eyes because he could feel the familiar softness of the fabric against his fingertips, the way it had ridden up in the night to expose the warm skin of her lower back. His hand was resting there, palm flat against her spine, and he had absolutely no memory of falling asleep like this. The last thing he remembered was Maria stealing his fries at the 24-hour diner and arguing with him about whether the Packers' secondary was actually elite or just benefited from a weak division.
Then they'd come back here. Then they'd—
His cock twitched against her thigh.
Right. That.
The morning light cut through the slatted blinds in jagged stripes, painting lines of gold across the rumpled sheets and the pile of clothes on the floor. His desk was a disaster of empty energy drink cans and textbooks he hadn't opened in weeks, and somewhere in the mess was that game ticket from last season—the one from the wild card game Maria had watched with him, back when they were just friends who yelled at the TV together.
The mini-fridge hummed. The building was quiet in that specific Sunday-morning way, like everyone was either still asleep or already gone. No footsteps in the hallway. No music through the walls. Just the sound of Maria's breathing, slow and even, and the distant rumble of a snowplow somewhere on the street below.
Jordan lay still. He didn't want to move. Didn't want to break whatever spell had settled over the room, the strange suspended reality where Maria was in his bed and wearing his clothes and smelling like his soap.
Then she shifted.
Just a small movement—her hips pressing back against him, her shoulder rolling—but it was enough. Enough to remind him that he was naked under these sheets, and so was she, mostly, and his dick was already half-hard and pressing insistently against the curve of her ass.
"Morning," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Morning."
"You're poking me."
"I'm aware."
She didn't move away. If anything, she pressed back harder, a deliberate little wiggle that made him suck in a breath through his teeth.
"Jordan."
"Yeah?"
"Is that for me?"
"Who else would it be for?"
She laughed, low and sleepy and somehow still sharp. Then she rolled over.
The movement was fluid, practiced, like she'd been waking up in his bed for years instead of one night. She ended up on her back, looking up at him with those brown eyes still hazy with sleep, her hair a chaotic halo against his pillow. The sweatshirt had ridden up even further, exposing her stomach and the lower curve of her breasts, and Jordan's brain short-circuited for a second.
"Nice shirt," he managed.
"Stole it."
"I noticed."
"It's mine now."
"We'll discuss custody later."
She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back in a way that pushed her chest toward the ceiling and made the sweatshirt ride up even more. Jordan watched, transfixed, as her nipples hardened against the soft fabric.
"You're staring again."
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Obviously." She let her arms fall back down and turned her head to look at him. "What time is it?"
He reached for his phone on the nightstand, knocking over an empty can in the process. It clattered to the floor, and he didn't care.
"Nine forty-seven."
"Kickoff's at noon."
"I know."
"Two hours."
"Two hours and thirteen minutes," he corrected. "If you want to be technical."
Maria raised an eyebrow. "You're counting minutes?"
"I'm always counting minutes. Game day."
"Right." She stretched again, slower this time, and he could feel the movement of her body through the mattress. "So we've got time."
"Time for what?"
She turned onto her side, facing him, and her hand found his hip under the sheets. Her fingers traced a lazy path down his thigh, then back up, and Jordan's breath caught in his throat.
"Time to discuss the spread," she said, deadpan.
"The spread."
"Vikings are favored by three and a half."
"At home. That's disrespectful."
"Is it?"
"The Packers beat them by ten in the first matchup. At Lambeau, sure, but still. Ten points."
"That was October. Teams change."
"Not that much." His hand found her waist, pulling her closer. "And the Vikings' pass rush has been inconsistent all season. Their defensive coordinator is on the hot seat. There's rumors he's getting fired after the season."
"You read too much."
"I read everything."
"About football."
"About everything." He kissed her forehead. "You're the one who brought up the spread."
"Because I know it gets you hot."
"It does not."
"You're literally hard right now."
"That's unrelated."
She laughed, and the sound did something to his chest. Something warm and tight and terrifying. Then she rolled on top of him.
The movement was quick, decisive, the kind of thing Maria did when she'd made up her mind about something. One second she was beside him, and the next she was straddling his hips, her knees bracketing his waist, her hair falling down around her face like a curtain. The sweatshirt was bunched up around her ribs, and he could see the soft curve of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the dark curls between her legs where she was settling against his cock.
"You're a pervert," she said.
"What?"
"I can feel you twitching."
"That's a physiological response. It doesn't mean anything."
"Sure it doesn't." She rolled her hips, grinding down against him, and he couldn't stop the groan that escaped his throat. "See? Pervert."
"You're literally on top of me. What am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing. Just lie there and take it."
"That's not—"
She leaned down and kissed him.
It was a different kind of kiss than last night. Softer. Slower. Like they had all the time in the world, like the game wasn't ticking closer, like the rest of the world could wait. She tasted like morning breath and stale coffee and something underneath that was just her, and Jordan decided he didn't care about anything else.
His hands found her hips, fingers sliding under the hem of the sweatshirt, and she made a small sound of approval against his mouth. Her body was warm and solid on top of him, grounding him, and when she pulled back to look at him, her eyes had gone dark.
"Jordan."
"Yeah?"
"I want you."
"You have me."
"I meant—" She shifted, reaching between them, her fingers wrapping around his cock. He was fully hard now, aching, and the touch made him gasp. "I want you inside me."
"Condom's in the drawer."
"I don't want a condom."
He froze.
"Maria—"
"I'm on the pill." She was watching his face, gauging his reaction. "Have been for years. And I got tested last month. Everything's clean."
"So did I. I mean, I'm clean too. I just—"
"I want to feel you." Her grip tightened, stroking slowly. "All of you. Is that okay?"
Was that okay. She was asking if he wanted to fuck her bare, to feel her without anything between them, and he was supposed to form words?
"Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, that's okay."
"Good."
She positioned him at her entrance, and he felt the slick heat of her, the way she was already wet, already ready. She sank down on him in one slow, deliberate motion, and Jordan's vision went white at the edges.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Shit." Her voice was strained, her hands braced on his chest. "Okay. Okay, that's—"
"Different."
"Yeah."
Different was an understatement. It was like touching a live wire. Every nerve ending in his body was suddenly attuned to her, to the wet tightness of her around him, to the way he could feel every pulse and flutter and shift of her body. No barrier. No latex. Just her, hot and slick and perfect.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine." She was breathing hard, her nails digging into his chest through the fabric of his shirt—wait, he wasn't wearing a shirt. Her nails were digging directly into his skin, and he didn't care. "Just. Give me a second."
"Take all the time you need."
"Stop being nice. It's weird."
"Sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"Sorry."
She laughed, and the movement made both of them groan. Then she started moving.
Slow at first. Roll of her hips, rise and fall, a rhythm that was more about sensation than speed. Jordan watched her face—the way her lips parted, the way her brows drew together, the way her eyes fluttered closed and then opened again like she was forcing herself to stay present. She was beautiful in the morning light. Golden and soft and real, with a crease from the pillow still pressed into her cheek.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're on top of me."
"That's not an answer."
"I like looking at you."
She blushed. Actually blushed. The pink crept up from her throat to her cheeks, and she turned her face away, and Jordan felt something crack open in his chest.
"Hey," he said. "Look at me."
She did.
"I like looking at you," he repeated. "Is that a problem?"
"No."
"Good."
She kissed him—hard, almost desperate—and picked up the pace. Her hips moved faster now, driving him deeper, and Jordan met her thrust for thrust, his hands on her ass, pulling her down onto him. The futon creaked beneath them, the frame groaning in protest, and he had a brief flash of concern that they were going to break it. Then Maria moaned and clenched around him and he stopped caring about furniture.
"Right there," she gasped. "Right fucking there."
He angled his hips, hitting that spot again, and she cried out. Her head fell back, curls tumbling over her shoulders, and Jordan watched the line of her throat as she swallowed, the way her tits bounced under the sweatshirt, the way her whole body seemed to be trembling on the edge.
"You close?"
"Yes. Don't stop."
"Not stopping."
"Don't you dare—"
"I'm not—"
"Fuck, Jordan—"
She came apart above him. He felt it—the flutter, the clench, the way her whole body went rigid and then soft and then rigid again. She was beautiful. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
And then he was coming too.
It happened fast, the sensation building at the base of his spine and then crashing over him like a wave. He pulled out at the last second—instinct, autopilot, some rational part of his brain still functioning despite everything—and came across her stomach in hot stripes, his hand wrapped around his cock, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Maria looked down at the mess on her skin. Then she looked at him.
And then she reached down, scooped some of it up on her finger, and licked it clean while holding his gaze.
Jordan's brain stopped working.
"You're—" he started.
"Tasting."
"That's—"
"Hot?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or gross?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know."
She laughed and did it again, deliberately, dragging her finger through the mess on her stomach and bringing it to her lips. Jordan watched, transfixed, as her tongue darted out to catch the last of it.
"You're going to kill me," he said.
"Probably."
"That's not a denial."
"It's not."
She climbed off him and stretched, the sweatshirt riding up to expose her stomach—still glistening, still messy—and Jordan had to look away to keep from getting hard again. Which was ridiculous. He'd just come. There was no way.
But apparently there was a way, because his cock twitched with interest when she bent over to pick up her discarded underwear from the floor.
"We should shower," she said.
"Together?"
"If you want."
"I want."
She grinned and headed for the door, and Jordan watched her go—the sway of her hips, the way his sweatshirt hung down to her thighs, the dark curls bouncing with every step.
Then he got up and followed her.
The shower was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. They managed anyway, mostly by keeping their bodies pressed together under the lukewarm spray while Jordan soaped her back and Maria shaved her legs with his razor, which she claimed was "better than mine" and which he had no intention of arguing about. The water pressure was terrible, the tile was moldy in the corners, and someone in the next stall was blasting early-morning worship music.
Jordan didn't care.
He washed her hair. She washed his back. They kissed under the water like they were running out of time, like the world was ending, like the clock wasn't ticking toward kickoff.
"We're going to miss pregame," Maria said against his mouth.
"I don't care."
"We're going to miss kickoff."
"We'll watch it here. On the laptop."
"The laptop's on the milk crate."
"We'll move it."
"You said it was a war crime."
"I said the WiFi was a war crime. The milk crate is just... rustic."
She laughed and pressed her forehead against his chest. The water was going cold. Someone was banging on the door, yelling something about the time limit, and Jordan knew they needed to get out before someone complained to the RA.
But he didn't move. He just held her, wet and naked and laughing, and thought that this might be the best morning of his life.
"We should go," he said finally.
"In a minute."
"We're going to get kicked out."
"In a minute."
He kissed the top of her head and didn't let go.
They made it back to the room with thirty-seven minutes until kickoff. Maria stole another sweatshirt—this one was gray, with the Packers logo faded almost to invisibility—and a pair of his sweatpants that she had to roll at the waist to keep from falling down. Jordan pulled on clean boxers and a t-shirt and tried to find the pregame coverage on his laptop while Maria dug through the mini-fridge for something resembling breakfast.
"You have nothing," she announced.
"I have ramen."
"That's not breakfast."
"It's technically breakfast. It's just sad breakfast."
"I'm not eating ramen for breakfast."
"What do you want me to do? I can't conjure food."
She held up a carton of orange juice that was probably expired and a bag of pretzels that had definitely been open for weeks.
"This is a tragedy," she said.
"It's Sunday. The dining hall opens at eleven."
"By then the game will have started."
"Then we'll watch the first quarter hungry."
She threw a pretzel at him. He caught it in his mouth. She looked grudgingly impressed.
"Okay," she said. "But you owe me a real breakfast. After the game. Eggs and bacon and those little breakfast potatoes."
"I'll buy you whatever you want."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She settled onto the futon, crossing her legs under her, and Jordan tried very hard not to stare at the way his sweatpants hugged her hips. He failed. She caught him looking and smirked but didn't say anything.
The pregame show was a disaster—the WiFi kept buffering, and the analysts were saying the Vikings were going to win by double digits, and Jordan was getting genuinely angry at the screen despite knowing that pregame takes were meaningless and designed for controversy.
"They're idiots," Maria said.
"Total idiots."
"The Vikings haven't beaten a good team all season."
"They beat the Lions."
"The Lions are trash. Their coach is a moron."
"True."
"And our defense is finally healthy. This is our game."
"Our game."
She reached over and squeezed his hand, and Jordan felt something settle in his chest. Something warm and quiet.
The clock on his phone ticked down. Twenty minutes to kickoff. Fifteen. Ten.
"We should move the laptop," he said.
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"Maria."
"Jordan."
"The game's going to start."
"I know."
"On the milk crate."
"I know."
"So we should—"
She leaned over and kissed him, soft and slow, and Jordan forgot all about the milk crate.
"There's still time," she murmured against his lips.
"Not much."
"Enough."
She climbed into his lap, and Jordan wrapped his arms around her waist, and the laptop stayed on the milk crate, and the pregame coverage droned on in the background, and neither of them watched a single second of it.
She climbed into his lap, and Jordan wrapped his arms around her waist, and the laptop stayed on the milk crate, and the pregame coverage droned on in the background, and neither of them watched a single second of it.
Her mouth found his jaw first, then his throat, teeth grazing the tendon that jumped when he swallowed. His hands slid under the gray sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—and found warm skin, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Of course she wasn't.
"You planned this," he said.
"I planned nothing." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I just know what I want."
"And what's that?"
She answered by rolling her hips against his, slow and deliberate, the friction of his sweatpants against her bare cunt making her breath catch. He was already hard again—had been since the shower, since she'd pressed her wet body against his and laughed at something he couldn't remember. Now she ground down on him and he groaned, fingers digging into her ass.
"Fuck," he said.
"Yeah." Her voice was low, rough. "That."
She reached between them, tugged at the waistband of his boxers, and he lifted his hips to help her shove them down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking, and Maria wrapped her hand around it with a satisfied hum.
"You're so hard," she said, almost to herself. "All the time."
"You're naked in my lap."
"That's not an excuse."
"It's a pretty good one."
She stroked him once, root to tip, thumb swiping through the precome at the head. He hissed through his teeth and she smiled—that sharp, knowing smile that made his stomach flip.
"Condom?" she asked.
"You said you're on the pill."
"I am."
"And you got tested."
"I did."
"So…" He swallowed. "Same as before?"
She considered him for a moment, her hand still moving on his cock, slow and torturous. Then she leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.
"I want you to fuck me raw," she whispered. "I want to feel you come inside me this time."
His brain shorted out.
"Maria—"
"I'm clean. You're clean. I want it." She pulled back to look at him, eyes dark, cheeks flushed. "Do you want it?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. "God, yes."
"Then shut up and let me ride you."
She positioned herself over him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other guiding his cock to her entrance. She was soaked—he could feel it against the head of his dick, slick and hot—and she sank down on him in one slow, filthy motion that had both of them groaning.
No condom. No barrier. Just her, tight and wet and perfect, clenching around him like she was trying to pull him deeper. Jordan's hands flew to her hips and held on, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"Fuck," he said again. "Fuck, Maria."
"I know." She was trembling, her thighs shaking with the effort of staying still. "Give me a second. You're—"
"Big?"
"Don't be smug."
"I'm not being smug. I'm being—" She shifted and he saw stars. "Oh, shit."
She laughed, breathless, and started to move.
Slow at first. A roll of her hips, a rise and fall that was more about adjustment than rhythm, her body learning the shape of him. Jordan watched her face—the way her lips parted, the way her brows drew together, the way her eyes went unfocused and then sharp again. She was beautiful. She was always beautiful, but like this, impaled on his cock and wearing his clothes and looking at him like he was the only thing in the world, she was something else entirely.
"You feel—" she started, then stopped, her breath hitching as she found an angle that worked.
"Yeah?"
"Good. You feel really good." She picked up the pace, her hands braced on his chest now, her tits bouncing under the sweatshirt. "So fucking good."
He wanted to say something clever, something smooth, but his brain had turned to static. All he could do was watch her ride him, feel her tight heat around his bare cock, listen to the wet sounds of their bodies meeting and the soft creak of the futon beneath them.
"Harder," he managed.
She obliged.
The rhythm changed—faster now, more urgent, her hips slamming down against his with a force that made the futon groan in protest. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake, and he hissed but didn't tell her to stop. He liked it. He liked all of it.
"Touch me," she demanded.
"Where?"
"Everywhere. Fuck, Jordan, just—"
He pushed the sweatshirt up, exposing her stomach, her tits, the dark curls between her legs where they were joined. She wasn't wearing anything underneath—he'd known that, but seeing it was different. Seeing her ride him with nothing between them, her body bare and open and his, made something possessive curl in his chest.
He thumbed her nipples, rolled them between his fingers, and she moaned. Loud. The kind of sound that would definitely get them a noise complaint if anyone was in the hallway.
"Shh," he said, but he was grinning.
"Don't tell me to be quiet." She ground down harder. "Make me be quiet."
He pulled her down and kissed her, swallowing her moans as she fucked herself on his cock. Her tongue slid against his, messy and desperate, and he could taste the faint bitterness of his come from earlier, still lingering on her tongue.
That shouldn't have been hot. It was.
"Jordan," she gasped against his mouth. "Jordan, I'm—"
"Me too. Fuck, me too."
"Inside. I want you to come inside me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Please. Fuck, please."
He'd never heard her say please before. Not like that, not desperate and wanting and completely undone. It broke something in him, some last shred of restraint, and he grabbed her hips and fucked up into her with a force that made her cry out.
She came first. He felt it—the flutter, the clench, the way her whole body seized up and then shuddered apart. She collapsed against his chest, her breath hot against his neck, and he kept moving, chasing his own release with a desperation that bordered on animal.
Two more thrusts. Three. Then he was coming, spilling inside her, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into her heat. It went on forever. Wave after wave, pulsing deep, and Maria just held on, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body limp and pliant on top of his.
When it was over, neither of them moved.
The laptop was still playing. Some analyst was yelling about coverage schemes. The radiator clanked. Somewhere in the building, someone was laughing.
Jordan's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
Maria lifted her head. Her mascara was smudged, her hair was a disaster, and there was a red mark on her cheek from where his stubble had scraped her. She looked wrecked. She looked perfect.
"I think you broke me," she said.
"Me?"
"You. Your dick. Same thing."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She laughed and kissed him, soft and slow and lazy. He could feel himself still inside her, softening now, and the sensation was intimate in a way he wasn't prepared for. More intimate than the sex. More intimate than anything.
"We should probably eat something," she said eventually.
"Probably."
"And shower again."
"Definitely."
"And the game's probably started."
Jordan glanced at the laptop. The pregame show had ended. The field was visible, green and perfect, the teams lined up for kickoff.
"Two minutes ago," he said.
"We missed kickoff."
"We missed kickoff."
She looked at him. He looked at her.
"I don't care," she said.
"Neither do I."
She climbed off him—slowly, carefully, both of them wincing at the loss—and stood in the middle of his room with his come dripping down her thigh. Jordan watched, transfixed, as she grabbed a tissue from the desk and cleaned herself up with the kind of casual efficiency that suggested she'd done this before.
Probably had. Probably with other guys, in other rooms, in other beds.
He didn't like thinking about that.
"Stop," she said, without looking at him.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. Your face is doing a thing."
"I'm not doing a thing."
"You're doing the jealous thing. Where your eyebrows scrunch up and you get all broody."
"I don't get broody."
"You're literally brooding right now."
He was. He knew he was. He couldn't help it.
"I don't like thinking about you with other people," he admitted.
Maria paused. Turned. Looked at him with those warm brown eyes that had gone soft around the edges.
"Good," she said. "I don't like thinking about you with other people either."
"Then we're even."
"Then we're even."
She walked back to the futon—naked now, sweatshirt abandoned on the floor—and climbed into his lap. Her arms went around his neck. Her forehead pressed against his.
"The game's on," she said.
"I know."
"We should watch it."
"I know."
"But I don't want to move."
"Neither do I."
She kissed him. Quick. Easy. Like she'd been doing it for years.
"We can watch the replay later," she said.
"We can watch the replay later."
He reached behind her, grabbed the blanket off the back of the futon, and wrapped it around both of them. The laptop kept playing. The Packers scored a touchdown. The crowd went wild. Neither of them noticed.
Maria nuzzled into his neck. Jordan held her close. And for the next three hours, they stayed exactly like that—naked and tangled and wrapped in a blanket that smelled like stale pizza and old victories—while the rest of the world watched football.
It was, Jordan decided, the best Sunday of his life.