Nothing Less Than Everything

by Maggie C. Gates

There was nothing glamorous about being traded, especially from a team I’d been with for six seasons. But my old coaches wanted young blood from the draft, not a thirty-three-year-old receiver with a chip on his shoulder. So, I was released from training camp, traded, and put on a plane to the East Coast to play for Rhode Island. The Rhode Island Red Cocks. My new mascot was a fucking chicken.

“Physical. Facilities. Home?” The last part was more of a plea than a question. To my surprise, Sam nodded. “Home for a few hours, then a dinner meeting with the interior designer redoing the penthouse.” Fuck me. “Isn’t that a you thing and not a me thing?” I grumbled and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist directed us down a long hallway. “Usually,” Sam said, trailing behind me. “But I have to meet with a company that wants your pretty face on their products, and I think they need to add a few zeroes to the offer. Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted a place that was—how did you put it?” She dropped her raspy alto to deep bass. “A little more homey and a lot less basic bachelor.” I shot her a good-natured glare. “So.” She clapped her hands together. “It’s either you have dinner with Ms. Porter and tell her all your Pinterest hopes and dreams, or you go to Target and do it yourself. Trust me, you do not want me decorating your house.” To the uninitiated, Sam came off like a hard-ass sports agent. I’d been to her house, though. The woman had an addiction to tchotchkes. Creepy ones. It was like a shrine to weird porcelain babies. Each terrifying one had been bubble-wrapped and packed with care before being shipped to their new home in Providence. “Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t want my place looking like the factory that made Chucky.” She elbowed me in the gut. “Ass.” “Weirdo.” I elbowed her in return, though it landed against her shoulder. Sam barely came up to...

“Fine. What does Tatum McHotPants look like?” I thought for a moment. He was tall and solid like the Empire State Building. Dark brown skin and brooding onyx eyes. His hands were seemingly a mile wide, and his thighs were as big around as the columns in front of the Met. He was all man and muscle. “Like Derek Morgan from Criminal Minds, but on steroids,” I finally decided. “Lucky bitch!” she whispered. “I love me some Shemar Moore.”

Jewel turned to me as the rest of the team wandered in and tossed their bags onto the pile. “You gonna be his baby girl?” She wagged a finger in the direction of my spandex-clad body. “I bet he was all over this. Get some glasses and let him Derek Morgan the hell out of your Penelope Garcia.”

A picture of the Reds’ mascot—an angry, snarling chicken—was plastered on the wall just inside the door. Gid and Theo each smacked it on their way in. They both stopped dead in their tracks when I didn’t follow suit, and I nearly ran into them. We stood in silence for a moment staring at each other. “What?” I asked, getting antsy. I’d only been traded a few times, but it always felt like showing up to high school as the new kid after all the cliques had been formed. Theo scowled and pointed to the bird on the wall. “Pound the cock.” “It’s a chicken,” I argued. They shared an exasperated look and scowled at me. “It’s a cock,” Gideon said with the conviction of a preacher. “And you pound it every time you walk in or out.” “You do realize how fucked up that sounds, right?” Theo busted out laughing. “That’s the point,” he said, then went stone-cold serious. “But it’s tradition, and you’re part of the team now. Fucking act like it.” I hesitated. “Don’t be an asshole,” Theo said. “Be a man and pound the cock.” Two more guys wandered in and slammed their fists against the … cock. “Fine,” I groaned and slapped my hand against the mural. “That was some weak shit, dude,” Theo scoffed. “Use your fist like a grown-ass man.” “Are you seri—” “Fist the bird, Tatum!” Gideon said with a manic grin. I glared at them both and punched the chicken in the face. “Happy?” Gideon snickered. “Fucking ecstatic.”

Derek Tyson was hauling a punk-ass kid dressed like a knockoff version of Justin Beiber across the room. Seth McBride. “Bryant,” Coach said. “Meet your new best friend.” He practically tossed the kid my way. Seth raised his eyebrows and pushed his floppy blond hair out of his face. “T.J. Bryant? Thought you retired.” I cut Coach Tyson a searing glare. “I got traded. Something that’ll happen to you if you don’t clean up your act and stop acting like a little shit.” Apparently, Coach liked that answer because he left McBride in my custody. The punk plopped down in the row in front of us, reached in his bag, and cracked open an energy drink. Fucker. He’d regret that when he was crashing in a few hours.

“Don’t think you’re bailing on our night of mandatory fun,” Gideon said before glancing across the shower room to where Seth was stationed. “Especially because Blondie is required to be there.” I groaned. I’d rather have my testicles run through a low-speed paper shredder than hang out with Seth Motherfucking McBride for a few hours. On the field was bad enough. The kid’s head was so far up his own ass that he should’ve been walking like a human pretzel. I’d take the fine from the league if it meant I got to sock him in the face.

“Well,” the lady in the crimson red dress said, hands on her hips. Her shoulders were back, and her head was held high. “We’ve got ourselves into quite the pickle, haven’t we?” “We’re up to twenty million views on TikTok, ten million on YouTube, and the clip is already being circulated around the sports networks. I have requests coming in from nearly every media outlet asking for comments and wanting to schedule interviews,” the beanpole of a kid squeaked without looking up from his phone. “The clip?” Wren croaked out. Sam shoved her phone in Wren’s face. Bracing an arm against the back of the exam bed, I leaned down and watched as Wren pressed play. The video began with Gideon on the line of scrimmage. He grabbed the ball as soon as it was snapped and faked the play to the half-back. The steady thumping of the heartbeat introduction from Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams” had been added to the video, changing the narrative from a football play to an emotional rollercoaster. The video cut to Wren on the sidelines, smiling like a pageant queen and rustling her pom-poms before breaking out into the sexiest moves I’d ever seen. It went back to the field. I was running to make the catch, Mason Miller hot on my heels. The music skipped to the end, the bridge leading into the swelling chorus as I leaped into the air. Wren spun, lips parting as I crashed on top of her. But then it went into slow motion. There was the slide of my gloved hand into the back of her hair, cradling her he...

“It’s just the music,” Sam huffed. “Taylor Swift can make anyone feel shit. It’s the music and some clever editing.” I could have bowed at her feet for trying to cover my ass. Coach Tyson nodded in agreement. “Hell yeah she can. The ten-minute version of ‘All Too Well?’” He pressed his fist to his heart. “He should have returned the scarf. That was a dick move.” Sam and Coach high-fived. This was officially the weirdest day of my life. My agent and offensive coordinator were bonding over Taylor Swift, and the woman I was pretty sure I was in love with was a cheerleader for my football team.

“You look nice,” Tatum said quietly as he towered over me. He filled up a paper cup with coffee and took a sip, obscuring his mouth. I looked down at the dress I had pulled for today. It was my go-to Reds event dress. A scarlet sheath dress with a modest neck and hemline. I threw on a pearl necklace and earrings and slipped into my black pumps. My knee was still giving me hell after the game—and the tackle—yesterday. Luckily, the flesh-toned kinesio tape holding me together was hidden under the hem. “Thank you,” I said into my bagel. The bread hid my smile as I added, “Your ass looks fantastic in those slacks.” Tatum choked on his coffee. “How’d you sleep?” he asked when he finally recovered. “I would have slept better if someone hadn’t left me horny as fuck.” I added a dainty amount of cream cheese to my bagel. “I had to take care of business myself.” I swear he growled. “We’ll figure logistics out,” he clipped. “Soon.”

“Alright, T.J. I’m giving you your shot. Just pretend like millions of people aren’t watching. Anything you want to ask Wren?” I knew she was fishing, but I wasn’t playing her game. At least, not the way she expected. I turned to Wren, and she mirrored my posture. Wren narrowed her eyes, as if silently asking what I was up to. Deciding to make a show of it, I opened my hand and Wren, blindly trusting me, slid her palm into mine. “Wren Porter. Would you…” I paused for dramatic effect. The studio was deadly silent. Everyone waited anxiously for me to ask her on a date. “Consider teaching Theo Jackson how to take a tackle, because you took that hit like a pro and I think our offensive line could learn a thing or two from you.” She let out a loud, rich laugh that was drowned out by the howl of the audience. Even Paula had tears in her eyes.

Ay!” Theo bellowed the second I walked into the locker room. “Look who it is—Mr. Can’t Pick on Someone His Own Size.” The rest of the boys chimed in with jeers of their own. Gideon chucked a sweat towel at my chest as I weaved through the melee to my locker. “How’s it feel to know that the only person you’ve tackled this season was a damn cheerleader?” “Anyone made fun of him for the shirt he wore on Good Morning USA on Monday?” Coach Tyson asked with a smirk as he cut through the locker room. “Dude, that dress shirt was so tight I was afraid the buttons were gonna start popping off like BBs,” one of the linebackers cackled. “That shirt gave you bigger tits than the chick! You gonna start wearing a little training bra, Bryant?” Seth howled. Before I knew it, I was swinging around and shoving him down onto the bench in front of his locker. “You better think twice about running your mouth like that, Goldielocks. Or me and my tits will teach you a lesson.” The locker room went eerily silent, followed by a deep chorus of, “Ooooh!” Seth glared at me, rage boiling just below the surface.

“Two things,” I began. “First, can I get an iced coffee and a slice of coconut cream? “And second…” I reached in my bag and pulled out the mass market paperback I had borrowed from the shop the last time I was in. “You have some serious explaining to do!” I said as I stabbed the shirtless cover model on the front of Whitney West’s latest novel with my finger. Annie frowned as she picked up the paperback and thumbed through it as if the explanation for my outburst was buried in the pages. “You didn’t like it?” I slapped my hands on the countertop. “It was brutal! I couldn’t put it down. I was sobbing in the bathtub last night because you didn’t warn me about the ending! Gah!” I tossed my head back, fully aware that I looked like a complete lunatic. “You and your book recommendations are sadistic!” She smirked. “So, you want the next one in the series? I just got it in.” “God, yes!” I exclaimed. “I am ready to get hurt again.”

“It should be right…” Annie bit the tip of her tongue as she popped up onto her tiptoes and plucked a paperback off the shelf. “Here.” She thumbed through the pages before handing it over. “Disclaimer,” she said. “You’re gonna need tissues for this one, too. But the happily ever after is so worth it.” I clutched the book to my chest. “You’re my favorite pie-making smut peddler.” She laughed. “I’ll wear that as a badge of honor. Maybe I’ll get it on a t-shirt.”

“Well, well, well.” Maddox arched an eyebrow as I neared Colette’s office door. His cobalt suit was tailored a little too well. The seams strained with each subtle movement. He paired the bold suit choice with a pale blue paisley dress shirt and a silk tie in living coral. His bottle cap glasses barely disguised his glare of disdain. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say the cock?” I rolled my eyes and dropped a slice of pie in front of him. A fed Maddox was a happy Maddox. Or at least a less cranky Maddox. It was like throwing a steak at a guard dog. “You know that football season is insane.” “I wouldn’t know. Football is for brutes. Polo is the sport of kings.” “Oh?” I feigned surprise. “Is that where you’ve been sneaking off to? Portsmouth with the lawyer for Saturday matches.” Maddox paled. I leaned over his desktop monitor and planted my hands on his planner. “I might be out of the office more until February—” I dropped my voice to a sinister whisper “—but I have eyes and ears everywhere.” “You’re a witch.” “That was my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.” I booped his nose and peeled away from his desk before he retaliated. “But if you’re looking for a stake to burn me at, I think we were close to the same size. I’m okay with hand-me-downs. Just drive to Salem and get hers. I’m pretty sure her name’s still on it.” He dismissed me with a flourish of his hand. “Be gone, sorceress.”

“Hey, Tatum,” Heidi said as she bounced into the house carrying an armful of grocery bags. “Here for some mandatory fun?” “Yeah,” I said as I pocketed my phone and discreetly adjusted my thickening erection. I eyed the bags piled up in her arms. “Need a hand?” She looked longingly at the door, silently debating how many trips she wanted to make. “Yeah, actually.” She smirked. “There’s a case of sports drinks with your face on them in the back of my SUV.” I cackled as I jogged to the front door. “Please tell me that my face is why you bought ’em.” Heidi snorted. “You bet your fine britches I did. It’s gonna drive Gid nuts. I’ll put money on him turning them around so your face is looking at the back of the fridge or just ripping the wrappers off.”

“Dude—” Theo bellowed when he rounded the corner. Seth had a shit-eating grin on his stupid face and was tapping his phone on his open palm. Gideon frowned as he shoved a bottle of sriracha in the cabinet above the microwave. “The fuck is wrong with you two?” he muttered as he balled up the grocery bag and shoved it under the sink. Unable to hold it in any longer, Seth threw his head back and howled. “Look, man. I know you’ve got a thing for blondes, but, uh—I don’t swing that way.” He pulled his Reds ball cap off and sifted his fingers through his shaggy hair. Heidi wrinkled her nose but kept her mouth shut. I cut my eyes to Theo, who looked like he was about to laugh, too. What the hell was wrong with those two? “Well?” I clipped, resting my ass against the edge of the kitchen island and crossing my arms over my chest. “You gonna spit it out or you gonna say what you’re gonna say?” “I know you’ve been seeing someone, and you’ve been real tight-lipped about it because of what happened with that cheerleader—” I tensed when he referred to Wren as that cheerleader. It’s what everyone called her and it fucking pissed me off. Yeah, she was a cheerleader for the Reds, but she deserved more respect than the derogatory way I heard guys talk about the Ladies in Red in the locker room. I jerked my thumb at Seth. “What’s that got to do with Tinkerbell looking like he’s just won the fucking lottery?” Theo blushed. The fucker actually blushed. “Uh, look man. I think you may have texte...

I pulled my own phone out, praying it was some kind of sick joke. I wouldn’t put it past Seth. He’d been trying to get under my skin all damn season. My body went numb. In the Core Four group text, I had sent the text I thought I’d sent to Wren. As if to add insult to injury, Wren had sent me another text after she’d finished her round of self-service pleasure and asked me to delete the photos in case anyone saw them. Gideon nearly choked on his tongue. Heidi was less subtle, throwing her head back and letting out a rip-roaring laugh that was surprisingly big for her tiny frame. “Fuck,” I muttered as I texted Wren. Squeezing my eyes shut. Thank God it wasn’t a dick pic. There would have been no returning from that. Tatum: I’m at Gideon’s, and I fucked up. Wren: What do you mean? I screen-shotted the Core Four group text and sent it to her. Wren’s reply was instantaneous. Wren: I’m going to crawl under a rock and die now. That was some serious imagery, big guy. Nice knowing you. Tatum: I’m gonna have to tell them. Wren: This is the ghost of Wren. Please leave a message at the beep. Tatum: I’m serious, baby. I need to tell them. Wren: What if they tell your coaches? Or the support staff? It will get back to the Ladies’ director, and I’ll be screwed. It pissed me off that she had told her friend, Jewel, but she questioned if Gid and Theo could keep their traps shut. Then again, she’d never met them, and I hadn’t told them about her. I’d kept “my girl’s” identity a secret, cit...

“We’ve got your back,” Gideon said. “Whatever you need. Whatever she needs.” Theo looked at Seth. “We’re all on the same team. Right?” Almost reluctantly, Seth agreed, “Same team.” Gideon grabbed a bag of low-carb chips and a bowl of guacamole from the fridge. “Alright. Now that the feels fest is over, let’s go kick Princess Peach’s ass in some Mario Kart.” Theo snickered as he and Seth brought up the rear of the pack. “Don’t get crumbs everywhere!” Heidi called out from the kitchen as we made our way back to the living room. “Can’t I at least be Yoshi this time?” Seth begged. “Nope,” Gideon said, stuffing a controller in his hand. “Cheer up, golden girl. We might let you upgrade to Toad next season.”

“Okay,” Heidi said as she commandeered a lobby coffee table and spread out the brick of brochures she had procured from the kiosk near the front desk. “So tomorrow I was thinking that we could get up early and head out to Devil’s Bridge. Then we could come back, shower and get cute and shop our way through Redcliff Quay. And then for dinner, this guy I was chatting with on the plane said that we should—” Heidi was cut off by Gideon throwing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll. She let out a squeak and swatted at his ass. I was laughing right up until the moment my world turned upside down. I shrieked right before my nose smacked against Tatum’s left butt cheek. My torso swayed back and forth as he marched out of the lobby with my body hanging off his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “If you fart in my face, you’re sleeping outside.” “But the brochures!” I heard Heidi whimper from a few feet ahead of us. “We’re not getting out of bed until dinner,” Gideon said. “You can have female bonding time next week when Tatum and I play in Miami.” Gideon peeled off to the left with his wife while Tatum continued to march a few thousand more feet. At least that’s what it felt like. I was getting a migraine from all the blood rushing to my head. My lips were tingly, and my feet were numb.

I started in the direction she had pointed out. “You doing okay in there?” I tapped the top of her head. Wren leaned over the console and rested it on my shoulder. “Yeah. I just wanna show you something.” She stared out the window at the passing houses as I weaved through the neighborhood and down a backroad. There was an introspective aura radiating from her body. Her normally perky demeanor was softer. More subdued. Her brows were creased and her lips were pursed as she watched the landscape fly by. We broke free of the residential area and cruised down a service road along the shoreline. The sun was a vivid orange as it sank low in an early December sunset. “Here,” Wren said quietly, pointing at the entrance to a long drive, shrouded by overgrown vines and barren trees. Brick pillars were cracked and crumbling from decades of coastal New England weather. I gave her a wary look as the SUV bumped down the pothole-riddled drive. “Where are you taking me, Little Bird?” A coy smile curled at the corner of her mouth as we rounded a bend marked by a naked weeping willow. “The house.” I stomped on the brakes the moment the house came into view. I remembered her telling me about the Victorian on the coast that she dreamed of renovating. What she had failed to tell me was that the house was actually a lighthouse. Wren was already unbuckling her seatbelt. “What are you doing?” I asked. She looked at me, then at the house. “I wanna go in. We’re already down here. Might as well.” I ...

“Crazy, sure. Let’s find a tattoo parlor and get inked. I’ll let you pick out a ridiculous design off the wall and put it on my ass. Walking into a deathtrap of tetanus and dry rotted flooring? Hell no.” She opened her door. “I can’t have tattoos. House it is.” Grumbling as I cut the engine to her vehicle, I stalked around the front and opened her door. “Let it be known that I think this is a terrible idea.” “Noted,” she said, hopping to the ground. Her winter boots squished in the mud.

“Why can’t you get a tattoo?” I asked as I slid my hand into the pocket of her heavy winter coat and laced our fingers together. “Team rules. No visible tattoos for the Ladies in Red. The uniform barely covers anything, and since I don’t want a tattoo pen anywhere near my nipples or my ass, I’ve abstained.” I snickered as we made our way up the lopsided stone steps. “Now I’m thinking about what it’d look like for you to get your tits tattooed. Lying there, shirtless.” The thought had me reaching down and adjusting my dick. “I don’t kink shame, but that’s a weird turn-on. Dream on, big guy,” she said with a laugh, clouds forming around her breath. “Everything about you turns me on.” I cupped her cheeks as we stood on the threshold of the collapsing mansion and threaded my fingers through her hair. “You bundled up in all these layers is a fucking turn on. I want to unwrap you like a present and see what’s underneath.” “You know exactly what’s underneath,” she whispered. “And I will never get enough of it.”

With that confession, I turned and faced the doorless house. “Well, Little Bird. It’s been nice knowing you. Let’s go say hello to the serial killer hiding in the kitchen.”

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear. “When you’re dancing at halftime, look at Section 120. Row 19.” And with that, he was off. The Red Cocks were crushing Indiana by halftime. It was a bloodbath. The boys were grinning from ear-to-ear as they barreled down the tunnel to head back to their locker room. Instead of our standard covert pinky promise, Tatum kissed me as he passed and winked. I didn’t think anything of it until I was standing on the fifty-yard line, anticipating the first eight-count of our halftime routine. I looked up into the stands. Section 120 was smack dab in the middle of the home team’s side. Row 19 had the best seats in the house. Sitting in the exact spot Tatum had pointed out, was my dad. He was bundled up in Reds gear and had a thermos of what was probably Irish coffee to ward off the chill. A bouquet of flowers sat on the empty seat beside him. Red roses—my mom’s favorite. My dad dabbed his eyes with a tissue and waved, smiling proudly.

“Want me to start the coffee maker?” I murmured, rolling over and burying my face in his chest. “Not yet,” he growled as he dug his fingers into the flesh of my thighs. “I need your help.” I crooked an eyebrow. “Help?” Without another warning, Tatum ripped the covers back. I shrieked at the flood of cool air. “Need you to help push my lung capacity. It’ll give me more endurance.” “Wha—” Tatum grabbed my waist and, with his inhumanly strong arms, hauled me up the bed. “Sit on my face.” “Tay, I—” My words were cut off by a squeal as Tatum bit the inside of my thigh. “Don’t argue with me. Sit on my fucking face. I’m going to devour you, Little Bird.”

“Get in here!” Ralph Porter boomed and laughed as he held the front door open for Wren and me. Winter wind whipped around the little front stoop. “Look at you—the championship MVP in my house!” “Good to know I’ve been demoted,” Wren teased. “Thanks, dad.” “Ah, come here, Wrennie girl.” He threw a burly arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Missed you, kiddo.” Ralph looked over Wren’s head as they hugged and winked at me.