Chapter 6 Chapter 6 The Soccer Game
Coach Jones calls the medic over before I can leave. By then, the whole team is gone. My phone buzzes—Tish.
We’re all heading to Matt’s. His parents are out of town.
She sends me the address.
I shower quickly, then pull my school clothes back on—a pink, flowy slashed skirt, a white crop top, and my jean jacket. I shove everything into my soccer bag, grab my backpack, and head out through the tunnel onto the field.
I pause.
Do I even want to go out tonight?
Part of me just wants to go home and crash.
Then I spot Frankie sitting on the bleachers. He jumps up when he sees me and jogs over, falling into step beside me.
“Sorry about earlier,” he says. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Sure,” I shrug. “Did you get in trouble with your girlfriend?”
“No, she didn’t see. But Coach was pissed. I have to sit out our first game.”
He looks genuinely crushed, and I can’t help laughing.
Frankie can be such an idiot. A total goofball—but he loves playing, and I know that stings.
We walk past the gates toward the parking lot, making small talk about school, weekend plans… normal stuff.
Then he stops me.
“No boyfriend, huh?”
I follow his gaze.
Vincent.
He’s sitting on the tailgate of my truck, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair. His Benz is parked right next to it. He looks up at us, those blue eyes catching in the dim light.
I shove Frankie lightly. He takes the hint and heads to his car.
I walk up to Vincent and toss my bags into the truck behind him.
“Trouble,” he says, eyes dragging over me, “is this what you wear to school?”
He pulls me in, his hands sliding over my ass, smoothing my skirt before settling on the backs of my bare thighs.
“Yes… obviously.”
“I would’ve been in so much trouble if I went to high school with you,” he says with a wink.
“How long ago was that?” I tilt my head. “What year did you graduate? I’m a junior… so what, more than three years ago?”
I already know the answer. I’ve done the math.
It’s at least five.
Vincent drops his hands and laughs, covering his face.
“Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” he mutters. “You want me to say how old I am?”
“I want to hear you say it out loud,” I shoot back, “so you can hear how ridiculous we sound together.”
He looks at me, expression going flat.
“I’m twenty-five.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And how old am I, Vincent? How old did I just turn this summer when you all showed up to my birthday?”
He shakes his head, refusing to say it. Saying it makes it real.
His hands slide back to my thighs, moving slowly upward until they’re under my skirt, gripping my ass tight. He leans forward, resting his forehead against my chest.
My body locks up.
Heat spreads through me, slow and consuming. My heart pounds, breath catching.
The silence between us is heavy—thick.
I grab his face and force him to look at me.
“I’m eight years older than you,” he says finally, still avoiding my actual age.
“Then why aren’t you with someone your age?” I ask. “Why not date someone in their twenties?”
He shakes his head again—then a dark grin spreads across his face.
“My girlfriend is thirty, okay?” he says. “It’s not an age thing. I’ve always dated older.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
“There’s just something about you that makes me lose my mind.”
Before I can respond, he turns me around and drops me onto his lap. I feel how hard he is instantly. His hands move fast, sliding over my body, slipping between my legs.
I inhale sharply, reaching back, gripping the back of his neck.
I don’t care how old he is.
He does.
And I kind of love pushing that.
“Why is there nothing under this skirt?” he groans against my ear, sending chills down my spine.
“I knew you were waiting for me,” I tease. I didn’t—but he doesn’t need to know that.
I glance back at him.
“Vincent… pull your dick out and fuck me.”
I lift slightly, giving him space. He fumbles with his zipper, freeing himself while watching me. I push my still damp hair to one side, glancing over my shoulder as he lines himself up.
Then I drop back down onto him.
He groans as he slides in, and I start moving, grinding with every bounce. The night air is cool, but my skin is slick with heat.
Everything else disappears.
My mind goes blank as the pressure builds.
His hand reaches around, finding my clit, rubbing in perfect rhythm.
I’ve never come like this before.
The combination hits hard, fast, overwhelming. I grip his thighs as I fall apart, letting it take over completely.
Vincent grabs my hair, pulling my head back. His lips find my neck as his hands slide under my shirt, shoving my bra down, exposing me.
His fingers drag over my nipples—then grip hard, no mercy.
I moan again, and he follows, finishing with a final thrust.
He exhales, then shifts me down onto his jeans, wiping me off with a crooked grin.
“I am never washing these jeans again.”
“You’re so nasty,” I laugh.
He turns me to face him.
“I’ll see you at Matt’s, right?” he asks. “I live next door. I’m going to change. That should give you enough time to get there before me.”
I smirk. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“You are a brat.” He nudges me back as he zips up and stands.
“I act my age.”
He immediately covers his ears and starts humming.
I laugh, shaking my head.
He doesn’t want to hear it—even if he already knows.