Claiming His Labor Day

by Pratt, Lulu

  The answer wasn’t something I cared to dwell on.

  So, could I blame Fiona for running out? No. Not really. I knew the situation was humiliating, and I can’t imagine that anyone wants to see a guy they just fucked in that kind of pathetic light.

  With a heaving sigh, I laid back on the bench, letting the hard wood straighten my spine. I’d stayed in this locker room for half of senior year while my parents duked it out at home — these benches felt as familiar to me as the bed of my childhood room.

  “Sorry, Fiona,” I apologized, as though she could hear.

  Her image fluttered into my mind, still fresh and warm as though just out of the laundry, her scent still pressed into my skin.

  Though I’d orgasmed only minutes ago, I could feel my cock stiffening again. God, it was like I couldn’t get a moment of peace while I was even in the same town as her. Maybe I needed to jack off before the men got back and had the opportunity to mock my obvious boner. There was plenty of time to take care of it though, hours even.

  As I tried to turn my thoughts from Fiona’s glorious thighs, they fell instead on something even more troubling — her wonderful personality.

  I’d never met a woman like her, not before I went off to war and not since. And before you say that’s because there were no women around for me to fall for, you’re wrong — there were women in my squad, albeit not many, and they weren’t bad looking. But nobody held a candle to Fiona. Her memory had dimmed while I was overseas, but now that I was back, I found it shone as brightly as ever. She was the whole package. Maybe some things can never be blown all the way out.

  Was it possible that, all these years, I’d been unable to find love because I was still hung up on a girl from high school?

  No way. I’d traveled to much of the world for that to be true — I fancied myself an adventurous, outgoing guy who grabbed life by the balls. Was I really so mundane as to be in love with someone I’d grown up alongside, in this tiny Wisconsin town?

  Jesus, this was too complicated a mental path to wander down today. I had to focus on the game, on securing enough TD’s for my team to not only win the game, but to properly announce my return home. Anything less than a stellar show would be embarrassing.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to get some sleep. Maybe a nap would let my racing mind take a break.

  I curled onto my side, willing myself to dream of anything — anything but Fiona.

  Sure enough, for the next few hours, my unconscious showed me nothing but pictures of her — smiling, undressed, orgasming, on an endless slideshow of torment. Awesome.

  I was awoken by Mark, punching my shoulder so hard I jumped from the touch.

  “Ow, hey, what gives?”

  He snorted deep in his throat. “It’s game time, Sleeping Beauty, rise and shine. We need our star QB.”

  Opening my eyes, I realized I was surrounded by at least a dozen guys, all tacitly considering whether or not to dunk my hand in hot water and watch me piss myself. Luckily — maybe due to the whole Marine thing — they’d decided otherwise and were just getting their laughs from watching me drool on the bench.

  “Game time, big boy!” another cried. “Get on up.”

  With a deep, earnestly felt groan, I arose from my reclining position, the men cheering me as I got to my feet.

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “Can’t wait to see you back on that field.”

  Truthfully, I had my doubts. I mean, yeah, I was in the best physical shape of my life, but football isn’t just about your body — it’s about your mind. Did I remember how to predict the guy in front of me’s next move, the probable end point of a flying football? I wasn’t too sure.

  It was too late for doubts, though. I had a game to play.

  The men dispersed around me, dropping their bags and stripping down. Many still had their old uniforms — those who hadn’t played had obviously borrowed jerseys from elsewhere. This was to be a no-pads game of ball, probably because learning how to run in that shit took years of training. Instead, everyone just wore basic cleats and helmets, with the promise that we wouldn’t hit each other too rough.

  I noticed with a wry smile that more than a few subconsciously went to get changed in front of their former lockers. Guess some habits die hard.

  In a few minutes — far less time than it used to take, due to the lack of pads — we were all suited up. It was, in truth, hard to tell who was on which team, given that a number of the people on opposing sides wore our same school jersey. However, apparently we were going to distinguish based on helmets — red for my team, white for the other. Not a perfect solution, but good enough.

  “All right, men, huddle!” Mason, our would-be captain, called out, beckoning us to the opposite side of the room so that we could whisper away from the other team. This was a first — getting changed and prepping in the same room as my opponents.

  The guys and I crowded around, throwing our arms over each other and bending our heads in close.

  “Okay,” Mason began, a boyish grin on his face. “We’re gonna totally slaughter them. In, like, a nice way. Not too nasty. But still, right, a slaughter.”

  My classmates cheered in agreement, egging on this battle speech if you could really even call it that.

  At their urging, he continued, “And, with Jagger on our side, there’s no fucking way we could lose.”

  The cheers grew louder, enough to draw the attention of the other team, who was starting to look fidgety.

  Aloud, I scoffed at their cheers, playfully rolling my eyes with lighthearted annoyance. Inside, though, I was excited to strut my stuff. On the field, no one could stop me. I guess that was a feeling I’d been chasing ever since. See: joining the Marines.

  “You’re just kissing up to me,” I said with a laugh.

  “Hey,” Ron returned, “I only kiss the ass of greats.”

  The guys liked that one, breaking into a round of amused grunts.

  “Let’s go show our girlfriends — or in some cases, wives, Chuck and Philip — what we’re made of,” Mason finished. “Let’s make sure we’re all getting laid tonight!”

  Well, that did it — full-on applause erupted from the men.

  Fiona would be watching me out there. I had to win, not just for my team, but to impress her. I knew she was regretting our sex, worried that she’d hurt Jolie, and I wanted to remind her that I was a goddamn catch. Even if she had been weird after I’d told her everything about the divorce, maybe my showing in the stadium could change her tune.

  A voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “All right, everybody, the game’s about to begin. Take your seats!”

  I guess this was some kind of pre-set cue, because Mason and the other team captain waved their hands in the air, indicating that everyone should follow them.

  We began to stream out of the locker room and through the stadium arch, both teams mingling with one another, smacking asses and knocking helmets. Even though we were about to go head to head, we were still buddies, still classmates.

  The sunlight hit my face at the exact same moment that I heard the crowd roar.

  As usual, the entire town had turned out for the game, over thirty-thousand people, many alumni of the school, everyone decked in red and white – our team colors.

  And all of them were now on their feet, cheering a word I couldn’t make out.

  The men around me turned and grinned, shooting me thumbs up and mouthing ‘Welcome home.’

  Oh, so that’s what everyone was cheering:

  They were saying Jagger.

  The voice from the locker room crackled overhead again on the stadium loudspeakers.

  “Yes, folks, you’re seeing that right. That’s our hometown hero made good, Jagger Kates, returned to Little Lane.”

  The noise in the stadium rose, louder than I’d ever recalled it could be.

  Ah, it felt good to be home. Nobody cheers for you on the battlefield — they just tell you to duck or shoot. Being apprec
iated, being remembered… it was worth its weight in gold.

  I stuck my hand in the air, giving everybody a grateful wave as we made our way to the 50-yard line.

  “Now let’s see if Jagger still has that famous arm,” the announcer said. We took our places on the starting line, shaking hands with the men across from us. “And remember, folks, we want this to be a good, clean game. None of that concussion crap, y’hear?”

  As I got into position, I turned my head reflexively to the side, looking for the ghosts of teammates, instinctively remembering where they would be placed on the field. Of course, this was all jumbled up, a casual game though — with thirty-thousand spectators, a little more than casual — so no one was in their usual places.

  Instead, what I saw when I looked to the right was Fiona, sitting in the first row of the bleachers, looking both thrilled and very, very nervous.

  I was about to shoot her a wink when I realized someone was flush up against her, squirming with discomfort.

  Fantastic. It was Jolie. And she looked pissed.

  My eyes lingered on her just long enough to see her stand up in a huff, say something to Fiona and storm out.

  Maybe this was all a big mistake. Perhaps springing it on Jolie like this, in public, had been a horrible idea. Should I have called and given warning?

  Whatever. It was too fucking late — she already knew I was here. And if she didn’t like that? She could stuff it.

  Besides, the only person who really mattered was watching me, eyes transfixed on my body as I hunched over, preparing to receive the ball. If I could perform in front of Fiona, that would make up for all the shit with Jolie.

  “Ready, set, hup!”

  Game time.

  CHAPTER 9

  Fiona

  OKAY, I HAD royally screwed up.

  As the ball flew in the air, the hordes of people surging around me to follow its every movement, I knew I should’ve just ran after Jolie, apologized, explained the whole situation. Well, maybe not the whole situation. I should’ve done anything to make it right.

  Because the moment she saw Jagger come onto the field, she put the pieces together — that being the coordinator, I must have had at least a little advanced knowledge that Jagger was gonna make a showing. Hell, maybe she even assumed I’d known for weeks.

  It had taken her a full thirty seconds to comprehend what she was seeing, and after that, she’d merely stood up, turned to me and said:

  “Thanks for the heads up, Fiona. That’s a really awesome way to be a friend.”

  Then she had left, shoving her way through adoring fans still murmuring Jagger’s name like a prayer.

  Listen, I’d felt guilty before — mostly about the fucking Jagger part, admittedly — but now? Now I knew I was a complete and total asshole. Could our friendship ever recover from this terrible faux pas?

  But logically, I also understood that I couldn’t go after her, couldn’t sit on the sidewalk and beg and plead for forgiveness. I was in charge of this event — running off in the middle of it would be pretty unprofessional, and I worked here, at least for the time being.

  And yes, in the back of my mind, I also didn’t want to hurt Jagger by running off before the game. Not that you could see one person in a crowd of this many, but I just felt confident that he would somehow know that he’d sense me leaving. Was I being insane? Possibly. But I could only handle one Kates sibling hating me at a time.

  I guess my only real option now was to sit tight and watch the game. After all, I deserved to see all my hard work pay off on the field.

  Once I’d refocused my attention on the actual game happening in front of me, I realized that, though they’d begun just a few minutes ago, Jagger was already on fire.

  Identified by his jersey, #14, Jagger was sprinting up and down the field like he’d done this just yesterday. In fact, he somehow looked faster than he had in high school. Was that even possible? For a moment, I felt a little embarrassed by my own lack of physical prowess, before remembering that he was a goddamn Marine — it was his job to be in phenomenal shape.

  Now, like I said, normally athletes didn’t do it for me. But watching Jagger play… it wasn’t like watching a regular game. There’s a certain thrill in seeing anyone in the top of their field just steamroll over the competition. Nobody had complained aloud about his late-stage assignment to the game, but I knew there would be grumbles amidst the guys later about unfair advantages. Blah blah blah.

  The ball sailed through the air, landing in Jagger’s hands. Could those be the same hands that were gripping me this morning, caressing my flesh, penetrating me, bringing me to orgasm? I shivered at the recollection, then worried that the townspeople around me could sense my horniness, smell it like I was some kind of animal. If I stood up just then, would there be a little pool where my legs had crossed? The thought simultaneously ashamed and aroused me. Maybe it aroused me even more because of how shameful it was. Ugh, sexuality is complicated.

  Just as I had that thought, Jagger scored a touchdown. Because of course, I hadn’t been turned on enough before — now he had to go and make a damn superstar out of himself.

  The crowd rose to its feet once more, and I joined them, smiling and clapping. If only all these people knew that I’d fucked him, the soldier, the hero, earlier today. I had tasted him. I felt foolishly important, like some kind of chosen princess.

  The rest of the first half flew by in a flash. Jagger continued to dominate the field, but because of the other guys who weren’t really skilled players, they were unable to make any serious moves. In fact, the opposing team managed to score a touchdown, due more to some kind of lucky fumble than any real concentration.

  I knew this was supposed to be a fun, chill game between friends, but I found myself on the edge of my seat, desperately rooting for Jagger.

  By halftime, the teams were dead even.

  While the men filed into the locker room to recuperate, the “cheerleaders” — a group of former students, both from the cheer team and the ones who were never chosen for the team — took to the field. Since they’d graduated only five years back, many still fit into their same uniforms. They earned plenty of appreciative whistles from the crowd, and in turn, shook their pom-poms like they meant it.

  I, on the other hand, was in the bleachers, surrounded by people who knew me — but totally alone.

  “May as well go see how the guys are faring,” I muttered, searching for any excuse to see Jagger, to feel like there was at least one person in this stadium who knew me.

  I could go into the locker room on the premise that I was the organizer — I needed to make sure my organize-ees were hanging in there. It was flimsy, I grant you, but it’d do.

  With many ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’s,’ I made my way through the crowd, fighting the hordes of people exchanging beers and social media information.

  When I arrived, the locker room smelled of sweat. The guys reclined on benches, against the wall — on any available surface that would have them. They looked like Washington’s troops — hungry, tired and browbeaten.

  “I should’ve bought that gym membership,” Richard groaned. “Why oh why didn’t I keep my New Year’s resolution?”

  While Tommy poured a whole water bottle over his head, I looked about for Jagger. Where was he?

  Turns out, it doesn’t take too long to find a muscle-laden Marine in a room of civilians.

  There he was, stationed by the sinks, looking like he’d barely broken a sweat.

  “Fiona?” he said, his voice trailing up into a question as we made eye contact. “What are you doing in here?”

  A few of the men turned to hear my answer.

  I swallowed and forced a smile. “I just wanted to say you’re all doing a great job out there, really making me proud.”

  “Well,” Chuck snorted, “Jagger is doing a great job. I dunno about the rest of us.”

  Jagger shook his head. “Hey, this is a team effort.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t be modest, it doesn’t suit you.”

  “Come on, we’re all doing great. After all, it is tied,” Jagger reminded Chuck and the rest of the men.

  Some of my classmates rolled their eyes, while others chose to simply close them in annoyance and exhaustion.

  Enough of this. I made my way to the center of the locker room and climbed up on the bench, steadying myself as though it were a balance beam. The men glanced up at me, confused as to why I was standing like Moses on the mountaintop. Shit. I probably should’ve thought of something to say. Oh well — here went nothing.

  “All right, boys!” I cried, drawing the attention of the ones who were a few rows over and goading them into the center space. “Wake up! You’re all playing a fucking excellent game out there, and I need you to hold your heads high and keep up the fight. You got wives and girlfriends, and maybe both—” that drew a laugh, “—out in that crowd, and it’s your job to do them proud. I want you to leave it all out on the field. Understood?”

  There was a long, aching pause where I thought they might push me off the bench and dunk my head in the toilet like they used to do to Martie. But then:

  “Aye aye, captain,” Jagger said, his mouth breaking into a grin. “And if you ever get bored of teaching, I think the military could use your skills.”

  With an outpouring of relief and glee, the men broke into full-blown laughter, their voices filling the small, sweaty space. As they turned to one another, bolstering their spirits, Jagger made his way to me, placing his hands beneath my armpits and lifting me off the bench, planting my feet firmly on the floor.

  “Thanks.”

  His grin was unwavering. “Anytime.”

  Shit, that mouth was irresistible. I just wanted to…

  “Can I see you over by the accessible stall for a second?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Not exactly the most romantic spot, but it’d have to do. The guys were too busy hyping each other up to notice me and Jagger slip out to the more secluded section of the locker room. The moment I knew we were alone, I tugged open the stall door and then took Jagger’s hand, dragging him in after me.