by Jesse Jordan
I reach for a bathrobe, but by the time I get it on I hear the front door to my apartment open and shut. I stand in my entryway, my body still quivering with the aftershocks of my orgasm and my brain feeling like I just got socked in the head or something. I've heard of the term getting mindfucked before... but this is something totally unbelievable. The most satisfying orgasm of my life, I want more, and it's for some fucking reason unavailable.
“What the...?” I wonder, sighing deeply as I tie my bathrobe closed. “Just my fucking luck. Sexiest man I've ever met... and he's just not right in the goddamn head. Just. My. Fucking. Luck.”
I sigh again, and look at my front door before turning and heading for the kitchen. I've got half a pint of Rocky Road in there, and the way I feel... it's either that or scream in anger and frustration. And despite the hefty rent and spacious design layout, I share a living room wall with another corner unit, and they're the kind who complains.
So Rocky Road it is.
Chapter 8
Lincoln
“So it's week two of the season, and already we've got tectonic shifts rattling through the league,” the perfectly coiffed yet still surprisingly energetic host on the TV says as I sit in the locker room Tuesday afternoon, getting ready for practice. I don't like watching the cable talking heads, I don't even watch Dad much in his new network analyst job. But I get it, a lot of the guys want to know what's going on around the league. “First off, of course, is the story coming out of Denver as Colby Grant, the starting quarterback that many reporters, including us here at Football This Week, thought was brought in at too high a price, was lost for the season. The budding star, who Denver got three years ago by trading away their first and second round picks for the past two years in order to move up to take, tore his ACL and his patellar tendon in a horrific hit. Caution for those of you at home who are squeamish... but this is disturbing.”
I can't help but keep my eyes glued to the screen as Colby, a nice guy out of Washington who I played against three times when I was in Chicago, tucks the ball and runs downfield. The sight of his leg going dead straight as he plants to try and cut to avoid a tackle, and the guy hitting him from behind, forcing his knee to bend in a way that no knee is meant to go is disturbing, and all I can think of is a turkey getting its drumstick ripped off at Thanksgiving.
“Fuck,” Nick Sedgwick, who's got the locker next to mine, says as he winces. “I hate seeing hits like that.”
“Me too,” I reply, shaking my head. “Tackling a guy is one thing... but Colby's never gonna be the same player after that. The rehab alone... hope he can make it back next year.”
“Why the fuck are you two complaining?” Joe Crenshaw, who's leaning against the wall nearby, says. “We gotta play Denver in week six, might as well do it against their second string scrub of a QB.”
“Fuck you Joe,” I growl, standing up. “There's playing hard, and there's bad karma. How'd you like it if someone ended your fucking career in a split second?”
Joe pushes off the wall, squaring up to me. “What's that you're saying, scrub? Fact is, I go down, this whole fucking team goes down with me.”
I growl, stepping close enough to catch a whiff of his breath, all mint gum and turkey sub. “You just keep thinking that, Joe. Trust me, the way you've been playing the past two weeks, we might do better with someone else under center.”
“Hey guys, chill,” Nick says, getting between us. “Come on, we're on the TV.”
I glare at Joe, who looks like he's about to throw a damn fit. Instead I defer to decorum with a nod, and take a step back. “That's fine, Nick... let's see what's on TV.”
Joe harumphs and stalks off, muttering something under his breath while I sit down next to Nick again. “Hey man, don't sweat Joe,” Nick says in a low voice. “You know how quarterbacks are.”
“Right.”
“The other big story is the surge of the Knights. Owner Vincent Porter told the media at the end of last season he was tired of the team losing, and that this season, the team's fiftieth, would be a turn around that would, quote 'leave you guys scratching your heads.' A lot of people wrote it off to bluster as the Knights, in typical Coach Red Hallifax fashion, proceeded to spend most of the off season loading up on offensive talents to surround quarterback Joe Crenshaw with, while barely giving a thought to a defense that leaked like a sieve last year.”
“Ouch, that's low,” Nick mutters, and I feel for him. He's a good guy on the tail end of his career, to be called a sieve has to hurt.
“This year however, the Knights have started off the season with two wins in a row, something they haven't done in a decade. The reason behind this early season turnaround? Not the offense, which has been just slightly above average as Joe Crenshaw's play has been inconsistent. Instead, it's the Knights defense that's led the charge. Especially the career resurgence of their new bargain basement but suddenly top performance defensive end, Lincoln Watson.”
“Kudos to you,” Nick says with a chuckle. “Gonna have to call you Bargain Basement for your nickname from now on.”
“Signed to a veteran minimum contract after a stormy four years in Chicago, Watson's resurgence from middling pushover draft bust to holy terror continued Sunday with two more sacks, bringing his season total up to four. For a guy whose season high up until this year was five... well let me ask you, Landon Watson, what do you think of your son's season so far?”
“Okay, okay... that's enough,” I grumble, getting up and changing the channel. “I don't need to listen to my own father being nice.”
“Hell Monster, that's the replay,” someone else calls over with a big laugh. “Caught it this morning before the special teams meeting... Daddy's happy for his little boy.”
I sigh, and start strapping up for practice. Today's not full contact, no tackling or hitting below the waist, but for us linemen, that still means a lot of hard hits as we prepare get ready. While the team stretches out, I feel a tightness in my chest, and a fresh sweat breaks out on my forehead... oh no... not again.
I don't need the wall closing in again... after spending so much time this offseason with a psychologist I thought I'd finally gotten rid of it.
“Hey son, how're you feeling?”
Part of me wants to lie, that I feel great, but I also know Dad is smart enough to hear my bullshit as soon as it comes out of my mouth. “Like you told me, Dad. The in-game high's worn off and I feel like I just played dodgeball on the highway for the past three hours. How much are you making doing network analysis again?”
Dad laughs, concern in his voice but no more than what I'd expect. Mom's worse, she watched as her husband and her brother took the beatings for fifteen years. As a former Olympian, she understands the fanatic levels of dedication that every professional athlete needs, but her sport was non-contact. She can't understand the bruises, the lumps in your muscles that you know are probably the result of that one hit where a facemask just happened to hit in the wrong way.
Still, Mom tried the best she could with Dad. She stayed by his side through the immobile Sunday nights or Mondays, the mandatory two weeks after every season where Dad moved like an old man as his body recovered from six months of torture. For me, of course, I thought it was all fun, and I understood something Mom never has. She never understood the way football gets in your very soul, that for Dad, my uncle, and for me, there's a love for the game that will never end.
Dad gets it though. “The game was tough today. Nice win though, three and oh.”
“It was a tough game,” I admit, thinking back. For the first time since I joined the Knights, I was held sackless, and only posted three tackles. “Thankfully, Nick and the rest of the defense held strong enough, and Crenshaw had a good game. Three touchdown passes will make any game easier.”
Dad hums, chuckling. “Off the record, you don't like Joe Crenshaw, do you?”
I laugh, Dad's had to start using that blurb since I started playing pro ball. “Dad, I'm a defensive end, he
's a quarterback. We're like oil and water.”
“Riiiight,” Dad says. He takes a deep breath, then plunges on. “So... how about you today? No offense Lincoln, but we analyzed the game beforehand for the network... you should have roughhoused those guys. You faced much better offensive lines week one and two. You doing okay?”
I lean back on my couch, trying to figure out how to say this. “You know how it is, Dad. The wall's just sort of sticking me a little right now. I'm trying to get past it.”
“The wall,” Dad repeats knowingly. He and I have talked a lot about the wall, and my inner turmoil. “This wouldn't have anything to do with your new nickname among the team, does it?”
“Damn, forget the defense being like a sieve, seems the locker room's like a sieve,” I gripe. “Yeah, that's part of it Dad. I know that the guys weren't trying to push my damn buttons when they gave me that nickname, but still, it hasn't helped.”
“When I heard the network guys using it, I knew you'd have a problem... but I think it's more than that, Lincoln,” Dad says. “What else is going on?”
I don't even hesitate. Dad and I have always been close, and while he's not my 'best friend,' he's always been a good ear, a source of trusted advice, and someone who understands me better than I understand myself. “Well... it's this girl, Dad. Now, this is just you and me, right? No Mom or Uncle Terry even?”
Dad's silent on the other end, and I hear him moving around. He must still be at the network, probably covering the last bits of the Thursday night game for the network. Knowing him, he's going to a dressing room or somewhere else he can talk privately. Finally, a door closes, and he talks again. “Talk with me, son. And yes, this is just you and me.”
I take a deep breath, and talk. “There's this girl I met... Samantha Porter.”
“Wait... Samantha Porter as in Vincent Porter's daughter, potential owner of the team when her father decides to step down?” Dad asks, sounding like he’s absolutely shocked. “And former girlfriend of your team's starting quarterback? You must like playing with fire, son.”
“Yeah... yeah, I know... maybe not the smartest move on the surface, but when I first started talking to her I didn't know who she was,” I admit. “And by the time I did, I didn't really care. Dad, I like this girl a lot, and so far it's been great. Until....”
“Until what, Linc?” Dad asks. “You didn't... you two didn't fight, did you?”
“No!” I protest before sighing again. “Can't even call it a fight, we're totally seeing each other on the down low. Like you said, she used to date Joe Crenshaw, and he cheated on her. So to avoid drama on the team, we both decided to keep our seeing each other away from the team itself.”
“I heard about Joe's little paternity issue,” Dad replies, making me want to choke Joe Crenshaw all the more. I knew that he and Samantha had broken up, but I hadn't pried into why. Cheating? Not cool. Getting another woman pregnant? More than not cool. “So what's going on between you two?”
“Well... after that first game, we went out to dinner Monday night. It got... hot.”
Dad hums, his voice lowering. “You were safe, right?”
I roll my eyes, talking about my sex life with my father is really not what I want to be doing the Thursday before our home opener. But I'm already in the deep end, might as well keep swimming. Besides, Dad's been very open with me about sex, and never shied away from 'the talk.' I'd say I got pretty lucky overall. “Relax, Dad. It never got that far. I mean, we got up to some heavy petting, and I... I used my hands, but then she called me Monster too....”
“And you thought about Zena Wilkins,” Dad says. Dad hears my answering sigh, and he sighs back. “Lincoln, you know that was an accident. She admitted it herself that she'd asked you to try it.”
“I should have known, Dad,” I grumble. “Hell, you and I had this talk all the way back when I was thirteen, we're bigger than normal men in every way. I have to take my time, make sure she's ready.”
“And Zena told you she was, and you'd been dating for what, three months at that point?” Dad asks. “Lincoln, I'm not saying you shouldn't be careful. But you are... too careful. After that tackle on Blake Munchak and then Zena that weekend... I get it, son. Still, you've worked hard to get past this wall, your monster, on the football field. I'll give you credit, most men aren't man enough to admit they need help. Now you've got a new issue with this Sam?”
“Samantha,” I correct him almost automatically. “Dad, after she... well, you know, I damn near ran out of her apartment. For the past week and a half she's pretty much given me the cold shoulder, ignored my texts... I know she was in my head this last Sunday.”
“And I'm guessing you've had a shit week in practice too? At least, that's what sources are saying. Rumor coming out of there says you got pancaked a few times yesterday.”
“Yeah... real monster-like,” I groan. “Today's half contact wasn't much better. I know what the problem is, Dad. Samantha's in my head, the Monster's in my head, and I'm not where I need to be.”
“Connected to the field,” Dad answers, using a phrase from my talks with my psychologist. Dad helped me there too. “Seems like the answer's pretty simple to me, Lincoln. You need to talk with Samantha Porter.”
“And what, Dad? Tell her that calling me Monster in her bedroom brings back some really bad memories and oh, by the way, the reason I couldn't pull it out on her is because I didn't want to scare the everloving shit out of her with a dick that you only see in some fucked up Japanese cartoon?”
“Well,” Dad chuckles, “I might put it slightly differently, but... Lincoln, you know I had the same issue. And I had to have that talk with your mother. Thankfully Lauren's the sort of woman she is... and I'm glad. She's blessed me with a son that I'm very proud of, on and off the field. If Samantha Porter's anything like the young woman I remember meeting three years ago during a telecast of a Knights game, I'd say she's remarkable as well.”
I nod to myself, inhaling deeply before sighing. “I understand. You're right. Thanks, Dad. And if she doesn't want to talk?”
“Well, you can always play in Cleveland,” Dad jokes, making me laugh. “Yeah, that's what I said when my agent gave me the same offer. Okay, take care son, and call me after Sunday's game, okay?”
“I will, Dad. Give my love to Mom, and tell Uncle Terry that I'll be extra nice to his old team.”
“I'm sure Terry will appreciate it,” Dad says with a chuckle. “Okay, fourth quarter's starting, gotta get ready for the postgame. Talk to you later.”
“Goodnight, Dad.”
We hang up, and I sit back, the smell of muscle liniment wafting to my nose to remind me of who exactly I am, as if I forgot. Dad's right, of course. I need to talk to Samantha, or else I'm going to be trapped again, unable to get free of the Monster that's held me back for years now. I just have to figure out when I can do it, she's out of town until Sunday.
Chapter 9
Samantha
“Great game today, Sam,” one of the newspaper reporters says as he leaves the press conference. “Best start in a generation for the Knights.”
“Yep, really proud of everyone today,” I reply, giving my best professional smile. “Great day to be a Knights fan.”
“Hey, what's up with Lincoln?” the guy asks. “Spent the entire preseason and week one looking like Superman, but the past few weeks he's been... well, some people are saying it was just a fluke, and he was playing against scrub teams.”
“You'll have to ask the coaches. Far as I know, Lincoln Watson's doing just fine,” I reply, keeping my professional smile on. While it looks like I'm off the record, I've learned with the media that I can't ever assume I'm totally safe. Too many people have been burned that way. “Besides, this is a team effort, and I'm sure other teams have been adapting. Isn't that what football's about?”
“Perhaps, but with a short week coming up Thursday, I hope you guys can adapt quickly,” the newspaper guy says. “I've got fifty bucks in the office
pool that says the Knights can keep the streak going. With the odds in the pool, I can take my wife out for a really nice anniversary dinner.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You should take your wife out for a nice dinner anyways. Listen, I gotta get going, and I know you've got deadlines. See you later.”
I head back to my office, avoiding the rest of the media and delving into the office ring of the stadium. Sitting down at my desk, I pull up some e-mails, but the simple fact is I'm not in the mood to deal with anything actually work related. Whatever the results on the scoreboard were today, Lincoln played like crap again. That's two games in a row where he was just... I don't like using the word soft to describe him, but it's true.
I know he's been trying to get in contact with me, but I was out of town until last night on some charity business for the team. I've just spent most of my time in places where cell phone coverage is spotty at best. While I enjoy being able to do some good in the world, and the hurricane victims don't need to be forgotten, I've been out of touch. Getting home late last night, I saw that Lincoln had sent me a text message, asking me to get in contact with him. Unfortunately, I was so jet lagged I didn't even get to the stadium until an hour before kickoff today.
There's a knock on my door and I look up to see Coach Red. “Hey Coach, what can I do for you?”
“Don't you think the executive stuff can wait until tomorrow morning?” Red asks, smiling a little. “We had a good game, we're undefeated. Even I'm planning on taking the next twelve hours off before I have to sink my brain into prepping for next week's game.”
“Even with a short week?” I ask, and Red nods. “Brave man.”
“One thing I've learned since the league started this whole Thursday night game bullshit,” Red says in his typical gruff yet gentlemanly manner, “the worst thing you can really do is try and make too many changes. Sure, it'll be a tough test, but the smartest thing I can do is let the guys rest and recover. They're pros, they know how to hit. So we'll work some non-contact drills, lots of foam shield and other work like that for linemen, and when we step on the field Thursday, they'll be fresh. Tell you another thing, I'd rather have a Thursday game early in the season than late. That's just a recipe for injuries.”
