False Start

by Emrys Apollo

  He bites back the desire to pull Jarrod close and plant a kiss on his mouth, right here in the hallways of Pembroke, and sticks his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out.

  “So you enjoyed the game, then?”

  Jarrod nods, about to speak when a young voice pipes up. “You’re against us!”

  Clive kneels so that he’s at eye level with the kid, probably eight or nine. “Just because two people like different teams doesn’t mean they can’t be friends,” he says reasonably, “like me and your brother. Or me and you, if you want. My name is Clive Reynold. So, what do you say? Want to be my new friend?”

  The boy looks up at Jarrod for some sort of cue. “Clive’s my friend, kiddo, he’s a good guy. And plenty strong enough for piggyback rides, I’m guessing.”

  The little boy beams. “I’m Samson! Can I have a piggyback ride?”

  “I didn’t mean right now, Samson,” Jarrod says, fond, but exasperated, “Clive just played a hockey match, he’s tired, I’ll give you a piggyback to the car.”

  “What, Samson gets a piggyback, and I don’t? That’s not fair!” argues the older boy, something closer to ten years old.

  “I’ve only got one back, mate, I’ll give you one around the garden when we get home, if you want, Tom.”

  Tom doesn’t look too happy about that, gives his brother a look that he absolutely must have copied off an adult. There’s no way a ten year old can offer up that sort of long-suffering look all on his own.

  “Hey, cut it out! We just got to watch a brilliant game of hockey, thanks to Mickey, so what do we say to him?”

  Jarrod steps away while his brothers thank Michael earnestly. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the three points today,” he says softly, “you played really well, Cli. I’m not saying the whole team did, or I won’t have a home to go back to, but you did.”

  “Are you going to be in Liverpool for the rest of the night? Manchester is so close - “ Clive breathes the words, afraid they’ll be overheard and only realizing after the fact that it only sounds more suspicious that way.

  “Sure, I’d love to come and meet up with an old friend for a little bit tonight,” Jarrod says, perfectly affable, “I’ll call you and then take the bus over.”

  “I can pick you up?”

  “I’ll take the bus over,” Jarrod repeats. The words aren’t angry, they’re still said in that light, easy way he’d said them the first time, but Clive gets the message.

  “No pressure, Jarr, I don’t want to take you away when this is your time with your family. Just haven’t seen you much lately.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m heading over. It’ll probably be after dinner and homework time, but I’ll call you after that.”

  Clive nods and, for what feels like the first time in his life, he lets it go. “Good seeing you, Jarr. I’ve got to go speak to the physio, I think I tweaked something, but we’ll have to talk soon. I want to hear about what it’s like, being a student - medical student, right?”

  Jarrod nods, looking faintly amused, and says goodbye, heading back to his brothers. The last glance Clive gets of him before he goes back to the locker room is a young boy clambering up his back, holding on tight while Jarrod’s walking away.

  CHAPTER 12

  Clive gets home and in a fit of inspiration, picks out one of his kits that he’s kept and lays it out on the bed. Jarrod might not go for it, but it definitely won’t happen if Clive doesn’t ask for it, so it’s worth a shot, as far as he’s concerned.

  It’s several hours later that he finally gets a phone call.

  “Cli? Hey, I’m going to catch the next bus out - I’ll get there at around half nine, okay? Can you come pick me up from the bus station?”

  Clive bites back an offer to drive over and pick him up, and agrees. “I can’t wait to see you, babe,” he confesses, heart still skipping a beat when he lets an endearment slip.

  “Me too, Cli. I’ll be there soon, and I had dinner at home, so make sure you’ve eaten, okay? I don’t want you waiting on me.”

  “Sure, Jarr. I’ll eat.”

  “Good, talk soon, then.”

  Jarrod’s wearing a heavy coat when Clive picks him up at the bus station. The top buttons are open enough that he can still see the kit he’s got on underneath.

  “Hey, g - Jarr,” he corrects, swallowing the ‘–orgeous’ on the tip of his tongue, “the car’s just here.”

  Both of them relax once they’re in the car. Jarrod gives him a heart stopping smile - which is probably not a good thing for a doctor of all people to have, honestly. Clive responds to it on a visceral level, his entire being feeling lighter, and he shows it by reaching across the center console to lay his hand on Jarrod’s thigh, leaving it there as long as he can and returning it there whenever possible.

  They walk into his home, and the air between them is quiet, almost stilted.

  “I’m sorry,” Clive blurts out, “I shouldn’t have - I just introduced myself to your brothers, I let Starling know that we were friends, I shouldn’t have done that without asking you first.”

  Jarrod rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, they all had questions for me after you left, but I told them you played for an opposition team when we were kids, and you and I became friends after I got injured and you helped me off the field.”

  “I’m the hero in our little story?” Clive teases, imagining what Jarrod would have looked like when he was younger - a softer jaw, rounder cheeks, the hints of wrinkles in his forehead smoothed out.

  “No, you’re the dick who didn’t call me in advance and help me work out a solid cover story,” Jarrod grumbles.

  Clive just smiles and steps in closer to him, unbuttoning his coat slowly and savoring the way Jarrod’s attention is all on him, breathing growing a little shallower and a little faster as they stand in such close proximity, breathing each other’s air.

  Clive slides the coat off and hangs it up neatly, and only half a second later, he’s being pushed against a wall, Jarrod kissing him hungrily.

  “Missed you so much,” he mutters, lips pressed to the skin over Clive’s carotid, “and by the way? You look fucking hot in your kit, Cli, it’s so unfair.”

  Jarrod’s never really been like this before. If anything, he’s always been measured, more restrained while Clive’s the one who shoves him up against walls and sinks to his knees gracelessly. Clive’s the one whose kisses are chased by sharp teeth, the one that leaves marks that he hopes someone will see, hoping they will realize then exactly how unavailable Jarrod is.

  So it’s his first time on this side of it. He honestly has no idea why they’ve never done it before, because fuck, it’s just about the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. He knows Jarrod wants him, knows it on a rational level and on an emotional level, too, most of the time, but this is entirely different. This is a bone-deep certainty that he is wanted, that he is desired, a visceral feeling that silences any doubts that may arise over the course of long nights in a cold bed.

  Jarrod’s hands are cold when they press against Clive’s stomach, and he gasps at the sensation. “I bet you’d look hotter in it,” he blurts out, feeling reckless in the moment and not quite sure he regrets it.

  “If I wore yours, would you wear mine?” Jarrod teases.

  “Absolutely not, Jarrod.”

  Jarrod laughs, that beautiful laugh that Clive wants to record and keep with him and play whenever he feels sad or lonely. “Deal. Just me, then.”

  Jarrod pulls off his kit and Clive tries not to read the name on the back of it, because he already knows what the four letters say. He pauses and looks at Jarrod, lips quirking upwards.

  “I don’t know if I want you in the kit anymore, Jarr, you look pretty good like this - “

  Jarrod lets out a little growl and it affects Clive far too much, and suddenly he’s being dragged up the stairs into his own bedroom. Jarrod strips him quickly, like he’s taking dirty sheets off a bed. But then Clive’s bare before him, and his h
ands move slowly, tracing every inch of Clive’s body and pressing kisses to freckles and moles and scars alike, every feature he seems to find fascinating.

  Clive doesn’t have any condoms left in his nightstand, so he has to go to the bathroom to pick up more. When he comes back, it’s to the sight of Jarrod in his kit, laying on his bed with his legs spread.

  “Fuck,” he curses softly, “you can’t just do that to a man, Jarrod, or I won’t even make it to the bed before I come - “

  Jarrod just smirks. “I thought this is what you wanted,” he says lightly, “I’m wearing your kit, Cli. Your crest over my heart, your name on my back - “

  Clive launches himself at him, covering Jarrod’s lips with his own. “I’m serious,” he mutters in the second between kisses, “I’ve been dreaming about this since our first time, and it’s way hotter than I ever imagined - “

  “Since our first time? A little eager, weren’t you?” Jarrod’s teasing, and Clive blinks for a moment and suddenly he’s on his back, Jarrod straddling his lap.

  It gives him a perfect view of his torso, covered in the smooth cloth of the kit.

  “Would it ruin this shirt if I got come on it?” Jarrod asks playfully.

  Clive shakes his head, throat too dry to say anything. “I’ve got lots more,” he offers, voice a little hoarse.

  Jarrod smirks. “Excellent.” He reaches out and Clive hands him the lube, incapable of anything but obeying when Jarrod’s on top of him like this. He opens himself up quickly, not lingering to sink into the pleasure of it.

  He starts to sink down onto Clive.

  “Stop,” Clive says suddenly, sitting up, “turn over, hands and knees.”

  Jarrod obeys so fast Clive doesn’t even get to see the look on his face.

  “Jarr, please, I need - “

  Jarrod nods and Clive takes that as permission to start moving. Jarrod’s thrusting back against him as best he can, trying to pull him deeper, and it doesn’t take long before Clive’s vision whites out, hips moving jerkily, stuttering to a stop with a moan escaping through parted lips.

  Jarrod hasn’t finished, though, and he’s stroking himself quickly, Clive still inside him.

  It’s almost as good as Clive’s own orgasm when he feels Jarrod finally get there, the way he gasps out Clive’s name, the way come stains the red fabric in the few seconds before Jarrod lets himself fall down onto Clive’s bed, body suddenly boneless.

  Clive’s the one who cleans them up, Jarrod’s eyes soft and blissed out as he watches. “You played so well today, Clive,” he mumbles, hand clumsy as it pushes Clive’s sweaty fringe back from his forehead, “watched you go and thought ‘how the hell did I end up getting to call him mine?’”

  “Yeah?” Clive’s warm for a whole other reason now, something soft and warm filling his belly. He might - might - have a pathological desire for pleasing others.

  “Yeah. Thought you were going to run and go hug Bartholomew, though, that made me mad. But you didn’t, just hugged your brother. Wondered how I can could compete with him, you know? I’m just lucky he’s a fucking idiot.”

  Clive hums, enjoying Jarrod’s sleepy mumblings.

  “Go to sleep, Jarr, I’ll wake you in the morning, I promise,” Clive says, rubbing Jarrod’s back.

  “Okay.” Jarrod buries his head against Clive’s neck. “Love you, Cli.” The words are muffled, and Clive wants to shake Jarrod, all of a sudden, wants him wide awake so he can say them again, looking into Clive’s eyes and meaning it.

  “Love you too,” he whispers back, and suddenly nothing matters anymore, nothing but the man in his arms.