by Daryl Banner
Not what I was expecting, after all that.
Into my ear, he asks: “This givin’ you a boner?”
“Fuck you,” I say quietly, an annoyed smile breaking over my face.
“Gotta check, now. Gotta check now that everything’s different,” he says while he keeps holding me, speaking over my shoulder. “Hey, all those times I called you a fag …”
“I don’t care.”
“I was gonna say I meant them. Each and every one, you fag. And I love you.”
Fuck you, I try to say again, despite Trent’s attempt to lighten things up and show me, in his straight boy punk-ass way, that he cares about me. Fuck you … but the words are choked by my sudden untimely desire to spill tears.
My arms come up and suddenly I’m hugging him back, wetting his shirt with my leaky eyes.
“Like … brother-love you,” he clarifies in my ear, knowing I already know what he meant. “Not like, wanna-hump-your-ass kind of love you.”
I sniffle up my tear-snot. “I know. But next time I beat you in Smash Brothers, I’m humping you so hard.”
“We’ll never play Smash Brothers again.”
The two of us collapse into a fit of laughter, dropping to the floor and leaning up against the back of the couch, cracking the fuck up. It wasn’t even that funny, but after the tension and the tears, I think we both desperately need a reason to laugh.
“I wanna reenroll,” he says finally.
I lift my eyebrows. “Oh. You’re leaving?”
“I wanna reenroll and …” He bites his lip, casting his eyes to the floor. “And I think you should, too.”
“Why?”
“You said it yourself. This town’s fuckin’ out of air, dude.” He grabs my neck suddenly, pulls me into him. My head rested on his shoulder, he says, “Whether you’re a homo or you’re me, this town’s got no one for us, and unless we get the fuck out, we’re not gonna be happy. I wanna …” He sighs. “I wanna do this with you, man. But I kinda want you to have your space, too. I want you to meet people. I want you to, like, suck other dicks.”
I snort into his shirt. “That bad, huh?”
“Until I opened my eyes, it was heaven.” He gives the side of my head a slap. “Don’t you ever repeat those words.”
[ 11 ]
It’s our last morning to wake up in the apartment despite the majority of our stuff being packed up and shoved in the back of the car. The aroma from the pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen fills the space like a disease.
A super gay disease: “Morning, Benny,” says Charlie, slurping out of Trent’s favorite mug despite him distinctly telling Charlie not to. “You sleep well on that crooked-ass piece of crap you call a mattress?”
“Not everyone can have clouds for beds like you do,” I spit back, sipping my milk.
Charlie grins, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. “I’m a bit excited about this acting class we’re taking with Professor Kozlowski.” He slurps on his coffee again. “Can we do a scene together? Let’s do a gritty sexy scandalous scene together.”
“I only agreed to take that class because I needed the fine arts credit,” I warn him. “I’m going for business and psychology. I’m taking over my pop’s store someday, or maybe opening my own.”
“Puh-leeze.” Charlie sets down his mug and leans over the counter, getting up in my space. “Dream bigger, bub. You’re going to be a college boy, soon. Ain’t no way in hell we’re coming back to this hellhole, so you better get yourself some ideas and fashion yourself a future. Build an empire. Invent a fuck-what. What’s a fuck-what? I don’t know, but you’re gonna invent it and make millions. Hey.” He lays a kiss on my cheek, pops me in the ear. “Maybe you’ll meet a sexy man or two along the way.”
Just in time, Trent emerges from the door, coming back into the apartment from lugging the last box downstairs. He’s dressed in a smart button shirt and slacks, a chain hanging from his pocket. “Sup, boys,” he says, then notices Charlie and the mug. “What the fuck.”
“It’s our last morning here,” Charlie spits back, rolling his eyes. “Your ass wasn’t gonna drink my high-dollar coffee anyway.”
Trent smirks. “Point taken. Car’s packed and ready to go, boys.”
His piercing eyes meet mine. I’ve come a long way since that tumultuous time when I sucked his cock and nearly ruined everything. He’s also come a long way, having apologized at least seven times for “overreacting” and then having to convince me that, while he’s not gay, he might be open to getting drunk enough to let that happen again. I smirked and told him some hotter fuck was waiting for me at the university and he missed his chance.
Of course, hearing that from Trent made me swell with a certain dark pride.
“Finish up that high-dollar shit,” Trent tells Charlie, giving him a nod. “I’m ready to blow this joint and get the fuck to campus. Nine hour drive. Hope you guys brought good music on those phones. Mine’s still broken.”
Charlie’s about to enthusiastically mention his discography from gay hell when I say, “I got the music covered. Charlie, don’t even think about it.”
Charlie smirks. “Y’all fools got no taste.” He goes back to his phone, scrolling and checking things while finishing his coffee.
I turn to face Trent. His eyes look glassy, far away. I know that look. Coming up to him, I grip his shoulders and give him a rub. “It’s gonna be fine, man.”
“I know. I’m good.”
“Nah, you’re not.” I whack him on the head, give his shoulder a shake. “It’s nerve-wracking, I know. Long drives into our possibly radically-changed futures can be a bit of a mind-freak-out. But we got each other, buddy. We can do this.”
“I know. Alright.” He takes a deep breath, lets it all out in my face. “Sorry.”
“Fuck. You need a mint.”
Trent smiles, adorable as ever, his lip ring popping and his eyes sparkling. “You do realize you’re the inspiration behind this whole thing, right? Like, I’m pretty sure if I didn’t have you in my life, I’d still be sitting on that couch playing fuckin’ … games until my thumbs turned to bone.”
“Look at us,” I say, picking up his muse. “We’re still together. Look at all the shit we’ve gotten through.”
“All the shit we’ve yet to get through.”
“It’s just a nine hour drive.” I shake his shoulders again, bringing his adorable face back to mine. “A nine hour drive and then we’re fuckin’ free.”
I finally see the first bits of fear vanish from his eyes, replaced with a twisted sort of courage. “We’re gonna get ourselves some fuckin’ degrees.”
“And a life, maybe,” I jest.
“Hey!” shouts Charlie. “You two bromos finished makin’ out over there? I just made nine playlists, one for each hour, and we got a big ol’ campus to corrupt. Things to do, people, things to do.”
I grab my bag off the couch, sling it over a shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out.”
“Say goodbye.” Trent gives the place a kiss in the air, then slaps the wall and swings out the door.
After Charlie gives the apartment a wiggle of his fingers and hops down the stairs, I’m the last to leave. Looking back at the place, my eyes come to rest on the couch.
With just the sight of it, I feel the warm embrace of imaginary Trent, the one that kept stealing his way into my dreams, and the brave and wicked imaginary Benny who let it all happen, who lived the fantasies that I could never know.
I think about all the things I said to Trent and all the things I didn’t. All the things that imaginary Benny could do and say.
My heart swells up. “Goodbye,” I tell them both, whether the imaginary ones that loved each other straight up, or the real ones.
The end.
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Have you read “Football Sundae”? It’s a standalone M/M romance set in the small town of Spruce, where a budding dessert chef finds his hot-fudge-glazed world flipped upside-down when the town’s college football star comes home for the summer.
Keep scrolling for a sweet & tasty sample of Football Sundae!
FOOTBALL SUNDAE
(Sample Chapter)
Daryl Banner
FOOTBALL SUNDAE
(The First Chapter)
M/M New Adult Romance
This book is a sweet & sassy standalone.
Copyright © 2017 by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
BILLY
Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, Tanner Strong struts through the diner doors with his entourage of jock buddies.
Tanner Strong. Let’s take a minute to appreciate the lean slab of meat that was the high school quarterback of my horny, teenage wet dreams. When Tanner Strong enters the room, everyone turns their heads—and it’s not just because he’s something of a town hero. Tanner’s body is built to order—straight from the sex fantasy factory, apparently—and his crushingly adorable face matches the goods, framed by short, dusty brown hair that pokes and jabs in all directions. He has this chiseled nose with a tiny scar across it that gives him this tough I-beat-people-up-for-a-living look. His full, plush lips half hang open as he turns in circles, ignoring the loud shouts of his comrades as he drinks in the sight of my family’s diner, likely noting how much it’s changed in the past three years.
He hasn’t changed much. I could watch that dang face for hours. Those muddy brown eyes can still pull all my focus, just like they used to in the middle of history class when I should’ve been learning what year prohibition was repealed. It was 1930-something, by the way.
And please, let’s not spend another hour discussing Tanner’s broad, muscled shoulders that have obviously rammed into countless firm, hard-bodied rivals during his time on the field. Or the thick, bulging arms that come from those shoulders, the muscles of which make a stretch rack of those poor, tortured sleeves of his too-tight shirt. Or the pecs underneath said shirt that show through in perfect, distracting detail.
This is the first time I’ve really seen Tanner since high school. He scored some football scholarship and took off to Oklahoma, which is a twelve hour drive north from our little country hometown of Spruce. Every time he’s come home since, the whole dang populace seems to throw a parade, even though he spends all his time out on his family’s big ranch. Hell, the first summer he came home, I think he was sent off on some luxurious trip to Europe, or so said half the gossips that run through our diner.
But the sight of him and his buddies crashing through our door does not inspire the same wave of joy in me that it does in all our sports-loving, cheer-happy patrons. All four years of my high school career, I had suffered when, after every football game, win or lose, the whole team would burst through the doors and make a mess of our diner. Sure, it was great for business. Sure, my pa’s a big fan of football and loved every second. But having to serve upwards of twenty-five to forty rowdy, cocky, Coke-guzzling, burger-chomping athletes and all their adoring fans after every game quickly became my Friday night hell. While they were here, it was a headache of nonstop noise, and after they left, it was hours of cleanup.
And it was always spearheaded by the great football hero and legend-in-the-making that is Tanner Strong.
Now, after three years of peace, he’s back. And he brought a few former teammates. And the sight of him is making my insides turn over with a mix of horniness and dread, even as I stare at him from the window of the kitchen, a wet bowl in one hand and a rag in the other. I’ve apparently forgotten whatever it is I’m doing.
“Well, Junior, if your mouth was hanging open any more, you’d be washing your jaw instead of that bowl.”
I flinch at the sound of my ma’s voice, giving her thin, weary figure and frizzy brown hair half a glance before returning my attention to the bowl—and not to the guys who just piled into the booth by the TV. “I thought we close our doors at eight.”
“It’s ten ‘til,” she says back, “and it’s Friday. You know dang well we stay open ‘til eleven Fridays and Saturdays. Now get your booty out there and take their orders.”
I lift my tired eyes to her. “Me? What about Mindy?”
“She’s on break.”
I gawk. “She just got here an hour ago!”
“And I just sent her on break. Skidoo!”
I give the bowl and rag a shake, lifting my eyebrows defiantly. “I’m in the middle of—”
She swipes them right out of my hands like they were never there, taking over the dishes. “Any other excuse you got not to hop on out there and take them sweet boys’ orders?”
I scowl at my unbearable ma, then glance through the kitchen window, watching as the patrons cheer and laugh and give Tanner high-fives and slaps on his back as he makes his way to the booth his buddies have swallowed up. “Ain’t nothin’ sweet about them.”
She smirks knowingly. “I know you all went to high school together. You might’ve—”
“What’s it matter about high school??” I cut her off. “That was three years ago!”
“Exactly my point, Junior! Three years! Might be you were on opposite sides of the track back then, but I heard college really changed that Tanner boy. He ain’t the same as he used to be. Maybe you got more in common now.”
Me? More in common with the town football star? “You hit your head or somethin’?” I ask her.
She nudges me with an elbow. “Don’t forget to tell them about the daily special. It’s your pa’s pride and joy.”
The Touchdown. Just the thought of having to sell a special burger my pa came up with called The Touchdown to a quartet of obnoxious football-playing jocks turns my face a color that rivals the cherry pie I’ll no doubt be gorging on later.
But I’m not built to whine. Hard work and sweat has kept my parents’ diner open all these years, and it’s put food on the table and a roof over our overworked, messy heads of hair.
“Maybe you can entice them later with your little dessert menu,” my ma keeps on. “That might be all the endorsement we’d need, if Tanner takes a liking to one of your culinary concoctions.”
I feel the corner of my mouth pulling up. She’s right, and she’s set my mind back on track. No matter the hell I might have to put up with this summer, come the fall, I’m kicking it out of here at long last to chase my dream of culinary school and someday opening my own place. My father’s heart attack might have hindered me leaving right out of high school, but now I have an associate’s degree in business under my belt before I head off to become a real dessert chef. Billy’s Confections. Billy Bakes. Billy’s Sweet Tooth Tastery. All the possible names of the business I’ll eventually open and operate race through my head like ice cream flavors.
My dreams are just a summer away. And I’m sure as hell not gonna let a hotshot college athlete scare me into the kitchen. I grab my apron, then puff up my chest as I tie it on. You can do this, Billy. I glance into the side of the fridge, which is basically the kitchen’s version of a body-length mirror, being polished so shiny that I can see my slender shape, my short, messy brown hair, and a smudge of dark grease on my forehead—which I wipe away. Under my black apron with the diner emblem across the chest, I’m wearing a fitted navy blue plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. Worried I look a bit uptight, I let pop the top button, then give my disheveled brown hair a push of encouragement in the right direction before slipping past t
he swinging doors.
The noise of our rowdy guests reaches me long before I reach them. Despite my little pep talk a second ago, my feet don’t seem to move properly, as if they’re trying to drive me back to the kitchen. When I reach the table, they don’t notice me. I try to speak, but they all suddenly burst out laughing at some joke one of the guys was finishing. I only need to catch the punch line—“And that’s why you call it pussy!”—to know what sort of hell I’ve walked into.
Just get their orders. Quicker served, quicker gone.
“Welcome to Biggie’s Bites,” I state over their laughs. “I’m William. Can I start you guys off with—?”
“This, right here,” announces Kirk, the one across from Tanner, a beastly guy with a buzzed head wearing a sleeveless green jersey that shows off his thick shoulders. He jabs a pudgy finger at the menu. “That big ol’ juicy thing. Put it in my mouth.”
“Fag,” teases Joel, the blue-eyed blond at his side in a grey shirt, stained with grease from working at his pa’s auto shop two blocks over. He’s got an unfortunate pox of acne on his cheeks that’s festered there since his thirteenth birthday. I’ll call him Zits.
Oh, and a word about the word “fag”: Growing up gay in this small country town of Spruce that no one in the world’s heard of, even with as “friendly” as it is, you still hear the three-and-six-letter F-bombs thrown back and forth twenty times a day between boys at school who can’t be bothered to broaden their vocabulary. I guess I’ve either grown a thick skin or become so desensitized that I don’t even associate it with “gay” anymore.
Maybe that’s what inspires me to make light of it. “That would be me,” I interject with a smile, “though my nametag reads ‘William’.”
The four boys shut right up and stare at me. Zits tries to say something twice, sputters and fails both times, then finally manages to get out, “B-But you’re not a fag. You’re just gay. There’s a difference.”
