Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  I swallow, try to gather moisture in my mouth before reeling out the full story. “Do you remember me telling you about the girl I found at Josh’s place, the soccer groupie?”

  “Latino, weird piercing, mega-boobs, something-something.”

  “That’s the one. She was there last night at Jensen’s apartment.”

  “What, hanging out?”

  “Naked, in his bed, legs spread wider than the Hudson.”

  Polly looks down at the Jello. “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh’.”

  “Was he there?”

  “No.”

  “You were just dropping in on him?”

  “He called me over for dinner.”

  “Wait,” says Polly, trying to piece it together in her head. “Jensen called you over for dinner and made sure he wasn’t there so you’d find this groupie girl instead? Why would he do that?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he wanted me to.”

  “You sure? Doesn’t sound right.”

  “How did she get in then?”

  “Good point,” Polly concedes, “but have you talked to him about it?”

  “I was a little busy napping by the curb. Since when do you defend him?”

  Polly twirls her hand in the air. “If he cheated on you, I’m not defending him. I’ll snip his dick off and make you a nice little cock necklace, but maybe there’s more to this. Sounds strange.”

  “You are defending him.”

  “I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt just like I would anyone.”

  I look at her suspiciously. “Is this the same Polly who took a baseball bat to a former boyfriend’s brand new Corvette because she thought he was screwing around when really he was visiting his sick mother?”

  She smiles. “Wow, you’re going there? Okay, so maybe I’m not always completely rational, but I just do not see Jensen cheating on you like this. He’s like really, really into you, Scar. I’m talking Romeo and Juliet give-me-the-vial kind of love.”

  “A little dark, don’t you think?”

  “I’m on a Leo binge.”

  “The Beach is what you want.”

  Polly licks her lips. “Take me to Thighland, Mr. DiCaprio.”

  “Back to the subject,” I continue. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Let me talk to him. Put Dr. Polly on the case.”

  “Fine, but if he’s lying…”

  She gives me a salute. “I won’t let you down, Your Highness.”

  *

  “It was all Josh’s doing,” Polly starts. I’ve already heard her protests about being the messenger, but I don’t want to see Jensen yet. Seeing Carolina hurt, hurt a hell of a lot more than what happened outside. I can’t see any way he could possibly explain it. The way I figure it, she had a key, thought she’d surprise him and, boom, I showed up instead. She didn’t even mind.

  I hate being surprised. I was an anxious kid, loathed birthday parties where people jumped out from behind the sofa as soon as you came through the door. Seeing her? The worst possible surprise. I’d rather see a head in a box.

  “What does Josh have to do with this?” I question.

  “He had a spare key to Jensen’s place. He gave it to Carolina to let herself in.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He wants to break you guys up, Scar. Maybe he wants you back, maybe he can’t stand you being with his brother. I don’t know what goes on inside the eternal mystery that is the mind of a man, read: their womb brooms, but it kind of makes sense.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds convenient.”

  “The text from Jensen?” Polly continues.

  “It came from his phone.”

  “Yes, because Josh stole it out of his bag at training.”

  “Jensen said that?”

  “He did.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Weird to say it, but I do.”

  I consider it, but then I remember how Carolina spoke to me. She knew things.

  Over the last hour the pain has really ramped up in my ribs and back. Even my leg’s in on the action, my whole body an aching hell. I roll a painkiller across my lap. “Look, I’m really tired. They’re letting me out tomorrow, and I want to get a little rest before I face the world. You should go home too, get some shuteye.”

  As if on cue, Polly yawns. “Have to admit, I kind of want to.”

  “Go,” I tell her, far more gently than I did Jensen two days ago. I can’t believe he’s still out there. Must be driving the staff insane.

  “Alright,” Polly relents, “but think about it, okay? Keep an open mind.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  With Polly gone, I try to rest, but the pain’s bad. I toss and turn all night, awakened on and off by nurses going about their rounds. I’m restless, annoyed, my patience slipping. By morning my eyes are heavy and swollen. I just want to leave.

  It feels funny to stand again, to be wearing clothes that don’t feature a hole in the back. I sign a bunch of forms, nod distantly as the doctor runs me through my meds. All I can think about is getting home to bed.

  I have a taxi called and head to the elevators.

  The doors open and I step out, but it’s the wrong floor.

  I see Jensen sprawled out over two seats. He spots me and springs up, rushing for the doors. I can’t deal with him now.

  I hit the button to close the doors, but he manages to slip a hand in, stepping inside and hitting the emergency stop.

  I try to reach around him, but he stands in the way. “Did Polly talk to you?”

  Another stab of pain right below my shoulders. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. I’m tired. I want to get home.”

  “Let me take you.” He’s speaking fast, the desperation clear.

  “I’m fine.” I reach for the button again, but he dodges right.

  “Do you honestly think I would do that to you?”

  I’m mad. I want to lash out. “She was very convincing, Jensen. How do you think it made me feel coming into your apartment and seeing her like that, hear her talking about what you guys get up to when I’m not around?”

  “She was lying. It was all Josh’s idea.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know who to believe. You’ve cheated on girls in the past. Why should I be any different?”

  He reaches for me, but I retreat to the back of the elevator. “No!” I shout. “I’ve had enough, okay? I do not care anymore. You want to screw around with other girls, fine, but I don’t want any part of it.”

  “You’re being rash.” He’s becoming frustrated. He punches the elevator wall. “You aren’t listening.”

  “Step aside,” I warn through gritted teeth.

  He holds his head, pacing, hand out. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I haven’t slept in days. I’ve been waiting in that—”

  “Jensen!” I scream. “I. Do. Not. Care. Step away or I’ll call security.”

  Reluctantly, he stands to the side and I press the stop button again, the elevator clunking back into motion.

  As soon as those doors open, I rush out, the pain unbearable but my need to get away greater. I flag down the first taxi I see, Jensen’s cries of “Scarlet! Scarlet!” falling away but my anger increasing with every mile.

  My cell goes off when I walk through the door. I closed all the curtains before I left, my apartment dark and dusty, more like an attic than a home.

  Polly: Hate to be the bearer of bad news, with a sad emoji.

  I click on the link.

  The horrible news hits home. There’s a picture of Jensen and Josh at the top, a smiling Carolina between them in a bikini. I scroll through fast, but the gist of it becomes clear soon enough. Carolina details how she’s caught in the middle of a depraved love triangle with the two brothers, how sex-crazed and sick they are. I read “hard bondage” and can’t stomach any more. I’m about to turn my phone off when I notice the video link.

  Don’t, but I can’
t help myself. I click on it, a sobbing Carolina dolled up telling the camera all about it, about how the twins passed her around, even shared her at the same time. She’s good, I’ll give her that, completely believable, and who knows? Maybe she is telling the truth.

  I drop the phone and collapse onto the floor, holding onto the leg of a chair for support as the pain, the lies, and everything slams me down for the count.

  I’ve lost myself. I don’t know who to believe or trust any more. Everything’s destroyed and dirty. It can’t be repaired. I can’t be repaired.

  I break down completely, let the carpet grow damp under my face until the street lights come on.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JENSEN

  I’m used to frustration. Six straight losses in the NCAA—that was frustrating, but this thing with Scarlet is driving me insane. I call and nothing. She doesn’t text back, doesn’t reply. It’s like she never even existed.

  But I know to keep my distance, know that pressuring her will only push her further away. I can’t have that. I can’t go back to life without her. She needs time to come around. That’s all it is. She’ll come to her senses. She has to.

  Day six and I stop calling altogether. The game with the Red Bulls is tomorrow, and that’s where I need to focus my energy. Sitting around in the apartment all day doing squats and body rows isn’t doing me or the team any good. I need to get my mind off her, so I put my phone down and force myself not to disturb her. Hard as it is, she has to come back to me in her own time.

  She will.

  *

  I don’t know how, but Josh is back in form. The Bulls are giving us a run for our money, but I see weaknesses opening up on the field.

  I’m dangerous from the start. I take the anger over Scarlet and convert it into purpose, use it as a motherfucking fist to push New York’s defense all over the pitch. The press called the Bulls’s front line “inspirational”, but there’s nothing new here, just the same dopey chips they’ve been running all season.

  Di Mannis darts through our line ahead. I watch him snake down the side and fire a solid burner. Our goalie manages to block it with a slide, but it’s close—way too fucking close. It’s a warning.

  I redouble and tag him as he plays the ball down the inside-right channel. He crosses to that lanky prick in the forty-four jersey, who makes an angled run for the byline. From there it looks like a simple trot to the net, but Josh manages to squeeze in there and shake out the ball, the mistake allowing him to curl a shot towards me. I take it with my knee and storm forward hard, easily pushing for the six-yard box.

  There’s a pack of Bulls coming hot from every direction, but the line’s clear to the goal. I’m in a perfect shooting position and I take it. There’s the satisfying boom of the kick, the arc of it sweeping into the top-right, collecting the net and the Bulls goalie feet away from even getting contact. As far as goals go, it’s the Mona Lisa.

  The entire stadium erupts and I can’t help but whip them up, the energy insane, lifting me. This is exactly what I needed.

  There’s a clear target on my back in the second half, but I barely feel it. I’m playing the best soccer of my life. For some mind-boggling reason Di Mannis is stationed way too deep midfield. The Spaniard watches, unable to do shit as we cover every inch of the field, the inevitable second goal arriving early.

  Coach is surprisingly quiet. I imagine he doesn’t want to jinx this kind of magic.

  In the last fifteen the Bulls lose it completely. They knock the ball around their own box with that lazy look of a side that’s spent too much time sitting in the opposition’s half. There’s a sharp save from the New York goalie, but five minutes later we get another by him to take things to three-nothing.

  We have possession in the last minute. It’s looking good. I swear the wings on my back are flapping, the air rushing around between my ears, my lungs filling and expanding as my feet weave and knit, not a single Bull able to stop me.

  I come to their box. There’s a sole defender in place. It’s fifty-fifty getting it past him, but Josh is open on the right. I could do it, maybe make it four-0, but not this time. I juggle it high, Josh leaping and hammering it in with a textbook header.

  He lands and rolls, a single nod in my direction of acknowledgment.

  You’re fucking welcome.

  Coach tries to shout over the cacophony of celebration in the players’ area, but none of us is paying any attention. A cork pops, the tart taste of champagne hitting my lips as it’s sprayed around the room, Assistant Coach Druitt ducking under his clipboard for cover.

  Our goalie, colloquially known as McTwist, sweeps a Gatorade table clear and stands on it. Someone passing him a bottle. “One fucking more! Victory is ours!” he cries, pounding his bare chest with a hand and drinking with the other, releasing it in a misty cloud over the team gathered around him, cheering and whooping.

  For a moment, Scarlet is forgotten. I look to the entryway half expecting her to walk through, but she wasn’t in the stands. Someone slaps me on the back, whisking me off my feet as I’m carried towards the showers, but the only thing flowing tonight is Moet.

  *

  Slowly, everyone empties out to taxis and rides, the players’ parking lot to remain full at least until morning when twenty bulky men in sunglasses will descend once more to claim their chariots.

  I barely drank, too swept up in the win to care. Wouldn’t have been that way a few months ago. A janitor found me in the middle of the field birthday-suited up last year. Someone had written ‘free rides’ on my chest in permanent marker, an arrow leading down to my dick.

  Good times.

  It’s colder than I expect outside, the parking lot full as I expected, my ride waiting up the back.

  Someone approaches me from the wall. I stop. “If you’re looking for a story…”

  “Wait.”

  I snap around. It’s Josh, walking towards me with a calculating gaze.

  I drop my bag. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think?”

  It’s too late for this. I don’t need Josh bringing down my night. “If you want to thank me for that goal, be my guest. Otherwise, get lost.”

  He stops a few feet away. “Heard Scarlet wants nothing to do with you.”

  I step forward. I don’t want to hit him again, but so help me God I will if I have to. “Thanks to you.”

  “For the best, don’t you think?”

  “So you can steal her away? Fuck you, Josh. Why should I even waste my time listening to the shit that comes out of that asshole you call a mouth?”

  “Carolina’s got video. Looks real bad for you.”

  Now I know he’s bluffing. I’ve never been with her. She’s not my type—skanky, desperate. “You’re full of shit.”

  “You give me twenty K and I’ll make sure it never sees the light of day.”

  So it’s money he wants. Figures. Money for him, fame for his chica.

  I go to prod him in the chest, but pause, tuck my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie instead. “You’re lying. You’re a fucking liar and I don’t believe a single fucking word you’re saying right now. You say she has a tape? Fucking fine, tell her to do whatever she wants with it, shove it up her ass for all I care. Me? I’m going home.”

  I turn to walk away, but he’s not done. “Don’t turn your back to me, you pussy.”

  I look ahead. “You want my money? You’re not getting it. Let me make this very fucking clear: I want nothing to do with you.”

  In the window of a car I see Carolina step out from the shadows on Josh’s right. “That goes for the both of you.”

  “I’ll say you raped me,” she says, shrill. I’ve never seen someone so desperate for fame in my life. Let her have it, discover on her own the kind of trouble it brings.

  I shake my head, walking on. “Do what you want. You’re not getting my money, and you’re sure as hell not getting my help.” I pull out my keys. “You two are on your own.” />
  “Let me tell you a couple of things about Scarlet,” continues Josh.

  You don’t know when to stop, do you?

  I clench the keys and turn. Leave it, but I can’t. “You say something?”

  For a second it looks like he’s going to back down, but Carolina says something I miss and he straightens up. He counts off on his fingers. “One, she couldn’t suck a cock if her life depended on it.”

  He waits, lets it sink in as I approach.

  “Go on.”

  “Two, she cried like a fucking bitch the first time I fucked her in the ass.”

  He knows he’s not making it out of this parking lot alive. Maybe that’s what he wants, but he’s committed now. He can’t back down in front of Carolina.

  “Three,” he says, shaking his finger at me, “she’ll never be anything more than my leftovers.”

  I’m on him so fast I can see his Adam’s apple caught, bulging in his throat as I slam him up against the nearest car, the window shattering against his back.

  He’s tense, stiff in my grip awaiting the pummeling I so want to give him, but he’s not worth it. I thought there might have been a sliver of something worth saving inside, but now I know for sure he’s rotten through. The only way to deal with him now is to discard him for good and never look back—blood or not.

  I put my mouth right against his ear, fight the instinct to bite it clean off. I’m aware of Carolina somewhere behind my back. I don’t trust her for a fucking second.

  I get my lips real nice and close, make sure he hears what I have to say loud and clear. “You think talking about her like that makes you more of a man, like Pops?”

  No response. I shove him against the window again, the last fragments glass falling away. “I was prepared to give you another chance back at her apartment, but then you had to go and fuck it all up over,” I motion behind me, “this piece of pussy? What makes you think she’s not using you?”

  “I just need some money,” comes the pathetic response.

  “Ask me for money again and I’ll…” I leave the threats. “No, I’ll tell you what. We have to play together, fine, but if you ever talk to me, if you ever try to contact Scarlet or myself again about your miserable fucking life, I’ll let Coach, the press, anyone with a fucking Radio Shack microphone know about the drugs, the booze, the mental abuse, the physical abuse. You think I don’t know?”