by Liz Crowe
Rafe sincerely hoped that he hadn’t opened a giant can of worms bringing the guy into the rampantly anti-gay, puritanical arena of American professional sports. How his marketing department honestly believed parading him around like … like a show pony, as he’d said, bragging about how open-minded the new expansion league and its teams were by respecting their players’ personal lives all the way into the bedroom could in any way be a good plan, he had no fucking idea. He groaned and sank into his chair, contemplating the dream roster he had posted on a wipe-off board on the wall. What had he been thinking anyway?
Maureen, his wife, had laughed herself into hiccups when he came home and bragged about signing Nicolas Garza to the Detroit Black Jacks. Her teenaged twins, a son and daughter, both hot-shit players and huge fans of the Euro leagues themselves, asked one question: “Why?”
Rafe hoped they were all wrong. As a bonus to all this drama, he had hit yet another snag in his attempt to get Metin Sevim, former superstar forward in the Spanish premier league a decade before, to agree to come out of early retirement and coach. He was a perfect fit—young, with a defensive, strategic mindset both Rafe and Jack agreed was key to their success. If only they could convince the guy to listen to them.
A group of businessmen asked Jack to help spearhead the effort to get Detroit included. It stood to reason. Michigan had a ton of premiere soccer clubs. Its major city had successful pro teams in most other sports already. The money had been conjured, by Jack, thanks to D-Town Casino and a huge auto supply company.
His brother-in-law had acted fast once the two companies had agreed to co-sponsor the Detroit-based team. He put Rafe in charge of recruiting players and finding a coach. Then Jack hired an incredibly slick marketing department with social networking platforms and regular promotions lined up for the young team already.
Rafe had his doubts about some of the control the front office was given over the players and hoped Jack knew what he was doing. While this whole “Black Jacks embrace same-sex relationships: signs openly gay player from Spain” thing he was prepared to cut off at the knees. Nicco did not need it. A team still in its infancy certainly would not benefit from it. Hell, he’d probably never get the coach he wanted if all that crap started hitting the media.
The rest of it, he facilitated, heading off the grumbling from players when they were issued their smart phones and laptop computers. They were required, by contract, to cancel any and all social networking accounts they currently held, then re-open them, using the Black Jacks as their “employer” and posting photos of fellow team members, practices, uniforms, events, anything as long as the updates came at least twice a day, always referencing the team. Anyone caught with a secret account could be let go according to their signed legally binding agreements.
The marketing lady knew her shit. Rafe had been assured. So when her staff caught one or more of the players slacking, cursing on line, complaining, or in any way sounding like they were not one hundred percent enamored to be a part of the Black Jacks and the expansion league, they got dragged into Rafe’s office for a chat about their contractual obligations. He hated it. But he recognized it as part of the new world order. The capture of hearts, minds, and wallets now had to be done via social networking.
He grabbed his overnight case and locked the door behind him. He had tickets to the NCAA Men’s championship game in Louisville, Kentucky, and less than an hour to get to the airport and checked in, thanks to his star player’s melodrama.
A couple of kids on the Louisville team, one of whom was supposedly headed to medical school and had no interest in playing professionally had caught his eye. Rafe would bet Jack Gordon’s Stingray that Parker Rollings would be a perfect foil for Nicco at midfield and around them he could build a powerhouse of a team. One that might make the league sit up and take notice in the first year. If he could only convince the young man that “soccer” made a better choice than “doctor”—and based on what he’d read between the lines of various interviews with the kid, Rafe believed his chances were damn good.
Chapter Three
Nicolas glared at the line of soccer balls, blaming them for the shit direction his life had gone. He got a running start at the first of the twenty spheres and drew his right leg back. Relishing the hard, jarring sensation of connection shooting up from his foot through his shin to his hip, he sent it sailing to the top right corner of the empty net.
Maybe if he’d gone in a different direction, not heeded all the stupid ravings about him as a kid.
Wham, another bull’s eye hit.
Maybe if his mother hadn’t gotten starry-eyed and greedy, pushing him ever harder on the pitch and away from schoolwork. He grimaced as the one he’d hit with his weak left leg went sailing wide and hit the post. He’d been recruited to La Liga, Spain’s soccer league, at nineteen and never darkened the door of a university—something he still deeply regretted, wondering how his life might have turned out vastly different.
He grunted and sent another ball straight to the middle of the net, exactly where any decent goalkeeper would catch it. Maybe if he didn’t feel so fucking alone, so empty, so bereft of real emotion, he wouldn’t seek out near constant physical connections. Maybe if he could wake up not so fucking angry every day.
He had hoped this little adventure to America would help. So far, not so much. The girl he’d finger-fucked and let give him a hand job on the plane was sticking like super glue. Although today he had texted her the coach’s warning and hadn’t heard from her again. Hopefully she got the message.
Despite his seeming ability to find it around every corner, trouble did not make him happy. Especially now, as he tried to manufacture a new persona for himself: Nicolas Garza, the wise old man at twenty-nine, coming to the aid of this amusing little Detroit soccer project.
His next kick went wild to the left, pissing him off even more.
Maybe if the last words he shared with the love of his life hadn’t been furious and full of hurt. He’d wanted to quit soccer for the man, for Leandro, honest to Christ. He had loved him so completely, so fiercely, it terrified him. Which had lead to his fatal overreaction in the other direction, moving away from emotion and toward emptiness via more random fucking. He sat on the grass, chest heaving, holding back tears as night fell over the field.
Without a doubt, “Maybes” are a huge part of his life. He stared at his hands, turning them over, marveling at how much trouble they’d gotten him into since his lover had slammed the door on their last argument and boarded a plane back to Brazil. They’d been teammates for Deportivo when they met and damn good ones, but Leandro got traded almost immediately, placing him opposite Nicco for many games.
Their connection had been instantaneous and intense. Leandro Roberto, or “just Leandro” as is the way of Brazilian footballers, brought out the small bit of good left in Nicco. Calming him, and providing stability in a world of crazed fans, money, parties and bullshit. But Nicco had screwed up royally, getting angry with the man for something he couldn’t even recall. So he, Nicco, had let some female groupie coax him to her villa for an orgy.
He put his head in his hands letting the cool night air dry the sweat from two hours of running and solitary practice. This stupid, beautiful game represented all he knew, all he understood, all he loved. It brought him ecstasy and misery in equal measure. It had given him Leandro, and had taken him away forever. So now, stuck here in no-man’s-land, with a cocky former American star for a manager and a female stalker, he faced his final destiny.
Nice work, as usual, Nicco. Very nice work.
As a bonus, his new team wanted to shove him into the spotlight, framing their open-mindedness by making him the spokesperson for gay athletes. God. What a mess. He sincerely hoped Rafe had gotten his unspoken message. He had no interest in being anyone’s poster boy. His sex life was his business and no one else’s.
Screw the Black Jacks and their marketing department six ways to Sunday.
He’d taken p
erverse pleasure in doing the requisite social networking by writing curse words in Spanish for a while, until he’d gotten caught. Then he used utterly idiotic posts like: “Just took a hot shower. Next time you should join me.” Or “I need breakfast. Can some woman come fix it for me?” All of which earned him yet more slaps on his wrist—and thousands more followers every day, in a perverse counter-reaction to the marketing department’s efforts. At the moment Nicco Garza was the most popular team member on the ’net.
He leaned back on his hands, taking in the night sky and the huge, hulking indoor venue the team called home next to the grass field he preferred. This Midwest ghost town next to Canada chilled him. He hated it. But he had no choice. He had nothing really but his game. And his next fuck. Nicco got to his feet, forcing emotion out of his head, gathered the balls and lined them up again.
Nicco woke with a start and sat straight up in the bed as the hangover grabbed his brain in a pair of steel vise grips. Looking down at the jumble of arms and legs in the king sized bed he groaned and tried to disentangle himself, managing to fall to his knees onto the floor. Once the room stopped spinning, he sat back against the silken duvet cover.
The pile of flesh on the bed moved, grunted, and rolled over, revealing a man, with skin a deep chocolate and firm as only the truly young can boast. He also presented the type of morning hard-on best represented by youth. Nicco’s body reacted to it as snippets from the night before raced through his consciousness.
He rose and dropped a blanket over the guy, his requirement for hydration way stronger than his need to get laid again. By the time he’d downed three bottles of water in the kitchen, the attractive man was behind him, kissing his shoulders, pressing against his back in a way that made him grin. He gripped the marble counter and let the guy grab his rapidly stiffening flesh. He flinched, then relaxed as the man bit down on his shoulder and increased his palm’s rhythm, and his fingertip’s journey towards its target.
“Spread ’em, baby.” The man placed a mocha colored thigh between Nicco’s and forced his legs apart, continuing to work him from front and back. Trying to gather his senses, to get his brain to click in and stop this—he didn’t even know this kid’s name for fuck’s sake—he groaned as a slick finger breached the ring of tight muscle.
“Oh yes,” he hissed and arched his back sensing the climax on his horizon. He tugged open a drawer and grabbed a condom. The pleasant buzz of physical need drowned out the reminders that, if the sting in his ass was correct, he’d done this more than once in the past twenty-four hours. The pain of repeated contact was overpowered by the sensation of the man’s hand on his flesh, of his lips on Nicco’s greedy skin. He winced as the man’s finger exited his body but gasped in pleasure when dark hands spun him around and pulled him in for a tongue-tangling kiss.
He stopped, staring into the perfect stranger’s eyes.
“I want you to fuck me this time, soccer boy,” the man growled. Nicco smiled and took the condom, rolled it down over himself and flipped their positions so the man’s dark ass was tilted up to his gaze. He ran a hand down his back, gave the lovely boy a hard smack, making him yelp and squirm and spread his legs farther.
After rubbing lube around the man’s inviting opening, he slipped in, groaning at the tight glove of pleasure that encircled his cock. He watched as the man fisted himself and ran a dark hand up and down the thick flesh as he pumped into him, bringing the orgasm ever closer.
He grunted in surprise when a completely naked woman appeared, sleep-scruffy but gorgeous. When she leaned in to give his nipple a quick lick then a suck he grabbed her hair, fisted his hands in it and let go in one long moan of satisfaction.
His hips jerked as the orgasm went on forever, making his vision darken, drowning out the anger at himself for waking up with a pile of strangers yet again. Ah, Nicco, he sighed before slipping out of the man’s body and walking into the bathroom. The huge shower welcomed him without a word. You truly are a goddamned mess.
Chapter Four
Parker groaned and rolled his shoulders. As his teammates’ loud voices filled the outer hallway, he had to grip the open locker door to keep from dropping into a crouch at the mercy of the pain in his skull.
Just one more game—one more match, and his life as soccer player came to an end. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on not throwing up. The rest of the team burst into the room, slapping asses, joking and tugging off practice uniforms. He sat, trying to remain calm.
“Yo, Doc, you okay?” He shrugged the hand off his shoulder and pulled his own soaking wet practice shirt off before grabbing a towel and heading to the showers. His neck ached from the blow he’d taken winning a fifty-fifty ball during a scrimmage. A random, unintended elbow from a teammate had bestowed a massive nosebleed and likely double black eye on him in the process.
He didn’t trust his voice at the moment, especially since stars still did a little dance around the edges of his vision. He’d blown the trainer off, put ice on his swollen face and sat watching the rest of the practice—their last before the NCAA final game to be played on their home field tomorrow afternoon.
The other men swarmed the showers, forcing Parker to hang onto the edge of the door to keep his balance. He swayed, hoping no one would notice. He knew damn good and well he had a concussion but was not about to let on and lose his starting spot.
The swirl of steam, soap, and chiseled male bodies did its usual song and dance on his nerve endings. Reverting to his standard comfort zone, he made himself picture his girlfriend Christie, her lips, breasts, soft hair, and deep blue eyes. The way she’d eased him into a sexual relationship within a few weeks of meeting him at college almost without his noticing still shocked him.
He wasn’t complaining, although overall her bossiness leached over into other aspects of their relationship enough to make him deeply unhappy with his own complacency.
“Doc! Toss me the shampoo!” He opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them and came face to face with Jax—Jackson Reynolds, their star goalie, already recruited and signed to play for Manchester United after graduation and hands down the most well-endowed male on the planet.
Grinning as he rubbed soap down his well-cut torso, Jax held out a hand for the bottle Parker tossed his way. For a split second, unable to could stop himself, Parker saw his teammate fist his amazingly long cock, ostensibly cleaning himself but with an enthusiasm that made Parker breathless.
“Fucking-A Excalibur, spare us the whack-off session, would ya?” a voice called through the thickening steam. “We all know how much you love yourself. But we do not wanna watch.”
Jax flipped off the room in general and turned back around to face the water, much to Parker’s relief.
“Hey Doc,” their trainer’s voice broke through the general bullshit eddying around the crowded room. “Come see me when you’re done.” Parker put a hand on the tiled wall. He refused to jeopardize his chance to start in the last game of his soccer career. But he couldn’t fake not having a concussion much longer.
Keeping quiet he finished, toweled off, and tugged on jeans and a team sweatshirt, ignoring the near constant pounding behind his eyes and the regular stream of texts from Christie. He couldn’t deal with either right now.
He sat, gulped down more water, and pulled the final acceptance letter from the University of Michigan School of Medicine from his backpack. Finally, his father’s dream fulfilled. Wincing at the thought of the dinner his parents had planned for him and Christie the night after the NCAA championship game—and the not so subtle expectation that he produce an engagement ring for her—he ran a hand down his locker door, which boasted his number, name, and captain’s arm band.
Blaming the tears pressing behind his eyes on the blow to the head, he slammed the metal door shut. Nearly nineteen years of his life had been devoted to playing the sport he adored. Practices, club politics, high school roughness, state championships, and receiving a full ride to the University of Louisvi
lle’s top ranked team—all done now. He’d never play again. The thought clogged his throat with nausea.
He could play at the next level, maybe even in Europe. Of course, his parents would not hear of it so he’d not put himself out there as a viable recruit.
Dr. and Mrs. Rollings had other plans for their only child, ones that included the letters “M.D.”, the lovely blonde college sweetheart wife, suburban house, and two point five similarly blonde-haired, blue-eyed children. He shuddered and made his way into the trainer’s office, an “I’m okay” smile plastered to his face.
One thing he suspected about his very nature made his intimate moments with Christie even more of a struggle. His body would cooperate. He had little problem getting hard, staying that way, pleasuring her, and then coming. But it held little appeal for him. She was simply not what he wanted.
Parker Rollings was a good boy, an obedient young man who did not rock boats or upset apple carts or do anything not expected of him. His tyrannical father and heavy-handed mother had only the one son, their golden boy. They had poured years of double-focused energy into molding Parker into the man they wanted—with the M.D., the wife, the kids.
So he accommodated them, thinking nothing more than to please those who loved him. Until now—because he wanted to play soccer, not go to medical school. He wanted it so deeply it hurt his gut and kept him up at night.
Well, that and the fact he suspected he was gay.
Parker glanced around the field, checking in with his various teammates using the non-verbal cues they’d invented as the game kicked off. Nervous energy buzzed through his brain, which remained fuzzy even with a double hit of Tylenol and a solid ten hours of sleep the night before. He’d begged off Christie’s requests for dinner, and after finalizing a paper for his last class he’d fallen face first on the bed and passed out for the better part of the night, rising only to drink more water and take another pain killer.
