Man On (The Black Jack Gentlemen)

by Liz Crowe

  “Don’t,” the young coach whispered.

  “What?” Nicco pulled his arm out of the man’s grip. But he knew damn well what.

  “Leave him alone. I mean it, Garza.”

  “Fuck off, Coach, with all due respect. I know what I’m—”

  Rafe cut him off. “He’s a good kid. Don’t ruin him.”

  Nicco rolled his eyes but his gut burned. He knew he had to stop all the fantasizing before it went any further. Parker had a full life ahead of him. An amazing young talent, who’d doubtless soon have the soccer world at his feet—what could Nicco offer him? Nothing but a washed-up, dirty old man history. Nothing good would come of a connection, as much as his body ached for it. Corrupting the innocent best stay off his to-do list. Now that his coach had spelled it out for him Nicco embraced the reality.

  “Okay.” He settled his face into neutral lines. “Relax. Jesus.”

  Rafe let go of his arm and walked over to his team captain, the man in question, who’d donned dark jeans and a stark white button down shirt. Nicco watched, trying like hell to suppress the surging need to touch, to kiss, to possess, but the three-foot chasm between them remained too wide.

  Parker’s head spun and his heart still pounded with residual adrenaline. He jumped at the sensation of Rafe’s arm around his shoulders.

  “Amazing work, Rollings. Truly. Thank you.”

  Parker smiled, let himself relax, but he couldn’t shake the tingly sensation all over his skin. His eyes met the dark ones over Rafe’s shoulder then darted away.

  “Sure, yeah, I mean it was pretty awesome.” Rafe grinned at him, pulled his phone from his pocket, and frowned at the screen. Parker grabbed his arm, alarmed at the way the man’s face drained of color. “Shit. Nicco!” he barked out, trying to get someone’s attention.

  Nicco appeared on Rafe’s other side and they eased Rafe down onto the bench.

  “What’s wrong?” The coach’s phone slipped from his hand and bounced across the floor. Jack picked up and looked at it.

  “Oh hell….”

  “What?” Parker demanded. “Where’s Fred?” he glanced around for their trainer, a retired physician. Jack swallowed and pulled Rafe to his feet.

  Fred took one look at the coach’s pale face and smiled. Jack stared around, at a loss it seemed, a rare occurrence for him. “Let’s go,” the tall white-haired gentlemen said. “Move out of the way, you assholes. It’s time for the real work to begin.”

  Rafe walked out without a word, dazed-looking, flanked by the other two men. The team hooted and clapped, patted his shoulder as he passed them.

  “Damn, I thought he was gonna pass out for a minute there.” Parker sat, sensed Nicco next to him and had to shut his eyes against the urge to lean into him, to clutch his face, to feel something, anything, as long as it was the other man’s flesh under his fingers.

  He stood, grabbed the keys to his new car, his new condo, and started out, needing space to process the events of the last three hours.

  “Parker! Don’t forget, we’ve got that party….” Kago called after him. But Parker ignored him, making a mental note to text an apology. He needed to be alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Six Months Later

  Parker stared at the screen, unwilling to process the information glowing, like an omen on his web browser. “It’s official. A Black Jack Gentlemen comes out as the first openly gay soccer player.”

  He stood up, his chest pounding. After pacing around the room for a few minutes he sat back down, still unwilling to acknowledge Nicco had done it. He’d insinuated it to Parker at their last practice, telling him he’d made a decision about something and he hoped it didn’t screw up the team’s dynamic. But he was through pretending.

  He’d pinned Parker with such a gaze at that moment, as they stood facing each other across a fifty-fifty ball during a squad scrimmage, Parker had a tough time shaking it off and moving his legs. He’d known then what it had to be. So now, there it sat in black and white on his screen. He could practically hear the sports universe convulsing in response.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered, trying to parse why he had an urge to call the man, to talk to him, ask him why he’d done such a crazy thing. Parker had deepened his reliance on Ashley, on her calm, reassuring presence in his life. Her ability to organize a party, or an outing, or just about anything astonished him daily. It reminded him of his mother, really, if he were honest with himself. But he still fantasized nearly nonstop about his dark, compelling teammate.

  Ashley never demanded anything more of him than what he wanted to give. They had sex on a regular basis, usually at his place, in his darkened bedroom. Its quiet predictability was a relief in a way, familiar and reassuring—but mechanical, not much more than simple physical release.

  Nicolas, on the other hand, had been embroiled in a public and very dramatic relationship with a wealthy, semi-divorced socialite. The sex party rumors about her giant mansion in the suburbs rampantly smeared over every possible soccer tabloid, making the most splash overseas, where soccer players enjoyed celebrity status. The woman loved nothing more than making loud declarations of her abiding love for “her Nicco”.

  For his part, Nicco always smiled for the cameras, forever accompanying her to glitzy events, walking red carpets wearing tuxedos, looking as amazing as ever.

  They had maintained their closeness on the field, combining leadership styles to guide the Black Jacks to a winning season. It had been a blur to Parker. He could hardly wait to get to practice every day, to see Nicco, to talk to him, to feel the other man’s body against his during scrimmages.

  They laughed, joked, slapped ass with the rest of the team for a few hours every day—a few hours that kept Parker going until the next day. More and more he would close his eyes as he entered Ashley’s welcoming body and dream of Nicco under his hands, of the man’s hips, and ass grinding against his. The entire concept of having sex with a man intimidated Parker, but he knew as well as he knew his own shoe size, he wanted it with Nicolas Garza, badly. Even if just for one time, to break the tension and prove, perhaps, his fevered imagination had transformed the whole thing into something more than a physical act.

  The season had ended, as they all do. The Black Jacks emerged as champions of the expansion soccer league’s regular season. Parker had pulled a hamstring in the final game, which went well with his broken thumb thanks to a clumsy fall he’d made, and a suspected foot stress fracture. He had more money in the bank than he could spend, a willing girlfriend in his bed, and a brutal crush on a fellow teammate.

  A teammate who had decided to become the poster boy for gay pro athletes while at the same time dumping his famous and very wealthy socialite girlfriend. Gutsy, Parker would concede. The blogosphere already had erupted with support and vitriol, but Parker decided to ignore it.

  He had a meeting with his agent this afternoon to ask for a transfer. As much as he truly loved this team and what he’d done for it, he had to get the hell away from Nicco. The concept of being “the gay soccer player’s boyfriend” was just too much for him to take. Besides, considering Nicco his “boyfriend” involved more jumping of the gun than Parker wanted to contemplate.

  Since the lone, bizarre encounter at the club where Nicco had blown him, while tricking him to thinking a girl did it, he had been all business. Behaving in an utterly professional, jovial, just-buddies, manner without a hint of anything more, which killed Parker daily.

  He saw an email drop into his inbox from Jack, stating the team’s full support of Nicolas Garza’s recent revelation, hoping Nicco’s teammates would not consider this to have any effect on the man’s playing ability or his crucial contribution to the Black Jacks’ success. The hard fact remained—Nicco had been key to the team’s winning season. He’d thrown himself into the effort with every ounce of his considerable energy, rallying players who flagged, propping up others who slumped, berating those who slacked. Acting in a way that surprised former coaches an
d teammates alike—as if he wanted to be part of a team and not the lone superstar.

  Now, he’d ruined everything and forced Parker’s hand. He had to go. If Nicco were out he had no more excuses. Even if the pro soccer world was ready for a gay player, it would hardly be willing to accept a couple in an openly homosexual relationship. While Parker wanted nothing more in the world than to play hard, practice harder, then go home with Nicco he knew it would not work.

  He loved to hear the man laugh—a harsh-sounding thing at first until he’d gotten used to it. The guy’s propensity for practical jokes found many targets, which had finally made him accepted by his fellow players, especially once he’d proven himself so adept at leading them to victories.

  Parker adored the sing-songy cadence of his voice, the way he was so single-minded about the game. Their weekly strategy sessions impressed Parker even more. Nicco could easily be a coach, someday.

  He frowned, bit his lip, and recalled an odd conversation and near close encounter they’d had one night toward the end of the season after the rest of the team had showered and left. Leaving the two of them, battered and bruised, mainly from going head to head against each other.

  Parker had looked up to find the locker room echoing and empty and Nicco sitting a few feet away. The look in the man’s eyes had been sad, remorseful, with a finality that startled Parker. “What’s up?” he asked, keeping it casual as he got to his feet. He groaned and stretched out his newly sore elbow and tried to work out a kink in his back. He’d missed the trainer’s attention and would need a double treatment tomorrow just to suit up and play.

  “I was married once, you know,” the handsome Spaniard had stated apropos of nothing.

  Parker had winced as he lifted his practice jersey off and touched his sore ribs. “Well, I hope you didn’t beat on her like you just did on me,” he said, mildly, not realizing how suggestive it sounded until it had escaped his lips. He felt the familiar flush creep up his neck to his face.

  A warm smile had spread over Nicco’s sweaty face. “No.” He stood, turned to his own locker, and started to undress.

  “I heard about her.” Parker had been unable to rip his eyes from the sight of Nicco’s lean, strong back. “Saw some pictures. I followed the Euro league pretty closely once upon a time.” He gave up on standing when Nicco stepped out of his shorts and stood still facing away from Parker. He had intimate knowledge of the subtle strength of the man’s body—he boasted the sore ribs, black eyes, and scuffed skin to prove it. His mouth dried out as his gaze stayed glued to Nicco’s backside.

  “Yeah, guess you did, being the youngster you are.” Nicco’s voice had been soft. He’d wandered over to the towel shelf, grabbed one, and fastened it around his waist before crossing his arms and spearing him with a glacial stare.

  “Don’t call me youngster,” he’d squeaked out, wincing at the sound of his voice. “She left you, spilled the beans about you…your….”

  “Boyfriend,” Nicco’s voice had been strong, firm, in command of the situation. Parker felt like a blithering idiot with his gaping stare and constantly blushing face as Nicco continued. “Yes. She was fun for a while. Loved to look good, spend money, show off. It was more or less required of me to obtain one—you know, a wife. But…,” he shrugged, “I never loved her.” He sat, suddenly, as if deflated. He put his head in his hands.

  Parker had risen as if in a trance and closed the gap between them. He’d put a hand on Nicco’s bare shoulder. He was dying to soothe the man, to assure him it was okay, people made mistakes. Nicco’s outer persona—cocky, confident, aware of his extreme talent on the pitch—remained at odds with the man he saw right now. Parker had always sensed a deep unhappiness, a restlessness that lent itself to sometimes bizarre, unexplainable bad choices.

  Nicco kept his head down. Parker removed his hand, but gulped when the man moved fast, gripping his wrist and standing so their bare chests had mere inches between them.

  “Don’t,” Parker had whispered, drunk with desire and wishing for nothing more than Nicco to read his body language and ignore his single word of denial. Nicco’s exotic face with its huge chocolate-brown eyes, strong nose, and firm jaw loomed, as if pondering the options.

  Then he stepped away, let go of Parker’s wrist, confusion and unhappiness back in his expression. “I mean….” Parker’s arm remained suspended in the air as though Nicco still had hold of him.

  “No,” Nicco had said, spinning on his heel and heading back to his locker. He yanked out street clothes, dressy, as was required of them. No jeans or sweats or slouchy appearances allowed when entering or exiting the Black Jacks’ facility—they all agreed to this in their contracts. He kept muttering under his breath in Spanish while Parker stared frozen with indecision.

  “Wait,” he’d said, furious for sounding like such a dork but no longer caring.

  “No, you wait.” Nicco had rounded on him, tucking his dress shirt into his pants over his un-showered skin. “You…just wait,” he growled, stepping over to Parker again, glowering, breathing heavy. “Wait for someone better, young Parker. I am no good for you. As tempting as you are.” Parker flushed red again as Nicco raked his gaze up and down his near-naked and obviously aroused form. “I need to get out of here,” he muttered, raising a hand as if to touch Parker’s face then spitting out a curse and stomping out.

  Parker sank to the bench, then rose to take his shower, put on his own dress clothes, and left in a daze wondering what he had nearly done.

  Now, he sat here warring internally over a recent experiment. He’d located an exclusive, private, tropical club catering to the “man who requires discretion and has the money to afford it.” A gay vacation club—because he needed to do this thing. He needed to have sex with a man and get past it. To stop building it up in his head as this perfect…thing. It was just sex, for Christ’s sake. Pleasant, for a few moments, then over, a release of tension, nothing more or less.

  So he had submitted an application, nervous and terrified someone would find out but relying on the “discretion guarantee”, especially once he paid their jaw-dropping fee.

  His scalp tingled at the sight of a new email appearing that instant confirming his reservation. He was invited to “enjoy the casual, relaxed and completely private atmosphere” four weeks from today.

  His hands shook. He clenched them together in his lap and spent a few moments regretting ever laying eyes on Nicco Garza. This was not Nicco’s fault. Parker had suspected his own homosexual leanings for years but had never acted on them. So, now he would, if five thousand dollars’ worth of travel and discretion guarantees were to be believed.

  His phone buzzed across the table next to the computer. He glanced at it, his face heating up at the sight of Nicco’s name on the screen. How in the hell did the man always manage to call him at the wrong moment? He shoved the thing to the floor, cursing and already regretting the money spent, the move to Detroit, the breakup with Christie, and the flagrant nose-thumbing to his parents.

  He should be in medical school right now, done with year one, and likely in the midst of a wedding planning month. Not sitting here contemplating how Nicco’s lips felt that night, how close he had come to kissing him in the locker room, and how much he yearned for his touch.

  He glared at the soccer news page again. If expansion teams qualified for playoffs, they’d been in them now. For now, their first season was over with only a few injuries and his pondering running from the team. Nicco had come out, made a publicly gay declaration and would no doubt weather the storm with little backlash. God knew his entire career had been nothing but one long gossip column.

  Parker himself had been named to an infamous “Fab 5” hottest new footie men on a notorious, but very well-known, European soccer fan blog debuting at Number Three. The lady bloggers’ obsession with soccer player torsos, asses, and legs embarrassed the shit out of him. He’d done the requisite interview, his face beet red the entire time, and had been dubbed “baby b
oy Parker” by the crew, which now stuck fast with his teammates.

  His body ached from the past months of daily torture, but his heart hurt worse. He’d give anything to be playing right now, finishing off an amazing season with a run at a championship designation. The team management had been assured next year there would be such a thing. Parker relaxed and forced himself to look at the email again.

  “Your travel itinerary to La Luna, our exclusive resort in the Maldives is included. As a new member, you will be paired with another newbie for the first night. If it works for you guys, great! If not, we will gladly make the necessary room changes. However, we match carefully and are very rarely proven wrong! See you soon.”

  He noted the flight details then went for a run, coming up with a million excuses not to go and one reason he had to. Nicolas Garza. He had to dislodge the man from his psyche. If it took an exotic week of fucking some strange guy until he couldn’t walk, then so be it. He’d go, get his man love cherry popped, and be over it pure and simple.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicco sat in a soft chair, fresh-squeezed orange juice in one hand, feet up on the railing, enjoying a soft ocean breeze. He tried to relax and to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. This had been such a stupid idea. Almost as epic as the one he’d made a few weeks ago, barging into Rafe’s office and declaring himself ready to be the guy, the one who came out as a pro athlete.

  He’d dumped the crazy bitch with the sex parties and the coke addiction after waking up one morning in a tangle of arms and legs and God knows what else, his head pounding and his heart yearning for one thing—Parker Rollings.

  That morning he had gone home, taken a shower, and stared at himself in the mirror for a solid thirty minutes before driving down to the Black Jacks complex and making his pronouncement to the assistant coach.

  “Okay,” Rafe had said, leaning back, his son strapped to his chest in some sort of contraption. “I’ll alert the marketing department. You know you have my personal support, right?”