Indulgence

by Liz Crowe

  His agent had been stoic at first, taking it in stride. Nicco had always been fodder for the gossip-mongering press corps following European soccer players’ every move both on and off the pitch. He was tall, handsome, almost scarily talented, and knew his way around the party scene like no one else.

  He’d managed to keep his main obsession a secret, or so he thought. Gay players in soccer were simply not tolerated. He understood that. He also knew at least a dozen players between England, Germany, South America, and Spain who held their own secrets close to their hearts. Of course, he would be the one to be a pace setter, thanks to his cunt of an ex-wife.

  Ghostly images of all the men and women who’d paraded through his life and bed lit his brain as he moved close enough to run a finger along his seat mate’s knee under the blanket.

  “You’re nothing but a whore, Nicco. If there’s a hole, your goddamned cock is in it.” The last words of the only person he’d ever truly loved echoed in his brain but he shut it out, deciding instead to take a deep breath of feminine perfume—a heady mix of soft citrus and pure, spicy lust. Screw Leandro. He flew off in a plane that never brought him back. He left me—and he was the one man who quelled my need, who calmed my whole self.

  Fate, they said.

  Pilot error, others said.

  His lips found the woman’s neck and his fingers their pleasantly warm target between her legs as his brain shut down, briefly quieting the fury that had been building for weeks. The breathy sounds of her satisfaction made music in his ears and the sensation of her soft palm gripping him under the blanket forced the memory of the one face he yearned for, the one voice he dreamed of nightly, up and out of his brain, at least for a few moments.

  Wrong, his better self said. Stop. Don’t do this with this total stranger on a plane, under the noses of every other passenger.

  Shut up, his true self retorted. Fuck off. Who cares? Nobody. That’s who. Not anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Rafael Inez glared at the man seated across from him, then rose and walked to the door of his office. Nicolas Garza was a guaranteed pain in everyone’s ass from day one. Rafe knew it, but he’d thought it worthwhile since he got to scoop him up on the cheap. But now….

  “Look, Garza, do what you want on your own time. We’re all adults here.”

  Nicco glared at him but stayed quiet. Rafe set his jaw. “I know what they say about you, and I want you to know that I don’t care. You can be a completely out-of-the-closet player on my team. I will fully support it in public. The marketing department agrees with me. They even have…um….” Rafe ran a hand through his hair. “There is some kind of search for the first active pro athlete to come out. Sports Inc. has a crew ready to cover it, to show how open-minded we all are. Or something.”

  Nicco’s gaze never wavered from his. His square jaw clenched, which was the only indication Rafe had that the man had even registered his words. He leaned on his desk, staring at the one guy he had hoped would help build his team. Nicco would—could—bring a level of maturity the Black Jacks desperately needed, riddled as they were with raw rookies.

  “A show pony, then. That’s why I’m here? The bad boy likes boys but look how cool we are in America. We embrace him. Fuck you, patrón.”

  Rafe gulped. He had not wanted this little wrinkle. The crazy bitch running the marketing department practically had a public orgasm when he’d told her he’d gotten Nicco signed.

  “Oh god, he’s that gay one, isn’t he? That is awesome!”

  Her gang of seeming teenagers that made up the huge promotions department for the team had concocted all sorts of media ops for the guy. Rafe had glanced at Jack Gordon, his boss in this venture and his brother-in-law.

  Jack had been frowning at the whole frenzy. Rafe had tried to explain to the tall, thin woman, recruited away from an internet social networking company on the West Coast to run all things marketing for them in Detroit, that getting out in front of the curve on the “gay athlete thing” might not be the best focus during their inaugural season. They had enough to worry about. Bringing the bright light of scrutiny over such a controversial topic made Rafe more than a little uneasy, contemplating what it could do to the team’s dynamic.

  She’d been allowed to run with it, at least to the point he was now telling Nicco about it. And the conversation was going about as he expected—straight into the shitter. He switched to Spanish, hoping their mutual native tongue could help them work this out, albeit his being what Nicco probably considered bastardized South American.

  “Nicco,” he kept his voice neutral. “I won’t do anything you don’t want to do with this. Trust me. I’m here to lay it out for you, to see if you’re interested in playing poster boy for gay pro athletes. I don’t like it and don’t think the team needs it this early, before we even play a game. However,” he straightened, remembering why he’d been pissed off at the man already, “I will not tolerate psychotic groupies hanging around my practices.”

  Nicco raised an eyebrow, his lanky body relaxed, showing no sign of stress over the fact that he had just been asked to do something no pro athlete who currently played had managed to do: to come out as gay, then simply resume his position on the team as if nothing had happened.

  “Seriously, patrón….” Rafe said, getting even more irritated by the man’s obtuse stance. “I don’t know who she is or where you picked her up between Spain and Michigan, but tell her if she shows up at my practice again, making a scene trying to get to you, I will call the police. And you, my confusing friend, are back to the farm leagues of Europe. I don’t need this bullshit distraction, and neither do you. It is immaterial to me what kind of sex you have and with what gender. All I ask is that you keep the crazies away from my field and your teammates. We clear?”

  “Ah, the farm leagues.” The tall, handsome Spaniard stretched his legs out in front him, not taking the hint that Rafe wanted him out of the office. He spoke in his accented English, as if rebuffing Rafe’s olive branch via their common language. “I thought that’s where I already was.” Rafe shook his head to keep from punching the cocky shithead in the pie hole. “Besides, aren’t you just filling in until the real manager is hired?”

  Rafe clenched his jaw and tried to keep his cool. “Think what you want. I’m telling you now that this team will be run like the pros. While I will tolerate WAGs, I will not put up with a psychopathic freak job you picked up on the fucking plane. Got me?”

  His high-priced, somewhat over the hill, superstar attacking midfielder stretched his arms over his head and got to his feet. The taller man walked straight into Rafe’s personal space.

  Typical.

  Rafe stood his ground. He’d played against this jerk in a World Cup qualifier the year before the career-ending injury that landed him alone in the American Midwest. The Black Jacks had deep pockets, thanks to the investors in town who wanted the “real deal” when it came to this particular sport, but he’d been careful to find a lot of American-based rising stars and a handful of European near has-beens like this one. He’d taken a calculated risk, signing Nicco Garza. He’d be damned if he’d let this fucker intimidate him.

  “Back off, Garza. You don’t scare me. And yeah, I’m filling in until I can convince that stubborn Turk to take the job. You know that. Jesus, man, you’re the only one in the building who gets this. Work with me. I’ll keep the marketing whiz kids off your back. I can nix the gay poster boy project with a single word. Just tell me now.”

  The other man’s deep brown eyes narrowed. Then he winked and patted Rafe’s cheek. “You got it, patrón.” He shouldered past him into the hallway, whistling.

  Rafe watched him go, fists clenched in repressed need to hit something. He’d been warned by several men who’d been in his position as Nicco’s coach and manager before.

  “A rare, raw talent. And a shit of a human being.”

  “Can’t see past the end of his own cock long enough to focus. Otherwise he’d still be world class
.”

  “If you can channel him for the game, you won’t lose. If you can’t, your life is a guaranteed living hell of scandal, booze, and babysitting his ego.”

  Rafe knew about Nicco’s not-so-secret bisexuality. Realized that his marriage had dissolved when his ex-wife had discovered his affair with a man. That guy had been killed along with his entire team when their plane crashed between South America and Australia.

  Rafe had done his homework and also realized there were darker rumors about Nicolas Garza—drinking, drugs, and even some folks who claimed he had a sex addiction, which could rapidly destroy what was once one of the very best soccer athletes in the entire world.

  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 perverse 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.