by Liz Crowe
“Good Christ,” he gasped when lips covered the head of his cock. A tongue flicked and teased. A hand cupped his balls. A finger slid lower, rubbing and making his entire body pulse with pure pleasure. Music pounded in his ears. His hands clenched into fists. The woman’s soft, eager mouth swallowed him. He grunted at the sensation. His hips bucked. The finger moved lower, massaging, pressing deep, making him groan.
When he opened his eyes, the woman stared at him, covered his mouth with hers, and he let her, suddenly realizing whose lips were around his cock, whose throat he fucked, whose hair he fisted. He broke away as Nicco’s fingertip triggered a gut-deep, earth shattering, terrifying orgasm roaring up from the soles of his feet, lighting his spinal column and exploding behind his eyes. He cried out, no longer caring if the music covered him up, thrust deep into the other man’s mouth and let it happen.
Holy shit. Holy mother of ….
Parker jerked away, panting, fear, terror and lust roiling in his brain, making him breathless and pissed beyond words. “Shit.” He yanked his jeans up, shoved the woman out and fell to his knees in his haste to escape. What the hell had just happened? What had he done? He had to play soccer with this man. He was supposed to beat him at his own goddamned position in two days. They were…teammates.
His eyes burned. Nicco licked his lips as he stared at Parker, his dark eyes blank.
Well you did it didn’t you Doc? Yes. You did. Now you are that guy. The guy you didn’t want to be. He grabbed the half empty, three-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch and stalked away, drinking from the neck of the thing. As he made his way through the crowd, gorgeous men and women draped around him, kissing his exposed skin until he figured out he should button his shirt. But first…He smiled down at a blonde woman with the biggest, fakest tits he’d ever seen and tugged her close.
The urge to jump off the top of this building felt way too viable at the moment. He had do something to dispel the horror of the last few minutes—when he’d just gotten a goddamn, mother fucking blowjob from Nicco Garza.
This is not me, his brain insisted as he tugged the strange girl into an alcove, shoved her up against the wall, lifted her skirt and stroked her soft, familiar folds, slipping two fingers into her, making her squirm and sigh. As he leaned over and sucked a nipple between his lips, her body shuddered in a familiar way. He groaned when she palmed his rapidly hardening cock then shoved her off him, took a slug from the bottle he’d never dropped while fingering the nameless, eager chick. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re on the Black Jacks, no?” she purred, making Parker wince at his callous thoughts of “get the fuck away from me”.
“Yeah, that’s me. Soccer star.” He grimaced at her and stomped away, drinking the burning brown liquor, trying to find the steps so he could escape this utter nightmare. He glanced back and stumbled, the floor having become suddenly unreliable under his feet. A strong hand gripped his biceps. He looked at it then up at its owner’s face.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled, jerking his arm out of Nicco’s grasp. “I am not that guy, okay. I don’t, I can’t, shit!” He lifted the green bottle to his mouth, but the other man took it.
“Go easy, amigo,” he crooned. Parker squinted, tried to get the two Niccos to form into one, then gave up and sank into a chair, head in his hands. The room resumed its nauseating spin. He sensed the other man’s face near his, but he shifted away unwilling to be near him lest he give in to what he truly wanted. Because it simply could not happen. They were pro athletes, and he would be damned if he disappointed his parents one more time by being…gay.
A tall glass of ice water appeared, and he drained it, willing the other man away from him. Didn’t work. The tall, dark figure pulled a chair up alongside him and draped an arm over his shoulders. Parker braced himself for sarcasm, for innuendo, for the usual bullshit spewing from the guy’s lips.
“I’m sorry.” His soft Spanish lilt made Parker clench his eyes shut. “Querido. Lo siento. I should not have done that to you.” The man put a hand on his thigh, kept his lips near Parker’s ear.
“It’s fine.”
“No, you silly polite American, it’s not. I took terrible advantage of you.” The hand stroked, soothed, the musical voice calmed Parker’s pounding heart. “Be pissed off. You have every right. But….” Nicco turned his chin with a light touch. “You are…,” He dropped his gaze, surprising Parker. “Amazing.”
He pressed his full lips to Parker’s once, in a chaste, dissatisfying way, then stood. Parker watched as the one Nicco morphed into two again, heard the two of them speak. “Get water and some sleep, young Parker. We have a big day ahead on Monday.” He tilted Parker’s face up to his, ran a rough thumb over his lips making Parker’s entire body shiver. Then Nicco walked away without another word, hands in his pockets.
Parker watched him go, his heart sinking. What had he done? How in God’s name could he play now with the man whose dark eyes and full lips made him want to weep with desire? He lurched to his feet, stumbled down the circular staircase and out into the cool night air.
Chapter Ten
Rafe stirred and rolled over, reaching out for Maureen’s soft familiar curves. When he hit the living room floor he came fully awake, staring at the rug, remembering the verbal knock-down, drag-out that had landed him on the too-short couch. Adam dropped into a nearby chair, holding a bowl of cereal.
“Hey, uh, Mom’s in the bathroom crying.”
Rafe groaned and got to his feet. He had been pushing the team to its collective limit through months of camp in between managing bouts of seriously bad behavior on the part of various players. The daily stress of setting plays, getting a group of extreme sports egos to actually work together, keeping as much of the bullshit out of the media as possible while placating a set of needy investors had proven positively overwhelming. The added bonus of his prized coach delaying his appearance until nearly a week before their first game only added to the frustration.
So when Maureen had some kind of breakdown last night after a dinner party at Jack and Sara’s house to celebrate the eve of their first game, he’d snapped. Too much booze at dinner, too many veiled innuendoes about team dynamics not working and general behavioral problems and too much denial about his role as the husband of a pregnant woman played hell with his nerves. He had no real excuse. He’d made a bit of a scene, and they had left. The tense car ride home ended with tears from his wife and more fury from him.
He knocked on the bathroom door. “Honey? You okay?”
“Go away.” She sniffled. “Far, far away. Go back to the team. Sleep there. I’ll see you at the end of the season.”
“C’mon, babe. I’m really sorry. I was an ass.”
“Yeah.”
“I know I was.” Adam tapped his shoulder, held out a steaming cup of something that smelled like lilacs. Rafe smiled. “Adam brought your favorite tea.”
“Go the fuck away, Rafe, I mean it. Sorry, Adam.”
The tall kid shrugged and patted Rafe’s arm. “No worries. She’ll be okay. Let’s eat. You’ve got a big day.”
Rafe put his aching head against the door, ignoring his stepson’s attempt at adulthood. “Please, Maureen. I am really sorry. I need you today.”
“Yeah, should have thought of that before you called me—what was it? Oh yes….”
“Maureen, come on. I didn’t call you anything. You were making too much noise for me to even get a word in.” He stopped. “Listen, I’ve been behaving badly. I haven’t been here for you. It’s partly your fault, you know. You’re so goddamned independent, you’ve set me up. I don’t even know what I do for you. How you even need me.”
The door jerked open. His wife’s beautiful blue eyes watered. His chest tightened again. Dear God, he was so stupid. These fucking boys parading as men he’d been babysitting, threatening, coddling into working for him and not against him—they did not matter. This, right in front of him, mattered above all else. He too
k her hand, pulled her close, covered her face with kisses, and muttered any and everything he could think of to make her stop crying.
“Stop it.” She pushed him away and brushed at her eyes. “Rafe, we are a partnership. That implies need. What you don’t have, I give you. What I can’t do, you can. Don’t you get it? You brought this into my life, gave me a reason to trust you, to believe you’re here for me. You’ve essentially disappeared. I get why but I don’t like it. Not now. Not with all this.” She put a hand on the shelf of her belly.
He reached out for her, heart on fire with anguish, head buzzing with terror at the sight of her pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes. She leaned on the wall, hands to the small of her back. Feeling stupid and helpless, he rubbed her shoulders, then leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head and made her slow way down the hall, calling for Adam to heat the tea back up.
Rafe watched her go, frustration at his current predicament building in his chest. He pulled his seemingly forever buzzing phone out of his shorts pocket, grimacing at the sight of his assistant’s number.
Choosing to ignore it, he followed Mo into the kitchen and glued a smile on his face, determined to fix this. She turned her face up to his when he leaned over her, hand on her huge stomach. Then blew out a breath and shoved him away.
“Fucking hurts. God, my back is killing me.” She let him kiss her and put her hand against his cheek. He crouched down to be on eye level.
“Aren’t we, I mean, isn’t this...” He stared at her stomach, anxiety strangling him. She put a hand on his hair.
“Yeah, honey. Today is your baby’s due date. And the first day of your season. Perfect timing once again.”
He groaned and leaned into her, putting his lips against the taut skin of her belly, whispering, “Wait, young Inez. Hang on, my man. Give me twenty-four hours, por favor?”
Rafe glanced up at Maureen, fear sending a fresh thrill of stress down his spine. She looked like her whole body hurt. He really should have read some of those “what to expect” books. He’d only made it to one damn breathing class or whatever they called it. He closed his eyes. Sweet Jesus, help him, he could not take this right now.
His phone buzzed again. “Sorry, it’s Jack.” He stood.
She waved him away and kept staring out the window. He frowned and sat and took the call.
“Dude, please tell me you did not piss off my sister any more than you did my own lovely bride last night.”
“Damn, Jack, let’s talk about the team, okay?”
“Sorry, my brother. As Sara has in no uncertain terms informed me for the last, oh, ten hours straight—you have a priorities problem. And I am your enabler, or some shit.”
“She’s right.” Rafe stood, walked around behind Maureen and rubbed her shoulders, keeping the phone propped against his ear. “But we have informed the young Master Inez he should save his appearance for another day or so.” Maureen leaned her head on his hand.
“I’m coming with you,” she stated loud enough for her brother to hear it through the phone.
“Oh hell, no,” Jack sputtered into his ear. “She’ll distract you and, ow! Damn, Sara, cut it out.”
“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry. I’m gonna go. Go control your woman already.” He ended the call, dropped the phone on the table, and leaned down to kiss his wife’s lips.
“Do what you want, Maureen. I know I can’t stop you. But if you guys are coming with me, you gotta get it together. I need to be there in about two hours. Vamanos!” He headed down the hall to the shower, hoping his leapfrogging nerves would calm, but realizing the day had only just begun.
*****
Parker went through his usual pre-game ritual—running five miles and consuming a four egg omelet with a cup of coffee and orange juice. The past months had been a blur of sheer physical stress and strain and avoidance of anything resembling up close and personal time with one Nicolas Garza. They’d battled it out, giving each other mutual black eyes more than once during fifty-fifty battles for the ball, and Parker had loved the contact—had relished the minutes he got to spend so close to a perfect example of a classic midfielder.
He’d remained strictly professional, never lingering long in the locker room and keeping to himself or with the more low-key members of the team, such as Kago and the Germans. He’d even been approached by an agent and had entered into discussions about representation.
“You’ll need a place to land once this little experiment goes pear-shaped, Parker,” the guy had insisted. “And you are the real deal. Not like all these has-beens.”
Parker had been named captain and as the attacking mid with Nicco on his left wing. Many claimed Nicco had caused such external strife for the team in general, getting photographed in any number of compromising positions; he’d put the whole experiment in jeopardy already. But Parker didn’t care. He had determined the team would succeed.
This pre-season start-up was absolutely crucial. He’d been over to Rafe’s house for dinner, met his amazingly cool and very pregnant wife and her son from an earlier marriage. They discussed tactics, concepts, personalities and the competition for hours. And for the first time he felt truly needed, a part of something important.
He glanced down at his phone, noting the name he’d programmed in a few weeks ago. Sighing, he answered, acknowledging the surge of undeniable ambivalence. “Hey, Ashley.”
“Just wanted to wish you good luck,” the girl said. “Miss you.”
He ran a hand down his face. Ashley had fallen into his lap more or less, at a team bonding event. She worked in the marketing department and happened to be a dead ringer for Christie. When he’d spotted her across the room blatantly staring at him, he’d lifted his juice glass at her pretty smile. By the end of the night he had her back in a dark corner, kissing her with something approaching desperation.
The next morning he’d actually been shocked to find her in his bed, snuggled down into his chest. Now, apparently, he had a girlfriend. Who, thankfully, proved the opposite of Christie personality-wise. Undemanding, busy with her own job, not clingy or needy, but a damn tiger between the sheets. Ashley Trent could be what any man hoped for in a girlfriend. Parker hated himself for staying so disconnected from her, using her body to take his edge off, to quell the near constant level of lust he lived with daily. She, however, didn’t seem to mind or resent it. She left him alone when he needed and appeared when he wanted.
“Thanks. We’ll be fine, I think. I hope. I don’t know.” The butterflies beating the inside of his stomach transformed into small bats making him a little nauseated. “See you after?” he asked weakly, not even caring, but knowing he was supposed to ask.
“Maybe,” she said breezily, making him grateful in a way that sickened him. He needed her but he knew why—she kept him from facing himself, from acknowledging he would play this season and then get his shiny new agent to find him something else.
He could not play with Nicco. No matter they formed the middle of a strong team. Their chemistry on the pitch was undeniable. The press that had been allowed to watch some early scrimmages commented on it—how the two of them seemed able to anticipate each other’s moves before they made them. Which would be key to winning in a new league surprisingly stacked with talented players.
“Parker,” she said, sounding a million miles away.
He blinked, realized he’d been drifting, pondering exactly how much he enjoyed playing the game he loved with Nicolas Garza. “Sorry, babe. What?”
“Nothing….” Her voice faded. “Just…play well. I’ll be watching.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He hung up. Dropping the phone to the floor of his rented loft overlooking the Detroit River, he allowed himself a few minutes of remorse. She deserved better. He resolved to break it off with her after this game. He was obviously incapable of real emotion, so embroiled in his own mind with Nicco.
The thought of coming back to an empty condo after the game today made him twitchy. He toyed wi
th calling her back, asking her to meet him afterward, for dinner, for anything. But he let it go.
The intervening weeks had been tough beyond imagining as the Detroit summer edged away and the temperatures eased down into the seventies. The lack of humidity provided a nice break to his Southern-bred thin blood. The covered, state-of-the-art venue had inevitable delays but had its grand opening. The team got exactly one full workout on its artificial turf after the giant, ribbon-cutting opening ceremony.
Tempers ran short and hot among the team and its coaches. Frustrated by delays and the onslaught of media plus all their extra chores online, the men still put in near nightly appearances at high-visibility fundraisers and other boring events. After all the drama, the stress, and brutal practices in the summer sun, the day had arrived—their first official game as a team.
Rafe scheduled aggressively, putting together a nice mix of gimmie games and challenging matches. The new coach, once he’d finally shown, had proved as tough as everyone had warned. The tall, dark Turk with the terrible tragedy lurking in his past seemed to embrace the conflict roiling through the players’ ranks. He even egged on some of the more volatile players, coaxing higher levels of play with his harsh but apparently effective words. Willing them to explode with fury for the express purpose of showing them how immature they had acted.
Parker emerged from the shower, rubbing his hair, ignoring his body’s clamor for more physical contact. His phone buzzed again—Nicco.
Parker’s scalp tingled, and he contemplated ignoring the call. But the two men had formed a bond around the concept of a winning season—they were both fierce competitors. Plus, for all his bullshit, all the drama seeming to trail after him like fog, Garza remained a stone-cold pro at the game. He had a fiercely strategic mind when it came to breaking down opponents since he’d played against many members of opposing teams in Europe.
