by Liz Crowe
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 boy 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 gu
y 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?”
“Yeah,” Nicco had said, nervousness running up and down his spine like rats’ feet. “So what happens now?”
What happened came quickly and included a solid month of interviews up one side and down the other by every sports, news, and gossip channel. He’d gone on late night talk shows, mid-day women’s shows, you name it he’d been there, declaring his extreme gayness to the world.
He still didn’t quite understand why. Actually bi-sexual, but unwilling to explain how it gave him double the opportunities, he left that part out. A sick sort of publicity web got woven around him, thanks to his own words and actions. He got a shit ton of hate email, texts, but none of it bothered him. Because the one man he wanted to be out for would have nothing to do with him.
Parker and Ashley remained the happy, pretty, and perfectly hetero couple. He had no one. As the gay-boy darling of the press, the brave man who’d risked his career to declare truth to the world or however the marketing department was spinning it, he decided he deserved a vacation. To a ridiculously expensive and far away gay club where he could fuck his way through as many handsome, wealthy men as he wanted.
He’d heard of La Luna but had dismissed it as excessive and unnecessary. He had all the sex he wanted, until now, of course. So he paid their extortionist fees, and here he sat. Since he was now a minor celebrity, he got priority booking it seemed.
His team had been supportive up to a point. He’d known better than to pull this stunt during the season. His shrink had called him because Nicco had skipped his last two appointments, worried about his “motivation for such an announcement.”
Nicco had laughed and told him he’d never felt more free, more unencumbered, albeit a little lonely. The man had sighed in his ear, made noises about “negative motivations” and “more talk therapy” so Nicco had hung up on him.
Then he’d dropped to the floor of his condo and let tears slip from his eyes, finally succumbing to real chest-heaving sobs. He cried like a woman—for Leandro, and for Parker before he fell into exhausted asleep right on the hardwood.
The fallout had been immense but mostly in a positive direction, which had shocked him. A month after the fact, Nicco stood, ensconced in the public eye as a celebrity, a hero for the gay athletes everywhere. Handsome, mature, fit, successful, rich, and homosexual, forever and ever, amen.
He sighed then startled when the door in the suite behind him rattled and swung open. His chair tipped too far back, dumping him onto the terrace floor. “Shit, mother fucker goddammit!” He scrambled up, rubbing the back of his head, and found a towel to wipe the juice off his brand new linen shorts. His face burned and the acid in his gut bubbled up another notch. Why in the hell he’d be nervous when he faced nothing a week of screwing, then back to life as usual, escaped him.
Of course, he did have to make a decision in between all the fucking—about whether or not to stay in the States during the offseason. More importantly if he’d exercise his option to stay with the Detroit project. His agent had been screaming at him to get out of it. A couple of major league soccer teams had been nosing around until his Big Gay Announcement. Right after, his agent would only return every other one of his calls. Until the positive media onslaught, which seemed to remind said agent of Nicco’s future contribution to his agency’s bank account.
Nicco had developed a soft spot for the Motor City, and the thought of never getting to see Parker again made him nauseous. Besides, he had no choice. The BJ’s, as the Black Jacks had taken to calling themselves, supported him, at least on the surface. He’d best stay where he could still play. Because no matter what Oprah, Dave and the yammering idiots on the American Sports Network claimed about a “fresh new open mindedness,” the fact remained: Nicolas Garza had likely ruined his career with his little lifestyle reveal.
Which was one of the reasons he’d chosen this ludicrous setup. Maybe he would meet the love of his life here at this exclusive resort dripping with good-looking rich guys hiding from the world. He sighed and walked into the main sitting area of the luxury suite, prepared to meet his newbie buddy for the first night.
His feet froze and his whole body contracted in response to the man who stood in the doorway, thousands of miles from Michigan, suitcase in hand, Ray Bans sliding down his patrician rich-boy, American nose.
“What are you doing here?” Parker spoke first, breaking the moment. He glanced at the number on the door and on the key card in his hand as if they held the answer. Nicco saw a drop of sweat bead up on Parker’s temple. He ached to leap across the room, hold the obviously anxiety-riddled young man until he relaxed.
How this had happened, he had no idea. His heart pounded in a new rhythm, one of sweet anticipation.
Nicco stuck his hands in his pockets, determined to remain nonchalant. “This is where I was told to come, for my, ah, rookie trip.”
“Well they’ve obviously screwed up.” Parker dropped his case and frowned. Nicco’s mouth went dry. “I’m here too for …holy shit. And you are a rookie at these things?” Parker’s voice cracked, which made Nicco want to laugh, and cry and run away from him all at once.
He shrugged and tried to keep his voice neutral. “Yeah, so I see. And as a matter of fact, I am a rookie at ‘these sorts of things.’” He hooked fingers around the words, which felt lame and stupid.
“No. Hell no. No fucking way.” Parker started to back away, but his foot tangled in his shoulder bag strap, and he landed on his ass, cursing like a sailor. Nicco burst out laughing so hard he had to sit.
Parker scrambled to his feet and frowned; as Nicco kept guffawing, the stress of the past months and the extreme surprise of seeing the object of his lust at the door overwhelming him to the point of hysteria. Finally Parker shook his head, unable to suppress a wide, innocent grin that made Nicco’s heart hurt all over again.
I won’t do this to him. He’s too good for me.
Wiping his eyes, he rose and faced the tall, handsome American, put his hands on broad shoulders, biting his lower lip to keep the spasms of uncontrollable laughter at bay. “You’re right. This must be a mix-up.” He put a palm to Parker’s rough cheek, something he’d been dying to do for months and was surprised when the other man closed his eyes, and leaned into it for a half second. Then his eyes sprang open and he stepped away, rubbing his face as if scalded.
Nicco took a breath. “C’mon in anyway, have a drink. I’ll call downstairs and get it changed.” Parker’s lean frame moved out to the balcony as his own body started a long, slow dance of horny he was going to have to work hard tonight to dispel with some lucky stranger. Keeping his gaze glued to the man’s back, he picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.
After a thoroughly frustrating conversation Nicco figured out what he already surmised—the resort service had somehow matched them. He ambled out to the large terrace overlooking the perfect turquoise s
ea. Parker had fallen asleep in a lounge chair, which gave Nicco some unrestricted observation time. Before he did something rash, he put a hand on the man’s knee, startling him awake.
“Let’s take a walk.” He turned and headed back into the condo, needing some space to sort out how to handle this. He slipped off his ruined shorts, pulled on a pair of plain ones and turned. His throat seized up at the sight before his eyes. Parker stood up, had taken off his shirt and now faced him, in utter silence.
Nicco had seen him hundreds of time like this, and more, considering they shared a locker room. The more he’d had gotten to know the younger man, the more he liked. His goal-oriented focus, drive, and talent had earned him the captain’s role for the team. Natural leadership skills had shone since day one, and Nicco loved working with him to whip the team into shape on the field.
The subtle aura of vulnerability and innate shyness intoxicated him—a man used to show-offs, blow-hards, and self-aggrandizing assholes. Parker had a dry sense of humor, self-deprecating but not annoyingly so. Nicco would never forget the one moment they’d shared, that he’d engineered, which had nearly freaked the poor kid out so much he’d fallen down the steps at the in his haste to escape. Plus, that odd, near-miss in the locker room when Nicco had been within a literal second of shoving him against the wall and kissing him until they were both dizzy.
Parker stood and stretched, trying to clear the fuzziness and confusion and whatever else rolled around in his brain. His body creaked and popped as he turned, tugging his travel-wrinkled shirt over his head.
Nicco stared at him, mouth all but hanging open. Parker’s face flamed in its usual fashion as he held the shirt in front of him.
His skin prickled, and his brain sent unwanted signals to the rest of his body, which began to betray him, in an obvious way, under his zipper.
