First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  I get that now. The way a woman can be so goddam likable and gorgeous, you just want to try to be less of a jerk than you usually are and do whatever it takes to keep her happy. That’s all. OK, maybe I want to keep her naked, too. But happily naked.

  Before I can remind myself to shut it, I keep talking.

  “We’re definitely hot for each other, so we’ve got that for now, I guess. Not sure if we can be more. Two people so different might have a tough time making something last.” I shrug.

  Hunt flips his papers, then pats an open hand to my shoulder as he turns to walk away.

  “I don’t know, kid. I think it sounds like you just described the beginning of a hell of a love story.”

  Seattle.

  You couldn’t pay me to live here. It’s rainy and dreary, and the humidity that comes with it is hell on my joints. They can keep their coffee; I’ll take the three hundred–plus days of sunshine that Colorado has to offer. So, with my joints screaming and a Monday-night game against a team that’s hard to beat, this road trip won’t be over soon enough to suit me.

  We spent the afternoon on their practice field and finished out our day with the standard media circus. After a shower and dinner, I’m settled in bed and looking forward to the brightest spot in my day. Calling Whitney. It’s a routine now: in the couple of weeks since she left Denver, I’ve dialed her up every night just before we both go to sleep.

  She answers with a smile in her voice and the sound has the same effect it always does. A grin across my face, followed by my dick perking up to greet her. Whitney immediately asks about practice today, how I’m feeling about the game, so I don’t get the opportunity to indulge the one part of my anatomy that doesn’t care about football. Twenty minutes later, I realize that I’ve talked her ear off, analyzing this team and their defense to my captive—and likely bored stupid—audience.

  “Sorry. I’m rambling. It’s just that we can’t move the ball very effectively and that drives me nuts.”

  “It’s fine. But I honestly don’t understand how you guys can know all of this stuff about the other team and not be able to work around it. You said they do this 4–3 thing with the gaps. Can’t you just fill the gaps with other guys or something? More bodies would, like, neutralize what they’re doing, right?”

  The question is both naïve and adorable, but more important, it’s obvious she was listening this whole time, through every rambling speech and sidetracked commentary of mine. I always assumed that a woman who knew nothing about the game would be impossible to have in my life for longer than one night because adding subtitles to everything I say would get tedious quickly. But even when she doesn’t understand, Whitney doesn’t need subtitles; she just listens harder. And I definitely want her for more than one night.

  “Do you know how much I wish you were here with me right now?”

  The truth of how much I miss her is hard to ignore after blurting out something like that. Inside, I wince. No matter how much I want her, or miss her, it’s no damn excuse for sounding that needy.

  She laughs softly. “Wow. My question must be really dumb if that’s your response.”

  I tell her it isn’t dumb but can’t say anything else. If I try to say more, I’ll end up babbling about all the things that are bearing down on me right now: my contract negotiations stalling out, the way my entire body hurts, the pressure that comes with a good season. It’s just over halfway through regular season and we’re sitting pretty in the standings, but staying on top is harder in some ways than clawing your way out of a losing streak.

  On the road especially, everything is working against you. The lack of time and sleep, combined with constant change and stress. My body wants a release and my heart wants some respite—unfortunately, my brain knows the cure for both is more than a thousand miles away.

  Her voice lowers. “You want me in your hotel room or what? You want to show me around Pike Place Market? Buy me a salmon?”

  My heartbeat slows when I register the provocation in her voice and my first thought is the obvious. That I want to fuck her straight into the mattress for a few long, sweaty hours. Maybe that isn’t the best answer. I close my eyes and try to think of something less cock-centric to say.

  But I can’t, because she’s breathing softly into the phone and that means I’m picturing her kneeling between my legs, making the same sounds as her mouth hovers right where I want it. That image makes my dick so hard, and so quickly, that it pisses me off.

  All the quality time I’m spending with my right hand these days is making me more edgy, instead of less so. I’ve never been one of those guys who routinely jacks off; something about too much time spent that way feels a little pathetic. Either I found someone to take home or I did something more productive. Got in a workout, finished a project, fixed a meal. These days, I’m worried I’ll end up with carpal tunnel if I’m not careful, and I don’t need another injury, especially one that’s depressingly self-inflicted.

  Whitney says my name, quietly, checking to see if I’m still here. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “I’d love to have you in my hotel room, but that would never happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they treat us like we’re at church camp. No women in our rooms—no exceptions.”

  “Not even wives?”

  I snort. “It doesn’t matter. Once we’re back at the hotel, we’re on lockdown. Dinner, a shower, we can order one in-room movie on the team’s dime, and then lights-out.”

  “But there can be relaxing benefits to a little alone time with someone. Might help you sleep and show up to the game with a clear head. Don’t they know that?”

  Great. She’s alluding to sex and extolling the benefits of an orgasm. No hope for my cock now. I let one hand slide down and draw the heel of my hand across the front of my boxers.

  “I’m sure they do. But they probably figure it’s far less complicated to just let us order porn with our free movie. Keep it simple.”

  “Do you?”

  Now she wants to chat about whether I use my movie for family-friendly options or some less so? Fuck it. I give up and take myself in hand and use a firm grip to stroke the entire length, exactly the way I like it. After a few passes, I let my fist come to work slowly over the head. A drop of pre-cum immediately beads up and I use it to slick over the underside. A low groan tumbles out when I focus pressure and friction on that spot. Whitney draws in a little gasp, because, yup, she’s figured out exactly what I’m doing.

  “Sometimes. But not these days.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  Her voice is cautious, tempered by what sounds like nervousness. Why, I don’t know. She has to know that she’s why. Because Whitney is slowly becoming my default, for everything from the carnal to the comforting.

  “My dick likes you best. He likes it when I picture you, think about how good you feel, how fucking wet you get. We don’t need anything else.”

  She doesn’t give any indication that she’s offended. Instead, she lets out the hottest damn appreciative noise. A moan mixed with a murmur, the sound of savoring something she likes, and it’s enough to drive me right to the edge. I try to hold back by squeezing down almost painfully, staving off the climax I’m not ready for, because I want this to last a little longer. Then Whitney slays whatever control I thought I had with three whispered words.

  “Are you close?”

  I can’t answer her, because I’m not close, I’m there. Spilling into my hand at the sound of her voice, until I’m wrecked from coming so hard that my heart is threatening to thump out of my chest.

  And if I’m not careful, the damn thing is going to thump its way right into Whitney’s hands.

  The first plays of any game are the best. No other feeling in the world can mimic this one, because you take the field with only a hyperconscious state of awareness that sharpens every movement into hi-def and melds the cacophony of sounds around you into nothing but a low, muffled rumble. I’m loose and sere
ne for those moments. Zen? Maybe. Football is my meditation—without it, I’m half the person I should be.

  We bulldoze our way through to the second quarter, leading by fourteen. Coach calls a play that will put me in position and when I line up, I try to clear my mind of everything else, because if this goes the way it should, I’ll be waiting for a wide-open bomb. But waiting is the death of instinct, and catching a ball is best done by reflex. Nothing but white noise and muscle memory to guide you.

  I run my route, but the ball doesn’t quite make it. It comes up just short, and desperation means I’m suddenly trying to outwit an inanimate object, along with the hulk of a cornerback who wants to hand me my ass.

  I take a long leap, feel my fingers touch the ball. You can catch this one, my mind shouts. Lean forward, stretch every limb out, and grab it. Then plant one foot, just enough to pivot your body the direction you want to go.

  Lies. All of it. The propaganda of hope, ego, and stupidity.

  Instead, when my knee goes, I’m convinced the sound is loud enough to be deafening. But what I actually hear is for my ears alone. It’s the sound of my reality imploding. Because talk all you want about concussions; most of us don’t give a shit. But my knees? Fuck up my knees and you kill my career.

  No one will remember this but me. The acute, painful, spirit-breaking moments that pass while I wait for Hunt, splayed out at the eight-yard line with my left leg pointing the wrong direction, my mind consciously cataloging every tiny thing that’s happening. Because if this is the last time I’m ever on the field, I want to remember every single second.

  Fans think that game days define a career, that those moments make us who we are. But, for us—the players—there’s no difference.

  In October or July, on a Tuesday morning or a Sunday afternoon, it doesn’t change a thing. We’re pro ball players no matter what. Every day, until your body or your heart can’t give another yard.

   16

  (Cooper)

  Thanksgiving is typically my favorite holiday. With the exception of those years when I’ve had a game, I’m usually at home with my family and we’re the embodiment of every cliché that goes along with the holiday. So much food we can’t possibly eat it all, but we damn sure try. A television blaring in the background all day long, Macy’s parade in the morning and football the rest of the day. Loud voices, bad jokes at each other’s expense, a kids’ table crowded with my nieces and nephews. Picking at the leftovers while my mom tries to put them away and squeezing in a nap before pie.

  But this year, I’m a week out from a knee injury that feels fatal and I can’t handle the idea of going home. Even dealing with the orthopedic surgeon who examined my knee became a test in keeping my fists to myself.

  “You have a grade-two MCL injury, which is not good. But you managed to avoid concurrent ACL or PCL damage, so, you know, … yay for you.”

  I wanted to drag him across the desk by his purple paisley tie.

  So even though my family would do everything they could to distract me or make me feel better, I told my mom I had to beg off coming home because of physical therapy appointments. It was a half-truth at best, but what I needed this year was something else. Someone else. Which is not to say that I don’t recognize how lying to my mom will likely land me in a special part of hell. The privilege of raising four boys has already paid her primarily in heartache and worry, instead of gold and accolades as it should.

  Whitney knows about my knee; she checked the game report online and called me right afterward. I was on the bus, headed for the team plane, and had just taken another syringe-full of who knows what from Hunt. It numbed the worst of the pain, so I couldn’t give a fuck less what it was.

  Whitney asked if I was OK. I told her my knee was blown.

  She paused, and then tried again.

  “I asked about you, not your knee, Cooper. Are you OK?”

  If I hadn’t been on the team bus, with Hunt bent over my leg and rubbing the injection site to take away the sting, I might have told her the truth. That no, I wasn’t OK. And I wanted her so badly I didn’t even know how to deal with it.

  Standing on my terrace, I flop down into a deck chair and prop my aching leg up on the patio railing while I dial Whitney’s number. My knee brace digs into the flesh at the top of my calf, so I prop my phone between my ear and shoulder, give the contraption a little twist, and wait.

  She answers with my name. Not hello, not hey, just my name—soft and sweet, exactly what I need to hear.

  “How do you feel about Thanksgiving?”

  She makes a harrumphing noise. “I think it’s a holiday that honors gluttony, sloth, xenophobia, and the overconsumption of material things by bookending the day with Black Friday. All of it justified by the ruse that we’re supposedly practicing gratitude and the whole thing is somehow patriotic.”

  I groan. I should have spent a little more time relishing the way she said my name before opening myself up to one of her hippie tirades.

  “I happen to love Thanksgiving.”

  “This does not surprise me in the least. You’re a white kid who plays football, born and bred in Texas—this holiday has Cooper Lowry written all over it. But what’s your point?”

  From my vantage point on the deck, car horns blare, people call out to each other, and the light rail rumbles past. All this noise means that if I don’t find a way to decompress, I’m going to lose my mind. What I need more than anything is Whitney. Her easy way, her honesty, her body. Here’s hoping that she’ll take me in for a few days; otherwise I’m bound to end up on Aaron and Kendra’s doorstep, holding a casserole dish of mashed potatoes and misery.

  “If you aren’t doing anything, I was thinking about coming down to your place so we could spend the holiday together. I’ll make dinner, all the traditional stuff, but you can feel free to point out all the injustices associated with cranberry sauce or whatever. You up for that?”

  She doesn’t immediately answer and my heart lurches into my throat. “Give me this,” I want to say. “I might be a worthless mess right now, but please, just give me this.”

  “Are you sure?” She chooses her next words carefully. “Your family would probably be good for you right now. Wouldn’t it be nice to have them around for support? You should be wherever you’ll find some peace, with people you can trust. You need that, Cooper.”

  I wait for her to finish, hoping my voice won’t betray me.

  “Exactly. Now let’s talk pie. Are you a pecan pie or pumpkin pie kind of girl?”

   17

  (Whitney)

  Some might argue that I should have done more to encourage Cooper to go home for Thanksgiving. They might be right.

  Maybe I should have sent him home to his mother, who is probably the kind of woman who bakes the world’s best cookies, makes a proper bed with hospital corners, and knows everything about assorted injuries—from cuts and scrapes to broken bones and hearts. All I have to offer is a nearly empty first aid kit in the bathroom, one dust-covered bottle of peroxide, and a variety of essential oils with medicinal properties. That’s a complete inventory of my nursemaid tools.

  But I’m selfish, it seems. He wanted to be here and I wanted the same. Thanksgiving or not, good idea or not, I didn’t care enough about doing the “right” thing to tell him no.

  Also, he’s bringing pie.

  Cooper’s truck pulls into the driveway, announced by the rumble of that powerful diesel engine. Despite thinking that a truck doesn’t need to be that loud, I have to remind myself not to run out onto the porch, to keep my wits intact, and I issue instructions to my fluttery belly that I’m going to count to ten before I saunter out there to greet him.

  Ten seconds feels like an hour. I take a deep breath. At some point, I’m bound to stop feeling this way. I hope so, because this has to be bad for my nervous system, all the heart palpitations and shortness of breath.

  When I let the storm door thwack shut behind me, Cooper is still in his truck,
glaring at something on the dash display. The engine finally shuts off and the driver door swings open. His left leg comes into view, encased in a complicated Frankenstein-looking knee brace over the black track pants he’s wearing. No ACE-brand bandages for pro football players, I guess. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a situation where my arnica oil is going to be of any use.

  Once he manages to extract the rest of his body from the truck, he looks up and sees me. Relief covers his face—a tired, beaten-down, head-hurting kind of relief. And, if I’m even one tiny part of granting him that, I’m good with it.

  Cooper doesn’t move, just looks my way, waiting. When I raise one hand and give a small wave, he smiles and more relief spreads across his features.

  To hell with it. I waited the ten seconds, didn’t run onto the driveway like a loon, or squeal. I’ve earned the right to hop down off the porch and scamper my way over there. He’s dressed for the cold snap that hit the state last night, clad in a heavy coat layered over a hooded sweatshirt, the hood up and a beanie underneath that. I lurch to a stop in front of him and falter.

  Last night, I crawled under my cold bedsheets and counted the number of hours until he would be here. Now that he is, I can’t figure out what to do first.

  Cooper decides for me. His warm hands press to my face, cupping my cold cheeks.

  “Jesus, Whit. I had no idea I was capable of missing someone like this. Come here.”

  His mouth hovers above mine and I have to lean up to get what I want. One faltering kiss follows. We pause, trying to determine what just happened, to decide if we’ve already lost something between us. But when he slants his mouth over mine, giving it another go, doubt disappears and we’re back to what we had. His tongue flicking against mine, between playful nips to my lower lip. My hands are everywhere, across his chest, starting to snake up his layers of clothing, until suddenly I’m off balance, swaying in place.