by Jesse Jordan
I nod, rubbing at my temples. “So what changes are you going to make?”
“Maybe on defense... I had high hopes for Lincoln after the preseason and that first game, but if this keeps up, I have to take a look at platooning guys in. He might just be nursing an injury he's not telling us about... but I think most of it's in his head. Kid's got something on his mind.”
“Kid?” I ask, laughing softly. “He's the same age as me, Red.”
“I know that... kid,” Red jokes. “I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
Red leaves, and I reflect on what he said. It chills me to the bone for some reason. Sure, I've been pissed at Lincoln for the way he damn near ran out of my apartment after fingerfucking me. Sure, I really, really, really was hoping he'd use that talented tongue on my clit... and that pissed me off. But I like him a hell of a lot more than I like Joe Crenshaw or any of the other guys on the team, and I'm cheering for him.
“That's it,” I say to myself, opening up my computer and clicking on the file explorer. “Might be breaking the rules, but I gotta find out if I'm what's on his mind.”
Going into the team's personnel files for reasons like this is... well, it's not illegal, but it is damn stupid. Not only am I throwing away any pretense of professionalism, I don't even know if he's going to be home tonight. He could be going out like a couple of the players do after every game, living it up and getting drunk off the nightlife the city offers. Sunday nights after games are just about the only night of the week the players can do it without risking getting fucked up in practice or games the next day... but something in every conversation I've had with Lincoln makes me think he's too professional for that. He's got a wild side, but he's a born football player. Getting down on the dance floor with some skank in a short skirt while sipping on Grey Goose just doesn't jive with what I know of him.
I find his address, and quickly put it into my phone. It's pretty far from the stadium, and I'm a little surprised to see the neighborhood. It's nowhere near the downtown places like mine. It's not a bad area at all, the sort of older suburb that's filled with smaller two bedroom houses that are either owned by young couples just getting started or older couples who don't need so much house any more.
“Doesn't matter,” I murmur, grabbing my purse and heading out to the parking lot where my Mercedes is waiting for me. “I have to get to the bottom of this.”
It takes me about a half hour to drive out to Lincoln's place, and the whole time my radio plays the local sports talk shows. Of course the dominant conversation is the Knights game, and it hurts me every time some caller wants to bitch about Lincoln. By the time I get there I'm worked up, and I have to admit I slam my door a little bit as I double check the address on my phone. It's a small house, maybe about thirty or forty years old, mostly brick but very tiny. If I had to guess, I'd say my apartment's bigger.
Doesn't matter now, I need to talk with him. There's a light on inside, and I see his Navigator parked in the driveway, so I walk up to the front door, knocking. “Lincoln?”
There's a thump from inside and I'm worried for a moment before I hear footsteps approaching, and the door opens. Lincoln's in just a t-shirt and some shorts, his face a mask of surprise. “Samantha... I didn't expect anyone tonight.”
“Can I come in?” I ask. “I mean, if you're busy....”
“No, no... please,” Lincoln says, stepping back and letting me come in. He closes the door behind me and I look around at his home. It's... simple. There's a rather comfy looking sofa with coffee table, a computer monitor sitting on top of it, a small two person dining room table that looks like it came from a Goodwill store... and not much else from what I can see. “Welcome to my humble home.”
“Humble is one way to put it,” I reply, raising an eyebrow. “So let me get this straight... you wear thousand dollar suits and have a hundred dollar living room set. What gives?”
Lincoln shrugs, smiling a little. “Living by an old rule that Dad drilled into me. He said too many guys, especially the high draft picks, they see all those zeroes on their first contracts and they go a little nuts. So they buy everything that they couldn't back when they were just getting by. Problem is, they load themselves up with so much damn debt, thinking that they'll always have that big money coming it. Too many ignore the information that the league drills into us during rookie meetings, the average career in pro ball is only five years. They think they'll be pulling million dollar contracts forever, when really most players are lucky to make it out with a million dollars for their entire career.”
“I've seen the stats... hell, I help take care of the wage garnishments for some of the team,” I reply, setting my purse down. “Your Dad taught you to live frugally.”
“Exactly,” Lincoln replies. “I don't know what this year's got in store for me, so I live on a third of my salary, save the rest. Even then, it's not like I can't live nicely. But I'm taking my time with this house, and I don't need a huge mansion or anything. I've got the Navigator because it's good for my size, and like I said, the clothes are because of one of my endorsement deals. The house is well equipped, the kitchen's nice, and I'm pretty comfortable money-wise. I've got eight million sitting in investments making six percent per annum, and that's before this year's contract.”
I nod, sitting down on his sofa, while Lincoln looks a little lost. Finally, he clears his throat. “Can I get you something? I was just making myself a post-game meal, nothing all that appetizing though. Protein shake and chicken tenders. The thump was me closing my oven door, it tends to bang a little.”
“I might take some tenders if you don't mind sharing,” I reply. It's my turn to feel strange as Lincoln nods and goes into the kitchen. I hear a thump again, then the sound of a powerful blender starting up. It goes on for a few seconds, then Lincoln comes back in with a whole blender cup in his massive hand. Strangely enough, it looks not that out of place, like a big beer stein would for a normal sized man... although what he's drinking sort of looks like pea soup. “Uh, can I ask?”
“Concentrated greens powder, vanilla flavored whey, glucosamine, fish oil... everything a growing body needs,” Lincoln says with a small grin. “Give me five minutes on the chicken, it's in the oven. I like to get this down before I eat real food, no need to pollute my dinner with this shit. So... what brings you by?”
“Your text... and today's game,” I reply, watching as Lincoln brings the cup to his lips, drinking deeply. His Adam's apple bobs as he drains a good four gulps from the blender, and when he lowers it I see he's gotten rid of at least half of it. “What happened?”
“Had a bad game, that's all,” Lincoln says, sitting down on the other end of the sofa. “They've got a tough blocking scheme.”
“Come off it, Lincoln... I watched you all through training camp, the preseason, and the past three weeks. Up until the day after our second date... well, I don't want to sound arrogant, but I feel like some of it is my fault.”
“Not your fault,” Lincoln replies, but while he's being honest, there's something in his voice that tells me it's still connected to that night. “All of this, all of what happened... I should have apologized earlier, Samantha. I didn't mean to freak out like that, and I'm sorry that I made you angry. I just... I have reasons.”
“Want to talk about them?” I ask. “Lincoln, I'm worried about you. Red came by my office after the game, the press conferences and all that wrapped up. He's looking at maybe reducing your playing time, rotating some fresh legs into the defensive line for Thursday.”
Lincoln takes another drink from his blender cup, nodding. “I'm not that surprised. I played like shit today.”
“You've played like shit for two weeks in a row... and the practices I've seen, you've been having a rough time in full contact too. Don't tell me it's an injury either, you look fucking perfect to me right now.”
The last bit comes out a bit differently than I'd planned, but it's true. In his t-shirt and shorts Lincoln's no suave playboy, but he's sti
ll sexy as hell, his hair slightly tangled up from his post-game shower and his chin dotted with a day's worth of stubble. But I'm more worried about Lincoln the man than Lincoln the sex object... even if part of me wants to find out about that, too.
Lincoln purses his lips, and drains the rest of his protein shake before getting up and leaving, going into his kitchen. I hear a dial turn and something make a grinding sound, and Lincoln comes out two minutes later with two bowls of chicken tenders, not cheap wannabe fried things but actual cut pieces of breasts. In his left hand he's got two bottles of Coke, one of which he hands me. “Figure you might as well eat while I explain myself... this could take awhile.”
“Thanks,” I reply, both touched at the food and that it seems Lincoln's letting me in. My biggest fear driving over here was that he was going to be some surly grunting savage, unwilling or unable to talk with me about anything. “Lincoln, what's going on? I'm not mad, I'm worried about you.”
“Not mad?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Sure about that?”
“Well...” I admit as I crack open the Coke, “okay. I was, but not now. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Lincoln nods, and runs a hand through his hair. “Samantha... I've got a problem. Don't worry, it's not drugs, or gambling, or anything like that. I've got... I've got a monster inside me.”
“A monster?” I ask incredulously. “What kind of monster?”
Lincoln sighs, and rubs his hands together. “From the time I was a little kid, I've always been bigger and stronger than most people my age. For most of my childhood my parents were able to keep it in check by having me play against older kids, sort of leveling the playing field. In high school though, once puberty got finished with its first wave on me all bets were off. My senior year... his name was Rashad, he was a running back for North Central High, one of our rivals. He cut out on a sweep, and I... I wasn't thinking, I just hit him as hard as I could when he planted.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, and Lincoln shivers. “Hurt?”
“He spent four days in the hospital with a broken collarbone,” I rasp. “I didn't mean to hurt him, Samantha. I didn't even get a penalty for the play, I just... he never played football again after that, from what I heard he lost all heart for the game. That was when I really knew the monster was inside me. So I went to college, and I saw more and more that I could still hurt people. I didn't want anyone else to end up like Rashad though, so I sort of....”
“You didn't go full out,” I fill in, and Lincoln nods. “So that's where your reputation as a workout warrior comes from. You take it all out on the weights because they can't get hurt.”
“Exactly,” Lincoln says. “Most of the time in college, I was able to ride that line pretty well. Then, my junior year we were playing against Virginia, they had a really mobile quarterback, Blake Munchak. You ever heard of him?”
“I think so,” I reply, thinking. “Yeah... about six or seven years ago I remember the name being in the papers for some reason. I forget why.”
“I broke his neck,” Lincoln says softly, and I drop the chicken tender I'm trying to pick up. He says it in such a flat, heartbroken way that I feel myself ache for him, and I reach over, setting a hand on his arm. “It was a blitz, our linebackers came from his right. Blake tried to scramble, and he was fast... god he was fast. I barely got a hand on him, but I planted and grabbed a second handful and just... tossed him backwards.”
Words fail him and he reaches under the coffee table, pulling out a wireless keyboard. With the push of a button the monitor on the table lights up, and Lincoln opens up a video file. I watch as Lincoln, with just his hands, lifts the quarterback in the air and literally throws him backwards over his head. Munchak goes flying through the air at least three yards... landing on the crown of his helmet. “Oh fuck.”
“He can walk,” Lincoln whispers, closing the file. “Last time he and I talked, he was in rehab. He'd gotten hooked on the opioids they prescribed him after the surgery. I... I paid for the rehab, but he wouldn't take anything else from me. He said I'd paid my debt to him, if there ever was one.”
“Lincoln, I get it, you're afraid of hurting someone again,” I reply, turning to him, my chicken forgotten, “but look at it. Two bad plays in how many years of playing football? Some people would just say you've had bad luck.”
“It's not just in football that I'm a monster,” Lincoln says. “I try to forget it, but when Coach Red called me Monster, and then... when we were together I nearly hurt you, too.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You... Lincoln, you don't play rough, do you?”
“God no!” Lincoln says, almost afraid. “Samantha, I'd never do anything to hurt you! God, to even think of me being rough on someone as beautiful as you... I'd rather be fucking celibate than hurt you.”
“So what is it?” I ask. “Lincoln, I get it if you're worried about football, but football was the last thing on your mind when you ran out of my place. What is it?”
Lincoln gulps, closing his eyes for a moment before burying his face in his hands for a moment and sighing. “I'm... I'm worried I'd hurt you.”
“How?”
Lincoln reaches down, cupping his crotch. “I'm bigger than most men. A lot bigger. And most women... they can't handle me. When I felt you Samantha, I was so aroused. Your body, it's perfect, you truly are the most beautiful woman I've ever met and just a single look from you makes my blood boil. When I was whispering those dirty things to you, I really wanted to do them. But then you called me monster too, and I remembered... the night after I hurt Blake, I was with my girlfriend at the time. We'd been dating a while, she thought she knew what she was getting into. She asked to get on top, and she said she wanted it just a little faster than normal. So instead of taking our normal time, using lubricant and all that... she just positioned me and dropped her whole body weight onto me. The scream she let out... she had to go to the hospital with vaginal trauma.”
I nod, thinking about it. It's intimidating, but at the same time I feel a dark thrill go through me. “So you were worried I wasn't going to be able to handle you?”
“No offense... I've seen Joe Crenshaw in the locker room. He's not exactly hung like I am.”
His simple admission makes me laugh, all the worries evaporating from inside me in an instant. “Is that what all this was about? You didn't want to hurt me?”
“Well... yeah, kinda,” Lincoln admits. “Samantha, this strength, this power, this monster... it's always going to be inside me. And I don't want it to hurt you, or hurt anyone.”
I nod, then look over at him, slapping him in the shoulder. “That's for being an idiot.”
Before he can respond I lean over, and kiss him hotly on the lips. “And that's for being sweet and considerate. You're right, Joe's not exactly big... but you are. And you were trying to be nice. But you made one serious mistake that I'm only going to let you get away with one time, and that's only because I like you.”
“What's that?” Lincoln asks, and I smile, cupping his face.
“You forgot that I'm just as college educated as you. I'm not some innocent, ignorant little girl who can't understand what it means to be with a big man. Yeah, I might be a little tight at first. Hell, your finger inside me felt like it was stretching me out. But you know what else? I've got a brain too, and patience. I remember what it felt like to be kissed by you, and the way you're maybe the most patient man I've ever brought into my bed. You turned just taking off my clothes into an erotic experience more satisfying than anything I've had in the past six months. And I've gotten tired of slam-bam-turn over and go to sleep. So if it takes us time... well, I'm willing to take my time. Because Lincoln, you're more than just a body and a cock. I like you. Get it? I. Like. You.”
Lincoln swallows, and looks into my eyes, almost shyly. “I like you too. A lot. But what if I do... you know, hurt you?”
“Then we'll handle it like adults,” I reply. “Now, as for our professional side and footba
ll... Lincoln, you have the potential inside you to be the most dominant player in the game today. I've seen it. I saw it in the weight room that first night we talked, when you were heaving around enough iron to make a small car look like a warmup. You could have snatched up the two hundred pounds I'd dropped in the squat rack with one hand. I've seen it as you played those first few games when you weren't worried about the monster... and hell yes, it's been flattering to think you were tearing those other teams apart because you wanted to go on a date with me. But Lincoln, you have to let go of your fear.”
“I'm... I've tried,” Lincoln says. “I spent a lot of the off season seeing a psychologist. It's why you see me walking the field the night before games if I can.”
I think about it, getting the principle of the mental exercise he's doing. “I understand. Now, you need to understand something else.”
“What's that?” Lincoln asks, and I lean in, kissing him again. I slide closer, climbing into his lap and straddling his thighs, letting our tongues tangle as he wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me closer, making me moan. “Fuck Samantha, what are you doing?”
“Giving you a reason to relax,” I tease, licking his earlobe. “Lincoln, here's what's going to happen. You're going to take me to your bedroom, and we're going to have sex. Tonight. And I'm going to rock your world so hard for three reasons. One, you owe me. Two, because I like you and because you like me, and because we want to. And three... because I want to keep rocking your world, and to do that, I want to see you at your full potential. I won't have a boyfriend, even one who is okay with us being on the down low, if he's afraid to be himself.”