“Jesus, work me loose a little.”
“No, I like you tight,” Terry says. He jerks my arms higher, holding my wrists with one huge hand, and yanks my hips back. Bent over awkwardly, I feel the weight of his hand on the small of my back, fixing the angle so he can fuck me better.
My hair hangs in my face. I drop my head to keep from bashing it into the wall. Terry’s pissed now and he’s fucking me harder than usual. I can take a hard dicking, but I despise the feel of his hands around my wrists. The sick sensation returns. My dick’s hard, demanding attention, and I reclaim my hand from Terry’s. The first stroke of my cock feels so good. Almost as good as being fucked in the ass. Jacking off helps to dispel the ugly feeling in my gut.
The sounds of the big man grunting behind me, hands bruising my hips, and the wild slap of our bodies electrifies me. I’m barely holding myself up. One hand flat on the tiles, the other jacking hard on my cock, and the only reason I’m still standing’s Terry Branson, my general. My quarterback. God, I gotta quit fucking football players. Only they can fuck me hard enough. Fuck me like men tend to do, rough and out of control. They can lose themselves with me. The ones who think they’re straight are better. They’re angry at being attracted to a man. The anger brings out the violence.
“Fuck, Terry.”
“Shut your mouth, McCoy. What’d I tell you?” He damn near growls the words. Right, I forgot. Branson slams me into the wall, his fist in my hair, and he plows through me.
For a second, I think we’re going through the wall, and then he tightens up. He explodes in my ass. Too fucking deep. Too fucking soon. He always comes so much. The thought of him filling me makes me nut all over the wall. I’m still coming when he pulls out, semen trailing down my thighs, and another orgasm hits me. I sag against the wall catching my breath. Cum smears my fingers.
The antiseptic smell of the bathroom mingles with the scent of sex and fills my nose. A memory surfaces. A reminiscence I try to ignore. I don’t want to think of the man responsible for that particular recollection ever again. I can’t even think his name, let alone say it, but I can’t deny he made me into what I am today: a sex-starved fag. I hate him.
Branson’s phone rings. His pants are still down around his thighs, and he’s wiping off his semihard dick with tissue while he tries to answer the call.
“Hi, honey! You’re in? Great, that’s fantastic, baby.” Terry motions for me to get down and lick him clean. I flip him off with my cum-covered fingers. He frowns. He’s not used to my resistance, but I’m getting sick of his macho bullshit. I may be gay, but he’s not going to fucking treat me like his wife or a whore.
“No, you don’t need to get a taxi. There’s a car waiting for you guys. Okay, love you. See you when you get here.” He disconnects the call. “Fuck, I gotta get upstairs and wash the smell of you off me.”
“You’re such a fucking romantic,” I say.
“This isn’t romance. It’s fucking.”
“We’re exclusive.”
“Only so I can dump into your ass without a condom.”
“Nice. Thanks, man.”
“Don’t get fucking attached to me.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, pulling up my jeans, buttoning them.
“Look, you’re fun to fuck, and you’re a phenomenal receiver.”
“You talking on the field or in a bathroom stall?”
“Both. Listen, I can’t do this again.” His body language shifts. He crosses his arms.
Instinctively, I know it has nothing to do with his wife. The man doesn’t feel remorse about cheating. In another life, I think he may have been a sociopath with the way lies just trip from his tongue whenever his wife asks about his day. Especially if we’ve fucked. Hell, I feel more remorse than he does. I like his wife. Branson only has a few tells, and I don’t think she’s aware of any of them.
“Wait a minute, are you trying to tell me you don’t want to fuck anymore?” Why am I surprised? This is totally like Branson to fuck me first and then dump me. Just didn’t think it’d ever happen. Strangely, I thought this would be our lives for a while. Fine with being his secret and not jealous of his wife in the least.
“There’s a guy on the practice squad. He’s enthusiastic.” Terry stares at my nose, not making eye contact.
“You’ve been fucking around? We had an arrangement. Fuck! I wouldn’t let you bareback—”
“We haven’t done anything yet. You know me. There’s testing to be done first, but I was thinking you could—”
“No, we can’t. I’m not letting you and your new fuck buddy pull a train on me.”
“You do realize, a few well-placed words and this whole fucking team pulls a train on you. Even Gino because he won’t want to be in your position.”
“Are you threatening me with a team gangbang?” I can’t help but laugh. There’s no way any of my team would stoop to such a crass level.
“I’m just saying you should think everything through before you say no.”
“Fuck you, Branson. We’re done.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, McCoy? Life in the locker room could go back to being hell, faggot.”
The idea of things returning to what they were like my rookie year hits me in the stomach. The beatings I took before every game I could handle. Our defensive captain, a guy by the name of Anderson, has always hated me. He had a couple of D-backs pin me down one day before practice while he put makeup on me, drawing “faggot” across my forehead in eyeliner. Another day it was “whore,” the next “slut.” Time came when I was ready to fight every day at workouts. I was fighting so much I almost got cut from the team, and then Branson stepped in to put a stop to it all. He took me under his wing. Became my friend. Then he propositioned me. Said he could make the guys stop if I started sleeping with him. Told me it would open me up as a player, give me more room to practice, instead of fighting all the time. Once I said yes, the harassment stopped. Sure as shit, my game improved, and I blossomed as one of the elite receivers in the game.
The hostility still lurks beneath the surface, but I’ve got to have some pride. I know I’m on a team that still hates me. The receivers don’t like all the touches I get, but when Branson wants to throw the ball my way, what can a guy do? All I want is to play football. Does that mean I have to whore myself out to Branson for the rest of my career? Maybe. The real problem is this fucking lust. The urges that fuck everything up. Kept me fucking Terry Branson for years now.
“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with the team,” I say.
“Suit yourself. At least you got a ring out of this deal.”
“If it weren’t for me being able to go after your old-man throws, you wouldn’t have another one.”
Branson scowls, yanks open the stall door, and strides across the marble floor. The bathroom door swings shut behind him, a slow movement followed by a soft click. At the sink, I stare at my reflection as the warm water washes away my cum. The scent still surrounds me. A stall door opens behind me. Anderson fills the frame. He’s as wide as the door and almost as tall as Branson. The man stares at me. The bottom has just dropped out of my world. Anderson is the last goddamned person I need knowing about Branson and me.
“You done?” Anderson asks, his voice cool and dangerous. He captures my gaze in the mirror. This man tormented me my rookie year and then some. Almost a year and a half out of college before the bastard would let me be. The threat Branson hit me with tonight is a dream come true for Anderson, and I can tell the prick heard it all.
“What?”
“You done being Branson’s fuck toy?” he demanded.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” With a sharp move, I reach for a towel, keeping Anderson in my periphery as I dry my hands. When I move to go, he intercepts me, but I twist away from his reach. I know how to avoid defensive players. I beat Anderson enough on the practice field.
Out the door, I leave Anderson behind me and head
for my room. I’m done celebrating.
* * * *
Two Days Later
The Pirates Practice Facility
The locker room’s full. The celebration parade has just ended, and we all meet up back here. Coach wants to talk to us. As I near the door, I can hear Anderson’s voice. The other guys are amped up. They sound sort of like villagers getting ready to burn Frankenstein’s monster. Self-preservation makes me listen before entering the room.
“So he was getting fucked by some dude in the bathroom,” says Anderson.
“Who was?” Thomas asks.
“McCoy.”
“And you’re surprised? I thought we all knew he was gay? Didn’t we?”
“We never knew for sure. Now I know he’s a pillow-biter. Christ, I heard him begging for it rough.”
“Who was giving it to him?” someone else asks, but I can’t make out who’s speaking.
I peer around the doorway. A circle of guys surround Anderson. Gino sits at his locker, quiet but stressed. He keeps glancing at Anderson. Probably to make sure Anderson doesn’t swing his attention toward the kicking team’s side of the room. Branson, by his locker, stares at Anderson. He meets Anderson’s gaze with unflinching confidence.
Anderson buckles. “I didn’t see the guy. I think it was one of those pretty-boy waiters.”
“Maybe Jackson was giving it to him,” says Patterson with a big grin.
“You sick fuck.” Anderson swipes at him, but Patterson’s quick and smug. He laughs as he dances out of Anderson’s way. They’ve gotten into it before, and somehow the rangy kicker always seems to come out on top. Anderson’s been in the shit for fighting and backs off.
I have to say, this is the most hostile locker room I’ve ever seen, and I wonder if all pro-league locker rooms are this antagonistic. High school wasn’t even this bad, and my college team was just that, a team. They didn’t give a shit about my sexual preference.
“I just don’t think we need another faggot on the team. I mean, Gino’s all right because he’s a punter. What do you expect?”
Now I’ve heard enough. “Anderson, you fucking prick.” I cross the room so fast my hair flies out of the loose tie holding it back. I reach him as he turns around, clocking him across his mouth. The diamond-encrusted gold grill covering his upper teeth clatters to the floor.
Damn, the fucker’s solid. Anderson goes down, dragging me with him, his fingers twisting in my shirt. His fist slams into my face, and I realize he’s recovered from his shock enough to fight back. Fight or flight? There’s no fucking way I’m letting him up. I gotta keep hitting him and rolling with his punches. The blood flies from his face. Ground and pound. His legs swing up, trying to dislodge me, but I’m smaller, harder to get a hold of as I slide from his grip and stay in his face. The crack of his nose under my elbow spurs me on, and I hit him until all I see is swollen features. Blood streaks his black skin, a dark smear that spreads from his nose to his mouth, staining his teeth red.
Anderson grabs me in a desperate hug and maneuvers his body to flip on top of me, landing between my legs. His blood drips onto my face, getting in my eyes, and I can’t see him. The bastard punches me so hard my universe spins. I gasp in a shallow breath, coughing as his hands circle my throat, choking me. Fuck him. He’s not getting me this easily. I twist my hips, sliding my leg under him so both of them are on one side, and I buck him off. I’m slick with blood and sweat. I’m small, with a high school wrestling trophy to prove how hard I am to keep down. I get him in a rear naked choke and force him to the ground with my legs wrapping up his thighs.
Big hands lift me off of Anderson. Hands are everywhere, like a dog pile on the field. Someone’s yelling. It’s Coach. Branson has me in his grip. He whispers in my ear, “You’re done. You know that, McCoy?”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” I say, wiping the blood from my face with a bloody palm. Well, that didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.
“Get cleaned up! I want you in my office in twenty minutes!” Coach spins on his heels, leaving me to deal with my own mess, but hollers as he exits the room, “The both of you! Branson, come with me.”
My clothing’s torn. My body’s sore. Bruises make my skin tender. The ache reminds me of a few nights with Branson. I grab some sweats and a towel from my locker, fighting through the rock-solid wall of my teammates who want to make it hard for me to move.
My fingers tremble as I struggle with the buttons of my mangled shirt. A clammy sweat breaks out all over my body. Adrenaline still courses through me. My lungs fill with ragged gasps of air. Like I can’t breathe even as I’m sucking in lungful after lungful. The tightness in my chest feels like a heart attack. The long line of porcelain-tiled showers stretches out in a distorted jumble in my mind. They loom larger in my panic than in reality. They’re just showers, I tell myself. Nothing will happen. Just get in and get out. You don’t want Anderson’s blood on you. I strip fast and get under the spray, not wanting to be so vulnerable for long. I’m almost done when a few naked men wander into the shower. None of them need it. They didn’t get bloody, and Anderson’s with them. I switch off the shower to get dry.
A guy stops me with a big hand on my chest. Michelson’s his name. “Where you going?” They’re all linebackers. Anderson’s buddies. Except for Michelson. He’s the nose tackle. “You got twenty minutes.”
My face’s swollen already. How much more damage do they want to inflict? I hope these guys are just on intimidation detail and not up to any real fist throwing. Michelson pushes me into the shower wall. The cold, wet tile at my back pricks up memories. It’s imperative I get the fuck out of here now. I juke around him into the solid, naked body of another linebacker, who picks me up as if we’re on the field. My mind churns over the possibilities. No way they’re gonna do what I think they’re gonna do, right? These are straight guys. Branson had to be talking out his ass.
“Come on, McCoy. I thought you liked this shit,” Michelson says.
Another man comes up behind me as I twist in Michelson’s grip. He takes my writhing body so his buddy can have a clean shot. Anderson’s across the room, watching, but he turns away when one of the guys punches my sac. I cough and curl in on myself, but I don’t hit the floor. They don’t let me, not yet. Someone wags his limp cock in my face, and I try to bite him. His buddies laugh.
“Sick fag!” He punches the back of my head. The universe fades for a second and comes back. I don’t think I lost any time.
Branson barks an order from somewhere in the distance, and I’m dropped to the floor, heaving up my lunch. The raunchy bile chases away the men. My eyes swell shut. The room is quiet now. The only sound is the water trickling through the drain, dredging up awful memories to mingle with my current pain and the echo of my retching.
All the men are gone. Their laughter in the distance reminds me of pack animals hunting. I jerk as big hands clamp down on my upper arms. The familiar fingers squeeze tight around my biceps, picking me up, and I smell expensive cologne.
“You’re being traded,” Branson says, not much emotion in his voice. A simple statement, but he touches my face with a dry towel, blotting at what feels like blood.
“Anderson?”
“Four-game suspension, probably. Next season.”
“You mean the four preseason games.”
“Yeah. Fuck, didn’t I tell you it was going to be bad?”
“They leave Gino alone.”
“He’s the punter. They expect him to be gay, but not you. Not the number one receiver.”
“Anderson knows it’s you.”
“He knows my predilections. We have an agreement. We’re both good for the team. We win. We make plays happen. He scores on defense. I score on offense. It’s about the game.”
“I don’t get it. I’ve spent years slugging it out for this organization, and I get traded for a fistfight?”
“The trade was my idea.”
“What? Why?”
“The guys are only going
to get worse. You remember what it was like before. I can’t watch that happen. The behavior will disrupt my team unity.”
Team unity? I guess I can understand team unity. For a moment, I almost let myself think Branson has feelings for me, and maybe he worked on my behalf in some bid of compassion. No, it’s team unity. This is all about next year. The next championship. I get that, and I’m right there with him. What I don’t understand is how Anderson gets a slap on the wrist while I get beaten and traded? I’m the number one receiver in the league.
“Traded where? What team?”
“It’s not official yet. Coach and GM are still making calls—”
“Where?” I scream, losing my last bit of cool.
“Highlanders.”
Chapter Three
1st and 10 Charity Football Camp
Irus Beaumont
The sun shines brilliantly for a spring day in the Pacific Northwest. The warmth is surprising but welcome. The natural grass sparkles as bright and beautiful as a well-manicured golf course. The field’s just waiting to be torn up by a bunch of football-playing foster kids. I’m a little nervous. Not sure what to expect since I’ve never done one of these events. Coach Daily said I’d have a lot of fun, and the kids are great. So here I am.
“Irus, my man! How you been?” A portly black man named Walter advances on me, his cultured Southern accent out of place in the northwestern environment.
“Not too bad,” I say.
“Tough watchin’ those Pirates steal that championship, eh?” Smooth. Dig where it hurts, Walt. Yeah, we all know Walter Park. He’s been around football for a lot of years. No one takes offense at his blunt remarks. The man tells it like it is and sometimes brutally. Today he’s being kind. Sort of.
“Well, you know how it is, shit continues to happen,” I say. “We’ll get ’em next season.”
Walter is a big former defensive lineman. When I say he’s big, I mean he’s gotten larger than when he was playing. I make the mistake of offering to shake the man’s hand. Two sweaty slabs of meat engulf my lone hand. He pumps wildly and leaves me feeling like I’ve got rhino cum all over my palm. When he’s not looking, I swipe my hands down the side of my sweatpants.
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