Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  “You got it, Coach.”

  Coach smacks my upper arm with his clipboard. “Welcome home, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alex shakes my hand when they leave. “Boy, am I glad you’re here.”

  I can hear the sound of a player taking some punishment and grateful for a relief pitcher. “Glad to hear it. Never know how you’re gonna be welcomed in a new locker room.”

  “Shit, I know my limits. I’m just not that number one guy, you know?”

  “You’re just off your rookie season, yeah?”

  “Yep. I know what you’re going to say. With a little bit of training, I’ll be the man,” Haines says, nodding his head as though he’s heard it all before.

  “Well, we’ll work on your confidence issues later, okay?”

  Haines gives me a look. Hit that nail on the head. This guy’s just waiting for someone to tell him he sucks. I’ve known what his problem’s been for a while. I can tell the guys who are determined their first year out, like Haines. Lack of confidence in his rookie season fucked with his game. Is fucking with his game. Haines sat his actual rookie year on the practice squad. He came in the game around week fourteen. An injury forced them to pull him up to starter. So technically, he’s still a rook.

  We come to the entrance to the locker room. I can hear a group of guys freestyle rapping with a background of cheering and jeering. There’s a lot of laughter. I reach the doorway and stop. Haines is behind me, waiting patiently, and it says a lot about the guy. Shows tolerance. He doesn’t want to shove me into a room without giving me a chance to get my bearings. I appreciate the gesture.

  The rapping stops amid good-natured ribbing. Big defensive backs jostle and wrestle around the room. The quarterback’s at his locker, studying a notebook full of plays and making notes. His locker behind him is a classic shrine to anal-retentive order. Pens of all colors and types are neat inside black metal holders. Organized by style and use. Little black caddies keep his locker as tidy as a CEO’s desktop. Charts and meal planners are fastidiously taped to the walls of his cubby. Pads stowed just so, on his upper shelf, and a Highlanders sweatshirt is centered perfectly on a black plastic hanger. On the back wall of his cubby is one of those inspirational cat posters. A fluffy kitten hangs at the end of a branch. The caption reads: Hang In There Little Guy. I can relate. Like me, their QB is small in stature, but makes big plays.

  Beaumont is in the middle of some sort of contest with a teammate to see who can either talk the fastest or most ghetto. I’m not sure, but it ends in them laughing their asses off. Everywhere I look, people either have headphones on or are jockeying with their respective teammates. The receiving corps is full of the long, lean, quiet types. A tight end walks by in a towel. A big, handsome white guy with huge hands. Freckles scatter his forearms. He gives me the chin nod.

  “What’s up? Hey, Haines.”

  The man moves on like I’m not out of place. I’ve never seen a locker room so…utopian? Well, that’s about to change once Beaumont catches sight of me. I step into the room. Haines takes the lead, heading over to the other wideouts.

  “Hey, guys. You know Jackson McCoy. This here’s Thomas Rhodes our number two receiver and Matt Brewster. He’s running the slot right now. With you here all this shit’s going to get more fluid, I’m guessing.”

  I feel like the old guy here at twenty-six. These guys are babies. Barely any broken noses. Give it time. Highlanders are an expansion team with only two seasons under their collective belt. The roster is a mix of late-round draft picks, rookie and seasoned free agents, and few star veterans sniped from teams around the league during the expansion. Their strong safety, Ray Eldridge, was picked from the Tigers, who went on to win the championship that year. Guy never got the ring he so deserved.

  “Nice to meet you all.”

  “How you liking this place so far?” Brewster asks.

  “It’s a nice facility. Real friendly folks.”

  Rhodes eyes me with what is the closest thing to hostility I’ve seen so far here, a slight standoffishness. No real commitment to aggression. I’m guessing that’ll come from the D-backs. From Irus Beaumont, who hasn’t noticed me yet. My trade hasn’t made the news. Real hush-hush right now. Doesn’t seem like too many folks were aware I was coming in today. Well, with the exception of Coach Bryant and his assistant, Tony.

  “You can put your stuff in the mobile home for now,” says Rhodes.

  Nice hint at the pecking order, putting me in the metal lockers in the middle of the room, where the guys waiting to move up to the starters’ lockers keep their shit. Mostly, they’re waiting to be cut. That’s why they’re called mobile homes. You and the lockers can be relocated quite efficiently. I don’t mind. It’s a business. I learned that from the Pirates. No surprises now.

  “Hey!” Irus Beaumont comes at me from the other end of the room. His stride long and determined. “What’re you doin’ here?” Why the hell does he sound indignant?

  “Traded,” I say, dropping my gear in the nearest empty mobile home.

  Beaumont laughs, sort of maniacal like, and he jerks his head around to look at his buddies, his dreads whirling. He’s shirtless. Dark tattoos crawl along his dusky skin. Sweatpants slip low, and I can see the band of his jock. Black in contrast to his gray sweats. The first pang of attraction hits me. I stuff it down. Lust doesn’t belong here. Look what happened with Branson: even though he pursued me, it still wound up bad. I’m just lonely.

  Linebackers are moving in to see what the commotion’s all about, and I brace myself for what may come. Shit, I just started breathing decently through my nose again. Oh well, a broken nose gives a face character.

  “No, man. What’re you doin’ here? Here!” Beaumont places the emphasis as if I need to explain myself further. I thought a trade was pretty obvious.

  “Not shying away from conflict,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Highlanders picked me up in a trade.”

  “Did you know this when we were at the charity event?” Irus asks. No, more like he demands I answer his question.

  Shit. Do I lie? I think of Branson, leaving my bed that night, not saying much in the way of good-bye. His dick did all the talking. Now Irus is in my face, wanting to know if I can be trusted. The fact I lied to myself so easily, telling Branson we were over and allowing him back in my bed, proves I can’t even trust me.

  Just one last time, I said to myself. Doesn’t mean a thing. Even the white lie didn’t mean anything to me, but would this one mean something to the man in front of me? Do I care? The day we spent with the kids was fun. I enjoyed Beaumont’s company. Now he wants me to tell the truth, and I feel like the knowledge will tarnish the delicate good will between us.

  “The ink wasn’t dry. I couldn’t talk about it yet. Coach’s gonna confirm in a press conference tonight.”

  “But Branson knew?”

  “Yeah, he knew.”

  Beaumont looks at me like I’ve got two heads. His wheels are cranking into overdrive. Dark brows angle into a scowl. He shakes his head. I can almost hear his disbelief despite his silence. Irus Beaumont’s not happy that I’m in his locker room. I’m not sure what the feeling is inside of me. The truth in the knowledge creates a stir in my gut. Nerves. Just fucking nerves.

  “You didn’t say anything.” His tone is accusing, like a jealous boyfriend pinning his lover down in a heinous lie.

  “Whatcha want me to say, Iris? I’m sorry I didn’t discuss my recent career moves with you? I didn’t realize we’d become that close, man.”

  “Don’t you call me Iris, boy! Don’t you disrespect me like that in my locker room! You’re just poor white trash livin’ in a mobile home.”

  A big, square-shouldered black guy reaches for Beaumont’s arm. Ray Eldridge. Their monster safety. “Come on, Beau-mont. Let it go, man. We all be on the same team now, right?”

  “No. You don’t get it. This guy didn’t have the balls to tell me he’s coming our
way. Not like I didn’t just see his ass.”

  I step into his space, taking on an offensive posture just to rattle his already ringing cage some more. It’ll either back him off or bring this shit to a head.

  “I didn’t think spending the day with a group of troubled children was the appropriate venue for spilling my guts about getting traded by my team, Iris. Go get on your island. Be the center of your world over there, and get out of my grill.”

  Beaumont’s nostrils flare. His dusky lips peel away from gleaming white teeth bared in a show of primal aggression. I think I’ve gotten under his skin. Eldridge has Irus in a death grip. The black skin across Beaumont’s biceps blanches where Eldridge’s fingers dig in tighter with every passing second, waiting for the lunge we all expect to happen.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me. Don’t even look my way, boy. You’ll regret this for sure. It ain’t done between us, McCoy. It ain’t done.”

  Eldridge pulls him away, back down to their bank of lockers, but Irus still gives me the look of death.

  “Always nice to make new friends,” I say to Haines. He’s so pale he almost looks white. “Are you all right, Haines?”

  “Man, you’re either stupid, or you got some huge fucking balls.”

  With a shrug, I say, “I’d like to think I’ve got the sac to back up whatever I do in life.”

  For a second, he actually looks at me like I’ve got something to offer him. I can’t wait to get on the field. I’ve some ideas to help the kid improve. “Well, should I change so we can hit the field?”

  Haines hops around like a big kid with way too much energy and sticks his hand out. “Sure thing, boss.”

  What he says stalls me, and I give him my dubious face.

  “Oh, no, sorry. I didn’t mean it like—shit! Sorry, sir. Mister McCoy. I mean—you’re a legend!”

  “Well, well, you’ve called me everything but Master. Why don’t you try Jackson, or Jacks? I’ll answer to either of those names. Just don’t call me Jackass. That, my friend, gets old.”

  He laughs, relaxing a little bit, and I begin to strip. At least helping the kid will give me something to do. Not like I’ll be fucking Branson anytime soon. With my lack of a social life, I can dedicate more time to my game play and mentoring Haines. The kid has a nice, open expression. There are questions in his eyes. The way he keeps glancing at me, like he’s dying to say something, is humorous.

  “Go ahead. Ask me.” Grasping the collar of my undershirt, I rip it over my head.

  “What’s it like holding that trophy?”

  “Do you remember what it felt like the first time you jacked off, and you didn’t think anything was gonna be more fun? Holding the trophy was more fun.”

  * * * *

  Bennett Johnson, the receivers coach and legendary wideout, pulls me aside after practice. The man doesn’t say a word. Just has me follow him back to his office. Once the door is closed, he says, “How you doing, kid?”

  “Not too bad. Liking the feel of practice.”

  “I know how a trade can be, especially when you’ve spent years playing for one team.”

  “I’m okay, Coach.” How do I stand here in front of this guy I’ve admired since I was a kid and spill out the tumultuous feelings I have over being traded? Betrayed by Terry Branson. My former lover. I can hardly bear the compassion in this man’s eyes.

  “I tell all my guys, if you ever need to talk, my door’s open,” he says.

  “I got it, Coach. I’ll be good.”

  “You are a rare find, McCoy. You know that, right? I’ve seen receivers struggle. You make this shit look easy. I was a wideout once. You know that, and I never made this look as easy as you do. You should be proud, son. Practice was productive. You stepped right up into the scheme.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you remember meeting me?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.” The guy is such a legend. Even if I didn’t remember meeting him during the combine, I think I’d have lied so he wouldn’t feel bad.

  “I don’t know how so many passed on you. Invited to the combine and then left undrafted? Ain’t right. If the Highlanders had been around back then, you’d have been a first rounder.”

  “Thank you, Coach Johnson.”

  “I’ve already told you my guys call me Bennett. First-name basis always. Coach if you feel uncomfortable with the first name. I like my guys to trust me. Bonding is just as important, but remember, I’ll still bust your balls.”

  “Right, Coach Bennett.”

  The man seems pleased I’ve climbed on board the first-name wagon. He claps a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Jackson, we’re gonna kill ’em this season. You’re unstoppable. Mal’s a great quarterback in the making. Both you short guys will be hard to beat. No one thinks Mal will be any good. We already know you’re a dangerous receiver. Explosive off the line. They won’t expect Mal to connect with you so well. You got gold in your heart, kid.”

  Wow! High praise from someone who holds the record for the most career receiving touchdowns. The Highlanders are lucky to have him. Coach is friendly. Out on the field, he was joking with the guys, and I’m falling in love with his hippie-dippie style. So new and refreshing compared to the crushing grind of the Pirates practices.

  Music filtered out on the field, and guys were dancing around. Some old school rock and roll, mixed with R&B, hip-hop, and rap. “So what’s with the music?” I ask. “Is that every practice or is this a special day?”

  “That’s Coach Daily’s baby. Man thinks the players practice better when they’re relaxed.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. We still compete. No one is a sure thing in this organization. Everyone competes for their jobs. You’ll be no different. So don’t go thinking we’re soft on you, McCoy. Even if we do like you.”

  * * * *

  Three Weeks Later, Post Practice

  Highlanders’ Locker Room

  Fuck, I’m sore. Pulling my practice gear off at my locker, I wince, feeling my side scream in protest. My body wants me to simply lie down and not move. Damn, Irus hits hard. Harder when antagonized, that’s for sure, but he hadn’t slammed me like this at the charity event. Jesus no, that shit felt like foreplay compared to the hits I’ve been taking for the last three weeks.

  The latest bruise must be widening. My whole left side is on fire. I peel off my undershirt. The bruise, already darkening, is stark against my pale skin. I breathe in deep. There’s a hitch in my movement. A hiss escapes my teeth against my will. Manhandled by Irus Beaumont. Son of a bitch. Why does this shit turn me on? Tuck that away, Jacks. No, I need to get pissed over this shit.

  Granted, the Highlanders were fined three hundred thousand dollars the previous season for having full-contact practices. Coach Bryant doesn’t take unnecessary risks with us.

  “You do realize we’re on the same team, Iris?” I ask, the snark bleeding through like the bruise beneath my skin.

  “Fuck you, Golden Boy. I’ve had enough of your shit.”

  Irus tackles me from across the locker room. Man, the second hit of the day where this asshole takes me off my feet and three yards back, I swear. I’m ready for him this time, taking him to the ground, rolling over him, all knees and elbows. Irus grunts, swearing in guttural spurts as we wrestle.

  This guy is really trying to hurt me. A lot of anger must’ve built up since postseason. Or is this something different? Beaumont’s anger hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You think he’d be over it by now. I was faster. I still am. Today I beat him off the line consistently, pissing him off.

  “When your emotions are in control on the field,” I said, “then you’re out of control, man.”

  Something I learned the hard way my rookie season. I tried to tell Beaumont. He refused my sage advice.

  Damn. Once again, I find myself in a ground and pound situation in a locker room. To think that I thought of this place as utopian. Beaumont’s the only one with a proble
m, though. I’ve got to figure out how to solve this dilemma.

  His knee smacks my inner thigh. Another bruise, I’m sure. I wonder if sex with him would leave as many bruises. “Ow. Too close to the fucking jewels, man!” I holler.

  “Fuck you.” He grunts.

  “So literate,” I whisper in his ear as I wrap my legs around him, trying to gain an advantage in leverage. My thighs squeeze him against me, pulling him inside the arc of any punch he might throw, taking him off balance.

  Irus redoubles his efforts and I have difficulty holding him. There’s real rage in his eyes. His dark skin is slick, sweaty from practice, and he smells of grass and dirt. A heady mix. I feel him swelling. His dick grows hard as aggression morphs into arousal. My body contemplates the urge to grind against him, so curious to find out what an angry fuck from Irus Beaumont would feel like, but my mind resists. Self-preservation holds my lust in check. Football players are my weakness. Especially the aggressive ones.

  The guys pull him off. He’s only in his jock, thick and barely contained, nappy curls sweet-talking their way up his black skin. A gleaming head of circumcised cock pokes from his waistband, so dark against the white fabric. My heart stutters. Jesus, I know I’m weak, but damn it.

  I jump up, throwing my arms around him, covering his body so no one sees his hard-on. I bury my hand in his tangle of dreads, holding him still. A fist hits my thigh. Heavy panting fills my ear. I’ve a wild animal in my grasp, and I pray no one is savvy to what’s going on between us right now. Or what’s crushed between us.

  “It’s all good,” I say to Eldridge. “We got this, man. Just gotta work shit out. Leave us alone.”

  Some of the guys move away, knowing how it is when two dudes are battling through some shit, stuff spilling over from the field. Eldridge watches from not far away. He’s ready to step in if he needs to. More for Beaumont’s sake than mine, I suspect.

  Up in his ear, I whisper, “You owe me, man.”

  “Fuck you,” he pants. His jaw clenches. The short curls along his jawline glisten with sweat. God, I want to lick it off. I let go but don’t move an inch. His breathing slows with each breath. There’s still hate in his eyes. “It’s all your fault.”