There’s a man in motion in the backfield, running behind the offensive line, and the center snaps the ball. Jackson’s off the line fast. I bump him, trying to shake up his timing, when he slips by me like he’s covered in lube.
What the fuck?
I don’t need that image in my head.
I chase him downfield. He breaks. Cuts inside going back to the ball, catching Mal’s bullet pass. Fuck. I knock him down with two hands to his chest. The sound of the whistle stops the action.
“Irus, did you look for your keys? Any indication of a hook?” Coach Bryant asks.
“Yes, sir. I missed it. He didn’t stutter-step or do anything to adjust his timing for a deep throw, which meant the ball was coming fast—short-yardage pass, but he keyed right before the snap like he was going vertical.”
“So he faked you out?”
“I’m sneaky that way, Iris.” Jackson winks at me as Coach blows the whistle.
“Line up, men. Let’s go! We gotta game to win. Defense, you gotta stop us. Need more pressure on the quarterback, guys. Let’s build up the pass rush.”
The ball snaps. Jackson moves. I’m all over him. My hands smother him. I’m using my strength to keep his timing off. Past the five-yard mark, he sweeps around me, and I follow. Again Mal lets it fly toward Jackson. We’re up in the air. I’m gonna pick it, but the ball rockets through my hands. Jackson has it, already making his turn downfield inside the twenty. Dude’s in our red zone. I’ve got to punish him. Make him regret the completion. Remind him I’m here to stop him.
Eldridge is there, but Jackson breaks away before Els can touch him. The little guy’s fast. I shove Els outta my way. Jackson’s at the five-yard line when I hit him, bringing him down before he scores.
“You like this, Jackson? You like me punishing you? Fine, you got this shit all damn day, boy! All damn day.”
Jackson pops out his mouth guard and smiles. “I like it hard. If it ain’t hard, it ain’t worth doin’.” He winks at me jogging away to line up. Offense huddles quick. Lines up fast. We move to a goal-line defense. They’ll run the ball.
“Eagle’s coming,” I holler.
Jackson’s gaze swings from the ball to me and back. We’re lined up. No way. He’s just made his first mistake. Mal’s testing me again. Not this time. I’ve got Jackson now. There’s motion. The snap. Jackson’s coming. Mal fires it off, not even checking his other reads, broadcasting what I already know.
The ball comes my way. Jackson’s up first, jumping early, and then I realize they’ve timed it to beat me. The ball is in Jackson’s hands, but his feet aren’t down yet. I body slam him, throwing myself at him hard enough to drive us both out of the end zone. The impact knocks the wind out of me. A sharp cry is cut off by the sound of Jackson’s helmet impacting the earth. I watch him slide, limp next to me as I gasp for air. When I finally drag in a breath, I realize something’s wrong.
“Jackson?” He’s not moving. “Jackson?” I look at him from head to toe, but it doesn’t register why he looks funny. Then I realize his leg is twisted strangely under him. He’s just a limp pile of meat. “Jackson?”
I panic, shaking him, but Els drags me away. Instinct takes over, and I lash out, trying to free myself from Els. He hands me off to Big Mike, our nose tackle, who takes me to the bench and sits on me until I stop struggling.
“Get up off me. I’ll be good.” He lets me up. I watch them work on Jackson with Big Mike next to me, his fist holding the back of my jersey. He’s got me by my numbers. There isn’t a fucking thing I can do but watch as the crew huddles around Jackson, who’s still not moving.
Then I hear a soft keening sound, and Jackson rolls, reaching for his knee. They’re talking to him. Doc asks him questions, but he’s not answering. Jackson grunts like a hurt animal. He lashes out as they load him up. I see his leg, already swollen, still at an awkward angle. The ambulance is there. They’re not going to the locker room to check him out. He’s going to the hospital.
Everyone’s in shock. The guys are milling. Some sit on the turf. Others stand, staring at the retreating ambulance. Big Mike and I stay put as some of the team begins to file into the locker room. We’re still sitting here after everyone leaves. Els stands across the field, looking at me. He’s in his civvies now. The sunlight’s diminishing. Big Mike doesn’t move. He doesn’t talk. We’re both still in our practice gear. Els leaves.
The sun sinks below the horizon. The lights come on, but they don’t dispel the quickening darkness.
“Why’d we have to get him? The blond, flashy, surfer dude?” I ask.
“You need to realize this is a business. We needed a wideout after Max got hurt. Haines is good but not a number one. We needed a number one. So why not get the one who beat you in the play-offs?”
“Shit, Mike. Whose side are you on?”
“You’re the best lockdown corner in the league. If he can beat you, he’s good. You shut down half the field. ’Sides, everyone gets beat sometime. It happens.”
“Not to me.”
“Kid, you just better hope you didn’t hurt him too bad. We gave up our first-round draft pick to get him. Not to mention salary. What’re you doing hitting him so hard in practice?”
“Man, don’t give me that shit. Offense against defense.”
“It’s training camp, Irus. I hope you didn’t just hit your way off the roster.”
“You think they’d cut me?”
“Cut you? No, they’ll trade you and get something for your sorry ass.”
Big Mike’s digging through his gym bag. There’s faint music coming from its depths. “It’s Coach. I gotta take this call.”
I watch Big Mike walk away, feeling like my career’s hanging on this one call. Mike doesn’t look happy. He looks at me. Then all I see is his back. Another few agonizing minutes and he returns.
“Well?”
“Surgery. He’s going on IR. You may have just ended this kid’s career. Hope you didn’t end yours too.”
He scruffs me by my practice pads and hauls me inside. I change quickly. I want to be gone before Mike comes out of the shower room.
* * * *
The drive to the hospital wasn’t memorable. Maybe it’s because I can’t remember it. Hope I didn’t run any red lights. I guess I’ll know when the ticket shows up. Gotta be bad for them to go into surgery this fast, right? Usually a player waits. Doc lets the swelling go down and then takes another MRI. Checks the knee out. Must mean he’s broken something.
Shit, I’ve broken something.
I get inside, winding through the maze of corridors with walls so blindingly white they hurt my eyes. When I get to where the paint turns a soft pastel color, I follow the signs for the surgical wing. The waiting room’s much more soothing, but what I see doesn’t settle my stomach one bit.
Coach paces the room.
I’ve fucked up. I know I’ve fucked up. That’s why I’m here, I guess.
The waiting room’s full, taken over by our staff. Coach Bryant looks up, his face drawn tight. Furrows pinch his brow.
“What’re you doing here, Beaumont?”
“Coach, I came to help.”
“Go home.”
Coach turns away. “I’m listening, Alan.” I realize he’s talking on his phone. I just held up his conversation with the general manager, Alan Parker.
Assistant coach Daily comes up behind me. “Irus, man. You should go.”
“Tony, what’s going on?”
“It’s best if you’re not here.”
“Can I sit with his family?”
“What family?”
“He’s from here. Didn’t anyone call his family? You know, his mom and dad?”
“Kid doesn’t have any family.”
“Come on, Tony. He’s gotta have family.”
“Only child. Single mom. She died in his freshman year of college. Breast cancer.”
“Breast cancer?”
“You never noticed the tattoo?”
All eyes swing my way. Coach opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns away.
I sit in a corner to await the verdict.
Why’d I hit him so hard? It was practice. I was just so angry. I don’t remember why. Cuz he’s faster than me? Cuz he’s a blond-haired golden boy, or cuz he’s fucking gorgeous? I’m gay. I’m fine with it, but it’s never been in the locker room. Lust doesn’t belong in the locker room. Christ, I need to quit lying to myself. I’m obsessed with Jackson McCoy. I need him, like I need football. He’s in my fucking bloodstream.
Kane’s in my head. “I said beat him, not kill him.”
Or end his career.
* * * *
It’s been forty-five minutes since Jackson came out of surgery and another thirty for him to get into his room. Coach checks to see if Jackson wants to see me. I wait, afraid he’ll say no and equally terrified he’ll say yes.
I get the nod.
The first thing I see is the tattoo wrapping around his bicep. A pink ribbon intertwined with roses. Above it in script are the words I miss you, Mom followed by a date I can’t read from the doorway. The nurse is changing his hospital gown.
Jackson looks at me. “I puked.”
“I think I’d puke too, bro.”
The nurse leaves the room after tying the fresh gown behind Jackson’s neck.
“How you feeling?” I ask, stumbling into the room, like I’m afraid to go inside.
“Drugged and sore.”
“Sounds like a bad date.”
“Or a good one.” He offers a weak smile. His leg’s bandaged and surrounded by ice packs. His eyes are hazy. He looks at me. “You’ve got deep eyes—dark like chocolate. I’m hungry. They’re not letting me eat.”
“You just puked.”
“Yeah, I did. I want peanut M&M’s.”
“Dude, you’re stoned.”
“Why’d ya hit me, Iris?”
“Rus, rus, I-rus! Fuck, I didn’t hit you hard enough.”
“Gave me a concussion.”
“Fuck you. Did not. They wouldn’t have put you under otherwise.” I growl, knowing I can’t tell him why he makes me so fucking crazy.
A silly, stupid grin crosses his face. The urge to kill him passes. I lay a gentle hand on his bandaged leg. Jackson stares at my hand, dark next to the wrappings, and his smile disappears.
“The only place for me is on that goddamn football field, Irus.”
“McCoy,” I say. He doesn’t seem to hear me, just keeps staring at my hand. “Jackson—Jacks?”
Blue eyes fill with clear puddles. “My mom always called me Jacks.”
“You’ll play again, Jacks. I promise you.”
Fuck. What is it about this fucking guy? Now I’m making promises I can’t keep? I’m well and truly screwed.
* * * *
Next Day
Highlanders’ Athletic Facility
Somber faces greet me in the locker room. I stumble in from my restless night spent with Jacks in the hospital, talking about football. The realization that the guy’s practically an orphan breaks my heart. There’s no family left to support him, so I stayed, feeling guilty for enjoying our time together, but now I’m so tired I can barely focus on what’s ahead of me.
The guys are changing, but it’s quiet, subdued like at a funeral. Maybe it’s my funeral. Els stands by his locker next to mine. He glances at me, his dark brown eyes full of wisdom and empathy, but then he looks away. Like he knows something I don’t, and as I move closer he shifts, more uncomfortable with each step I take. What’s the old man’s deal?
As I get closer, I hear Coach down the hall, speaking loudly, his cadence rising and falling until he’s in the room with us. I’m nearly to my locker when he points at it as if it were responsible for what happened to Jackson.
“Empty that out, now.”
All the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room, leaving me swaying in a vacuum, gasping for air. I’ve been traded. I know it, and Els looks at me again. Guilt shows in his eyes, his expression grim.
“I told you to clear his shit out, Eldridge. Put it in the mobile home. I want him next to McCoy.”
Eldridge hesitates and looks to me. I jerk my chin. He moves to gather my gear. The other DBs move in to help. They take everything to the temporary metal lockers sitting in the middle of the room. The mobile homes. I’m trailer trash now. Once preseason is over, these lockers will be gone, along with whoever is left in them.
Part of me is relieved. I’m still here, but the implication pisses me off too. I’m a fucking starter. The best in the league. He’s really gonna bench me? Consider cutting me? Why? Because I knocked around his star fucking receiver?
I clench my teeth, grinding them, and remind myself I hadn’t needed to hit Jacks like I did. He didn’t deserve it at all. I’m the bad guy here. I really am. It’s because of my lust. My anger. I may have ended his career. By the nature of the sport, our careers are short-lived, and no one wants to see someone go out like that, especially from an injury in practice.
Definitely not because I’m pissed off I can’t fuck the guy.
The thought makes me feel like a sleaze.
Coach stares at me. I can’t figure out what he wants. The look in his eyes changes, altering his whole expression. He seems like a disappointed father. I’m his child, and he’s caught me pulling the wings off flies. He wants to say something to me. I can see it in his expression. The impulse vanishes, and he claps his hands, his gaze roving over the team.
“Gentlemen, let’s get on the field. We have a lot of work to do, and the weeks are slipping away. Haines, you’re number one today. Let’s go, people.”
“Coach, what about Jackson?” Haines asks, worry apparent on his young face.
“He’s doing well. In about a week, we’ll send him to Orlando. To the best sports rehab facility in the country.”
“Orlando,” I blurt.
All I get from Coach is a cursory glance. “Let’s go.”
Everyone starts moving. Coach leaves without another look in my direction. The bank of black metal lockers sits in the center of the room at the receivers’ end, waiting for me. My tired feet shuffle along the carpet. My body moves of its own accord. I’m disconnected. Like I left part of me in a hospital bed with Jackson McCoy.
Inside the darkness of my locker hangs my gear, pads, and an assortment of pictures I’ve taken during practices. Els took the time to stick them up in back. There’s one of Jackson, Haines, and Mal mugging it up for my camera, the two receivers on either side of our quarterback, their arms thrown over his shoulders. It’s funny because Haines is the tallest of all three. Mal is a short quarterback, and no one gives him any credit. The fact of the matter is, he’s great. He’ll make it all happen.
Jackson’s shit hangs inside his locker. My fingers find the fabric of his practice jersey. The white material is stained. No one cleaned it before hanging it up? I wonder who brought it back to the locker. The stain is like the telltale heart or the blood only the wicked can see. I wonder if the grass stain is real. Am I imagining it? Is this my guilt? This has to be the one he was wearing. The skid from his body sliding across the grass, limp and unconscious, is embedded in the weave.
I strip out of my sweats and put on my practice gear. The room is quiet, and I look around. Shit, everyone’s gone. Already out on the field. I grab my helmet but stop for a second to look at Jackson’s jersey again. I let the fabric slide through my fingers and bury my face in the cool, rough cloth.
It smells like him.
Of grass, earth, and musk.
Blood floods my dick, swelling it to a thick half-mast. Damn.
The rush of desire whenever Jacks walks into the room fills me. Almost a physical hurt, but a strange peace set
tles in my belly too. The sting in my eyes surprises me, but I don’t let the tears fall. How can I? I don’t deserve any comfort or relief from these emotions. What comfort or relief does Jackson have right now? I’m going onto the field. He’s in a hospital bed. I’m the asshole here. Not him.
I let his jersey slip away, my black fingers in sharp contrast to the white material, like the bandages on Jackson’s leg. The fabric reminds me of the promise I made to him. To see him back on the field, in the game, playing like nothing happened. Now I just have to figure out a way to make good on it.
Chapter Six
Allenmore Hospital, Tacoma, WA
Jackson McCoy
The physical therapist had me up and moving this morning. The pain wasn’t too bad. I refused pain meds earlier but regretted the decision. Instead, I sucked it up. Used to my body hurting. Too proud. Too stupid.
Ten minutes ago, my nurse brought me something for the pain. I said I was fine. The cunning woman called my bullshit and browbeat me into submission. She reminds me of my mother.
Thoughts of Mom nearly undo me again. Fuck, my emotions are running close to the surface. Must be the pain. The drug is taking its sweet time getting into my system.
The TV is on. They’re running the coverage on my injury. Dean Rian, one of the talking heads, is spewing a load of garbage out his mouth.
“I don’t get where Beaumont is coming from. This team has done worse than any other expansion team in the past, and just when they get some talent… Just when there’s light at the end of the tunnel, Irus Beaumont breaks the man who could put them back in contention for a championship. I mean, not only are these guys the most impoverished team in the league, I heard they had the gall to ask McCoy to take a pay cut, and he’s paying for his own rehab. The guy hasn’t played a single snap, and they gave up a first-round draft pick for him. They still fly coach, for crying out loud. What a misbegotten team Washington has put together.”
Old Dean-o is an idiot. He doesn’t give the Highlanders enough credit. They were in the play-offs for the divisional championship last season. And I wasn’t asked to take a pay cut. I am paying for my own rehab because I’m picky. Orlando is the best place. Not gonna take any chances. Dean needs to fact-check before he spouts off. Always trying to rattle someone’s cage, I’m pretty sure he’s after Irus today. Shock talk is all Dean is good for, and all he does is reiterate the shit flowing through the rumor mill.
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