Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  Plus, there’s no love lost between Irus and Dean. Their last argument played out live on national television.

  “We have on the phone with us Coach Paul Phelps, legendary former coach for the University Wildcats. Coach Phelps, you coached Jackson when he was in college. What’s an injury like this likely to do to his career?”

  “Well, Jackie plays like a tailback sometimes, very physical, to gain yardage after the reception. This injury could substantially reduce his capability—”

  My skin breaks out in a cold sweat. I mute the TV. I don’t need to listen to these morons. They’re just stirring up memories I don’t need to recollect. I’m too busy watching my door anyway. People have been in and out all day. Coach Daily came by and so did the receivers coach, Bennett Johnson. Both men sounded optimistic, but they’re not the ones I want to see. Not at all.

  I’m waiting for Irus. Every shadow that crosses outside my room draws my attention. No Irus. As the day wears on, I get more depressed. I shift in bed and realize the pain medication has finally kicked in, thank God.

  In the back of my head, I know Irus has practice, but I still hope he comes to see me. God, I don’t know how he got me through last night. We even laughed a little at ourselves. Deep down, though, I’m terrified. What if I don’t make it back onto the field? Would it be enough to be in some auxiliary position? Mom was adamant that I could play no matter my size.

  I have a championship ring. I’ve done things in football everyone said I couldn’t. So yeah, it might be enough, but only if I can have Irus. I don’t know what he did to me last night, but I have the sneaky suspicion I’m falling for him. I’ve been flirting for weeks, against my better judgment. Maybe it’s because I’m weak. Lonely.

  Maybe my flirtation is the reason for his hostility. Don’t know why that hasn’t occurred to me until now. Stupidity, I suppose. Blind hope. Truth be told, I have no clue to his sexuality. Except that he sweats sex appeal. Yet the man is surprisingly asexual for being so goddamn alpha. Never talks about women, either as objects or dating prospects. When the guys go out, he tags along, but from what I’ve seen, he goes home alone.

  Terry is different. Uncomplicated by emotion or a need for a relationship. The man just wants sex. Impossible to tell what Irus wants. He always entangles himself with me somehow, every damn day, but gives no real indication of wanting me. Well, with the exception of his hard dick.

  The aide comes in to take my vitals. Still no Irus. I thought he said he’d come back after practice? No, he probably won’t be back. I shouldn’t have cried like a baby. I’m sure it was the drugs. Started talking about Mom, and it was all over. The only person I know who loves—well, loved—football more than me.

  She played catch with me as a kid until she got sick. Her heart, her drive, and her willingness to sacrifice anything for me to play kept me going. I know she wished she could’ve played when she was a kid. Nowadays, they let girls play peewee. There are some women’s rec leagues. My mom was the best quarterback. She could throw a nice tight spiral to rival even Mal. Grandpa used to call her Broadway Josephine, and she’d laugh.

  We always laughed.

  Then Grandpa died, and we were alone.

  Mom died, and then I was alone.

  Irus left, and now I am alone.

  Chapter Seven

  A Week Later

  Highlanders’ Athletic Facility

  Irus Beaumont

  “Come on, Irus! What’s your problem?”

  “Sorry, Coach,” I pant.

  The route’s not tough. I don’t know why I’m letting Haines beat me. Coach is frustrated. All I can think about is Jackson. Every time I go up to tip the ball, I see his body lying in the end zone. As much as I want to go see Jackson, I can’t.

  The only time I visited was right after surgery. I couldn’t go back and see him lying in a hospital bed, hurt because of me. The night we spent talking fed my guilt. I think about how much I wanted to kiss him. To hold him in my arms and soothe him, especially when the tears flowed.

  That night he spoke of his mother and her love of football. Scary to think how alone he is with her gone. I’ve got family. Even if I don’t see them much, I’ve still got them. I can’t imagine having no one.

  Coach trots out to talk to me rather than calling me to the sideline. “Irus. If you keep playing like this, your position as a starter will be in jeopardy.”

  “I know, Coach. I just keep seeing him lying in the end zone, not moving.”

  “Jackson?”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

  “Irus, have faith in yourself. You know what you’re capable of and what your job is, right? Stop the ball. Play the ball, not the receiver. You got this, yeah? Remember, it’s a game. It’s football. Something you’ve done your whole life. Put Jackson out of your mind. He’ll get better.”

  “I never went back to see him in the hospital, and today he’s on a plane.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to get down to a fifty-three man roster by the end of the preseason. You realize that’s four weeks away? Your head isn’t that fucked-up, is it?”

  I shake my nugget, splaying my dreads across my practice pads, and he continues almost without pause.

  “Don’t worry about Jackson. I’ll be putting him on injured reserve, designating his return. He’s got six weeks after the start of the season to heal and get back in football shape. Don’t make me worry about you, son. We got a game to play this weekend. We have to make the Pirates pay. Let’s get some revenge. Let them know we’re coming after them.”

  “You got it, Coach.”

  “Give me your hundred and ten percent, Irus. We’ll take care of Jackson when the time comes, okay?”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “Four weeks.”

  A month without Jackson’s laugh, his smile, or his wink. I didn’t realize how empty my life was before he came along. Now I miss him. Instead of Jackson lining up opposite me, I’m looking at Haines. Don’t get me wrong. Haines is a great receiver, but Coach is right: he shouldn’t be a contest for me. Jackson is always a contest.

  Els comes up to me as Coach returns to the sidelines. “You got your head back on straight, or is it still lodged in your ass?”

  “No, but I’m good, Pops.”

  “Shit, boy, shut your mouth. I’m only twenty-eight.”

  “You’ll be thirty in December.”

  “I swear, I’m gonna pop you in your mouth. Now, you ready?”

  With a quick nod of my head, I start to walk away, but I don’t think he believes me. I’m not sure I do either.

  “Relax, bro. This is where you live,” Els says with a wicked smile and points to the sidelines. “Those guys want your job. Don’t give it to them.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “It’s all I ask, Iris.”

  “Go to hell.”

  An image flashes in my head. Jackson laughing after calling me Iris. His laugh is sweet, not meant in a mean way, and it dawns on me how much my attitude did Jackson a disservice. There’s not a malicious bone in that man’s body. He’s been nothing but nice. Playful and happy to be here, not like some guys who come in all butt-hurt because their team cut a deal. No, I’ve been the dick. The revelation hurts.

  I’ve got to fix things between us.

  I finish out practice on a high note with a pick and a forty-eight-yard return, setting our offense up for a touchdown drive. We only practice half a day on the field on Wednesdays. The rest of the day is spent watching film, either at home on our computers or in the film room. I prefer doing it at home where I’m less distracted. I head in to change.

  In the locker room, I find Haines. “Hey, man, you heard from Jackson?”

  “Got a text right before he left. That’s it. Don’t know if he’s landed. What is it? A five-hour flight from here to Orlando?”

  “Sounds about right, I guess. Do you think I could get his number?”

  Haines looks at me, doubt in his expres
sion, but he fishes out his cell. He rattles off the number, and I load it into my phone.

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I clap Haines on the shoulder. Back at my locker, I strip quickly and begin stuffing things into my bag as my teammates filter out slowly. I’m one of the few left in the room. Assistant Coach Daily comes through and pats my ass, telling me good job in practice. Kane suggested once that the ass patting equates on a primal level to dogs sniffing each other’s butts. Only Kane. I laugh and glance around. There’s a guy with headphones on sitting in a recliner, and another is at his locker, sorting through his shoes. I’m alone at my locker. Without even thinking, I reach up and grab Jackson’s jersey, shoving it into my bag.

  In the car, I toss my bag into the passenger’s seat. As I’m weaving through afternoon traffic, I reach into the bag, feeling the fabric of Jackson’s jersey. The material slips through my fingers, distracting me from my annoyance with the slow-moving traffic. After a half hour of outmaneuvering stupid people on the road, I turn in to my driveway, thankful I have not one single neighbor down my dead-end street. My house is set back from the main road in a rural area bordering the expanse of the military base near Parkland. The sun is bright, and I jog up the steps, my bag slung over my shoulder.

  “Hey, baby.” Rough Trade startles me. He stands on my porch, off to the side, hidden from view by the rhododendrons.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Our regularly scheduled time, sweetheart. You come home on Wednesdays, we fuck, and then you watch film.”

  He’s smooth, slipping close to me but not touching. Jesus, I’d forgotten our agreement. I open the door, letting him in, and I drop my bag just inside. “Listen, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided to call off our arrangement. I’ll pay you for today.”

  Rough Trade sidles up next to me, running his hands over my chest. His bleach-blond hair looks fried, and his eyes are bloodshot. There’s no comparison to Jackson. Not anymore. In the light of day and full cognition, he’s a pale imitation.

  Jackson’s hair is naturally blond, his skin smooth sometimes with a hint of stubble, and his eyes are a bright ocean blue. In the locker room, I’ve admired Jackson’s cut body, his skin lightly tanned, looking like a California surfer boy. I heard he likes to surf off the Washington coast. Sounds too cold to me.

  Rough Trade’s falsetto brings me back. “What are you talking about, sugar? You can’t be serious?”

  “I need to clean up my personal life. We’re taking this all the way to the championship. Time to focus.”

  “So you’re getting rid of the trash?”

  “No, it’s just time for me to get my head together. Get focused on the prize.”

  “This is about Jackson, isn’t it? You gonna move him in here, heal the boy up, and fuck him too?”

  “No, this isn’t about Jackson.” I know it’s a lie the moment the words leave my lips. So does Rough Trade. He gives me look like I just told him the sky was green. I fish out my wallet, stuffing bills into his hands. Anything to get him on his way. I’m antsy. I just want him to leave me alone. This is all about Jackson. Kane’s right. I’ve got to clean up my life before I can hope to bring Jackson into it, right?

  “Whatever, sugar. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Relief washes over me. He’s taking this well. I had braced for a fight, but now I relax as he walks to the door.

  Over his shoulder, he calls out, “You know where to find me, Irus, if your boy can’t handle that big dick of yours.” At the door, he turns around. “Are you sure he’s a fag?”

  “No.”

  “Falling for a straight guy, huh?”

  “There’ve been rumors.”

  “Yeah, because those are always true.”

  I stare at the door after he leaves. My gut tightens. What if Jackson isn’t gay?

  Fuck.

  What if I’ve fallen for a straight dude? I think back to how he shielded my hard-on to prevent the guys from seeing me all strung out on lust. Warmth floods my body at the memory. How his body brushed against mine, pressing gently on my dick, but I was too angry to notice. Angry at him for making me hard to begin with, and at myself for giving in to the need to touch him.

  My bag is by the door, and I snatch it up, pulling out my laptop. I grab a pack of fruit snacks and sit at the breakfast bar. My plan is to watch film, but Jackson’s jersey pokes out of my bag. Weak-willed, I slip the shirt free and smell it again. Taking my phone, laptop, and the jersey, I head into the bedroom. I strip and jump in the shower for a quick rinse. The sweat on my body was beginning to itch. Once out and toweled off, I stretch across the bed. Jackson’s jersey sits on my pillow. I can smell him.

  With my eyes closed, I imagine he’s with me in bed, his hands running over my body. His tongue lapping at my leaking cock. The soft hum of his voice as he swallows me down, promising to take all of my dick in his throat.

  I’m rock hard.

  Fuck, it doesn’t take much these days. I tug on my balls as I stroke my cock, wishing Jackson’s hands were truly on my body.

  I crawl deep into my fantasies, stroking, jerking on my dick as I envision Jackson’s body, perfect with his imperfections. There’s a scar just above his hip. I trace it with my tongue, smelling his musk and sweat from practice. God, some days I just want to take him home and lick him clean. Then bury my cock in his ass.

  His jersey’s in my hand. I don’t recall grabbing it, but I slide it across my bare chest, down my stomach to wrap my cock in his scent. Unable to stop myself, I’m fucking my jersey-covered hand, the rub of the material exciting. I look down and see his name, catching glimpses of his numbers as I pull harder on my balls.

  I need to come.

  I need Jackson more.

  I need him beside me so I can curl myself around his body, holding him as he sleeps off our rough fuck.

  The thought sends me over the edge. I cry out his name. My cum spills hot all over his jersey, our scents mixing like a heady cocktail, and I keep coming. Time stretches into eternity as I thrust and come in Jackson’s shirt, wishing I were spilling inside him. I pant and catch my breath. I wipe myself clean. Stuffing the jersey under my pillow, I savor our scents mingling and keep Jackson close to me.

  My phone is on the bed next to my laptop. Jackson must have landed by now. I debate calling him. Not sure how I’ll be received and still feeling high from jacking off, I decide against calling him. I’ll send him a text and then watch the film.

  I’m actually feeling pretty good.

  With Rough Trade out of my life, I can focus on making myself a better person and football player. All for Jackson. The rumors are vague, but I sure hope I’m right about him being gay.

  If I’m wrong? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fallen in love with the wrong person. Habit of a lifetime. It’s why Rough Trade is so much easier. I don’t want easy anymore. I want it hard.

  I want Jackson McCoy.

  Chapter Eight

  Orlando Institute of Sports Medicine and Rehabilitation,

  Orlando, FL

  Jackson McCoy

  The airport’s crowded. People are bustling to make flights or retrieve their luggage. I can’t bustle. I can’t even walk great distances. My muscles have tightened up that quickly. I lean on the crutches more than I should, and it makes me feel weak.

  The brace is irritating. The whole situation irritates me. Rehab is going to be strenuous. I’m not afraid of the work, but I worry it may be pointless. Coach and Doc put me on the plane because they’re concerned my injury could end my career without the best care. The Orlando Institute has a premier program. If anyone can get me playing again, it’ll be them.

  The fracture of my fibula was repaired successfully by a great orthopod, Dr. Schaffer. He’s a big guy, used to play football in college, loves the game. He said the repair would be stronger than any of my other bones. So I guess it means if I’m ever shattered, my fibula will still be standing. Good to know. The knee sprain is what
worries me more. Luckily, I didn’t tear my anterior cruciate ligament. The stretching of my ACL didn’t require surgery to repair. Just strength training, which is why I’m here, so I can get back on the field. Show Irus how the game is played.

  The thought of the stubborn ass brings a smile to my face.

  There’s a man here from the airline, helping me. I turn and almost run into him. I don’t like the implication, like I’m an invalid or something. He’s pushing a wheelchair I refuse to ride in, but he follows me anyway.

  “It’s my job,” he says. “In case you get tired. You can sit.”

  His presence makes me feel powerless. A feeling I hate. One that has haunted me most of my life. I’ve always been small and vulnerable.

  Everything’s so out of control. I don’t know what to make of things right now. My team’s back home playing the preseason games while I hobble around trying to get my knee strong again. The knee is what I’m rehabbing, but somehow, I think it’s my life.

  Yeah, I’ll rehab my soul while I’m here. Take me away from a certain drop-dead gorgeous black man. My weakness again. Football players. Irus Beaumont is strong, mentally and physically. When I sleep at night, I dream he’s in my bed, only an arm’s length away. When I need him, he’s right there to help.

  At least he was my first night in the hospital.

  Reality is, Irus hates me enough to pile drive me into the gridiron. My gaydar must be fucked. I definitely misinterpreted his hard-on, even when I told myself not to, but I did. I let my lust carry me into fantasy. Christ, I jacked off this morning to his beautiful image in my mind. Right now, I imagine running my tongue through those dark curls at the base of his cock, licking my way up to his navel while dragging my fingertips over his hard-cut abdominals.

  I love football players.

  If only Terry Branson had been half as interesting as Irus. I listen to Irus in the locker room. He’s smart. The man has great football intelligence and real-world knowledge as well. I catch him looking at me sometimes while we’re changing. He looks away or mean-mugs me. He makes a comment about my bruises, especially the ones he’s put there, and it makes me think he’s a dominant. Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s always so taciturn when it comes to me.