“Someone might see us,” he says.
“Illegal tinting. No one’s seeing us,” I whisper.
Jacks dives back in. This time his head’s in my crotch, licking and teasing my cock through my pants. My fingers work the zipper. My cock’s out before he can change his mind. He engulfs me with a sauna-like heat. I’m so goddamn horny. He sucks me with such fervor. I buck into his tight throat, and he moans, rubbing his dick through his jeans.
I get the feeling Jacks is keeping this just about sex. I’m all right with that for now. God, I’m so all right with that, for now. The thought of him sucking Terry Branson’s dick makes me want to go knock the quarterback out, but Jacks is right. All water under the bridge.
“Jacks,” I whisper. He keeps sucking my cock, making it nice and shiny. I try to tell him I can’t hold on, but I shoot before I can warn him.
Jacks swallows all of it like a pro. Makes me wonder how many guys he’s had, but I put the thought on the back burner for more pressing matters, like Jackson’s hard-on. I devour him, the same as he did me, and God, I love the sounds he makes as he’s coming down my throat. The sound of Jackson McCoy coming downright undone.
* * * *
Pirates vs. Highlanders
Home Game, Week Six
Highlanders’ Stadium
“Where’s the damn flag?” Normally I sit on the sidelines, watching our offense, but Jacks is out there. So I can’t keep my ass on the bench. The Pirates’ defense has been pummeling him. Hit after hit. Jacks keeps getting up, keeps making the downs, but I don’t know how much more he can take. The way they’re going at him, it’s got to be a bounty. Someone is getting paid big money to take Jacks out of the game. After this last hit, I’m convinced. Too many guys are trying too hard to take Jackson out.
Anderson jogs by with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I hit your faggot boyfriend. Whatcha gonna do ’bout it?”
Anderson pisses me off. I’m gonna kill the prick. I’m almost to the field when Els grabs me with a horse-collar hold on my pads. I break Els’s grip, but I’m surprised when I’m eating turf instead.
Els is on top of me, yelling in my ear, “We gonna play this right, Irus. If we don’t, we look like the chumps. If they got a bounty, the league will find out soon enough.”
“After it’s too late. After Jacks is hurt!”
“What do you care all of a sudden, boy? Let it go. We’ll get ’em.”
He’s right. I need to keep cool. Plus, I can’t be showing too much emotion. Just I can’t stand seeing them punish him.
Jacks gets to the sidelines as I brush off my jersey. I edge closer so I can hear the doc and coaches going through the protocols. He answers the questions right. When they leave, I move in to crouch in front of him.
“Hey, Jacks,” I say, looking into slightly vacant eyes.
“How’d I do?”
“You’re fine, boy. You did good. Kept hold of the ball. Got us out of our end zone.”
“I’m concussed?” he asks.
Oh, fuck.
“Shit, boy, you got your bell rung, but it ain’t nothin’. It’s all good.”
Jacks looks dazed, but smiles that affectionate smile and winks at me. “Not gonna tell, are you?”
I shake my head, completely twisted up by his smile, the feeling in the pit of my stomach almost the same as a win. I can’t figure out if he’s referring to the concussion or our affair. Either way, the boy makes me want to laugh. I’ve never seen a concussed player look so cute. Fuck. I got it bad. When did I start calling football players cute? Since I started fucking one.
Coach brushes me aside. “Go on, quit coddling him. You’re gonna make him afraid to get hit.”
I laugh.
“All right, you knucklehead, get in there, and get me a touchdown,” Coach says to Jacks.
“Will do, Coach.” Jacks stuffs his head in his brain bucket as he runs out onto the field. I can’t help but watch his fine ass. He lines up. Center snaps the ball. I barely hear the announcer.
“Jackson McCoy on the seam. Mal’s looking to connect—does he get him?”
Mal throws it deep, and Jacks comes down with the ball in the end zone. Coach goes crazy. Touchdown! Yes! In your face, bitches. Pirates don’t stand a chance with my boy in the game. No fucking way.
The announcer’s voice breaks through my internal revelry. “Oh my! McCoy’s hit. Anderson takes him out! A late hit. Flags fly.”
Our sideline erupts.
Shit. I watch the replay on the big screen. Anderson slams Jacks into the ground like a rag doll, his massive body smothering him. My boy still has the ball clutched at his side, but he’s not moving. His fingers release. The ball rolls away.
That bastard Anderson towers over Jacks, posturing like a cave man, screaming and beating his chest. He steps over Jacks’s body and grabs my boy’s face mask as he goes, picking him up by his head to drag him out the back of the end zone. Jacks’s helmet slips off. All his blond hair spreads out around his head. He’s still unconscious. Ref calls the touchdown, but it’ll be reviewed as always.
Christ!
Again, the announcer’s voice intrudes. “That looked like helmet to helmet to ground contact. McCoy’s not moving.” The announcer could at least sound concerned. I look back to the field. It only takes a moment for the play to unwind, and our linemen realize Jacks is down. Some of our guys bump with the big uglies on the Pirates’ side of the field, trying to get downhill to Jacks. The trainers, doctors, and coaches spill into the end zone.
The whole stadium detonates in outrage. No one’s as livid as I am. I rush the field, but someone horse collars me again. I remember my helmet. I spin out of their grasp to snatch my brain bucket. I can hear Coach yelling, and all the stripes converge in the end zone. I barely have time to get my helmet on before Coach Daily tries to block me.
“Shouldn’t do that, Coach,” I say as I run through him. The whuff of air from his lungs tells me he wasn’t expecting me to really hit him. He’s on his ass now, somewhere behind me. Shouldn’t get between me and Jacks.
I drive into the back of Anderson, sending his punk ass sprawling to the ground. The sound in the stadium is thunderous, yet all I hear is the blood pounding in my ears. My anger’s as palpable as my heartbeat.
I hit Anderson so hard, I knock him out of his helmet. A shoe lies all alone on the field. I stare at it, realizing it’s Jacks’s. The fucker knocked my boy outta his shoes. Pissed, I turn in time to take a shot from Anderson’s fist, but my helmet protects me. He yanks it off my head by the face mask. I draw back to throw a punch when I’m hauled away by my team. Jacks sits on the field, looking like he’s wondering what’s going on or where he is, surrounded by medical personnel.
“You fucking sorry excuse for a human being. Don’t you touch my boy again,” I yell at Anderson, who’s fighting to get through the stripes and his teammates holding him back.
“Your boy’s a faggot,” he says. “You a faggot too?”
“Come here, boy! Say that shit to my face.”
Anderson makes a move, but the umpire steps in front of him. Anderson knocks the old guy out in one shot. A white hat drops to the turf. The referee blows his whistle. More flags fly. The Pirates coach runs out to intervene. Both teams charge onto the field. Another fight breaks out, and now black hats fly into the air, all out of flags.
“You’re ejected,” the referee says. Anderson pushes the ref, who turns to the Pirates head coach and says, “Get your player under control. Get him off my field and into the locker room. Hell, get him out of the goddamned stadium.”
As much as I want to kill Anderson right now, Coach Daily gets in my ear and whispers, “You go help Jacks off the field.”
I realize what he’s doing, distracting me from tearing Anderson’s head off and shitting down his bloody stump on national TV. He’s right, though. Jacks needs me.
“Oh and Irus? My ass hurts.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Don’t let
it happen again.”
Jacks is standing now, but his face is screwed up in a grimace. I move to help him off the field, shoving one of our medical staff out of the way so I can take Jacks’s arm.
“Hey, bro. I’m here.”
Jacks nods a little. His mouth guard’s gone. His lip’s bloody too. He probably bit his lip when he hit the ground. On the sidelines, we set him down, and I listen as the doc goes through the same protocols as he did with the earlier hit.
“Son, what month is it?” Doc asks.
There’s a delay in Jacks’s response. He licks his lips. “October.”
“What day is it?”
Again Jacks is slow to answer, but this time he seems to forget what Doc just asked him. “Did I get the touchdown?”
“Do you know what day it is today?”
“Game day,” says Jacks, evading the question.
“What year is it?”
Jackson stares at the field. At all the commotion as the referees eject Anderson from the game along with a big, hairy defensive lineman. The referee’s calling the penalties. None of our guys are being ejected. I’m in shock. I thought for sure I’d be out.
“It’s 2013. No,” he says, his speech sort of sluggish. “No, 2014.”
Man, his bell’s beyond rung. These guys have been gunning for Jacks all night. I look across the field at Branson eyeballing me. Did that cocky bastard put up money to have my boy hurt? I’ll kill him if I find out he’s responsible. I put a hand on Jacks’s shoulder when the doc moves away to talk to Coach Daily. Jacks spits blood on the ground. His teeth are smeared with red. He looks up at me with an unreadable expression.
“How’d I do?”
The dazed look in his eyes, the faraway glaze, almost like he’s looking past me, tells me everything. “You did good, Jacks.”
He nods, glancing down for a second, and looks back up at me. “How’d I do?”
Shit. I’d been listening to the doc run through the protocols, asking all the questions, and even I could tell Jacks was concussed. The repetitive questions tell me it’s bad. They won’t put him back in the game. Not after the second knock to the nugget. I’m gonna kill Anderson. Too bad we’re not on the field at the same time, but I’m gonna fuck up his world somehow.
“You did great, Jacks.”
“But how’d I do? Did I get the touchdown? When’s Doc gonna ask his questions? I need to line up. Don’t want us to draw a delay of game penalty.”
Jesus. He can’t even remember answering the questions. I kneel in front of him, holding him down as he starts to get up. I’m getting looks from the ancillary staff. They’re too used to Jackson and me fighting. It’s the sideline reporters I notice, some fucker snapping pictures, but fuck ’em. I don’t have time to be paranoid today. I take Jacks’s hands to try to get him to focus.
“You won’t be going back out. You didn’t answer the questions well. Anderson drove your nugget into the ground, bro. Do you remember?”
“No, I gotta get—”
“I agree with ’em. You gotta go to the locker room. Get checked out.”
“Bullshit. You’ve played through it, man.” He argues with me, wanting back in the game. Just when I think he’s getting his wits about him, he unexpectedly stops in the middle of his belligerent rant.
“Rus, I’m gonna pu—”
Good Lord!
I take the splatter pattern right to my numbers. Shit, this must be what love is, because I take my towel and calmly clean Jacks up. Jesus, the smell is overpowering. “What the fuck did you eat today? Better not have been any of that egg gravy shit.”
“Ugh,” he responds.
“See, you need to be cared for, as articulate as your ass is right now. Doc’s gonna take you to the locker room.”
Jacks bobs his head, now obviously feeling the pain. The staff help him up. The doc is back with the independent consultant, a league neurologist, and Coach Daily.
A staff member wipes my jersey down. “Get that water bottle, hose my ass down.”
I watch Jackson walk on unsteady feet to the locker room. Anderson’s gonna live to regret what he’s done. It ain’t just me who’s pissed. We have an entire team who now wants to crush Anderson like he’s a cockroach underfoot.
* * * *
Coach Bryant stands in the center of the team’s circle. The locker room has quieted down so we can hear Coach’s speech. “That was a tough game, guys. An ugly, hard-fought win. Nothing came easy, but now we know we can beat them if we face them in the championship.”
Coach waves Mal up to speak. “We got to be in this thing for the long haul. Take this show to the championship this year, one game at a time.”
He puts his hand up. We all gather in as he runs through a quick prayer. Mal’s good. He doesn’t ram anything down our throats. “Highlanders on three,” he says. “One, two, three, Highlanders!”
We all sound off at the same time, but Jacks winces at the noise. He stands next to me.
“You all right, Jackson?” Coach Bryant asks.
“I’m good, Coach.”
Jacks still looks like he might vomit.
Coach doesn’t seem convinced. “You got someone at home to take care of you? Doc doesn’t want to discharge you to go home alone.”
“He’s gonna bunk with me, Coach,” I say.
Coach looks at me like I’ve lost my mind for a second. A peculiar smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “He’s going home with you? I want him to still be alive by tomorrow, I-reese.”
“Coach, why you gotta do me like that, huh? I’ve been workin’ on this whole team thang, you know? Gotta have a brother’s back.”
“Just don’t stab him in it, Irus.” Coach chuckles and walks away.
Jacks is already changed. My pads are stowed. I’m stripping out of my gear when Doc comes up to explain the discharge instructions. Jacks is sitting in a chair by my locker, looking all hangdog and waiting for me to take his ass home. I know his head hurts. I’ve been there a time or three.
“It’s okay to let him sleep. He can have analgesics for the pain. Here’s a list of things to keep an eye out for and who you need to call for help. My number is here. Call day or night. You know the drill.”
“Sure thing, Doc.”
“Jackson, I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Jacks grunts.
* * * *
My front door swings open. The key’s still in the lock as I help a sleepy Jacks into the house. “Shoot, boy. You need a bed pronto.”
“I’m all right. I can hang.”
Jacks trips over one of the many pairs of sneakers lying around the foyer. “Sorry, bro. The carpet’s white, so I take off my kicks. Not a problem, is it?”
“No, not a problem.” Jacks leans over to pull off his shoes, nearly taking a header into a side table.
“Whoa, hold on.” I grab him by his middle.
“Ow, shit.” He squirms away.
I pull off his shirt to check out his bruises. “Man, they be after your ass tonight.”
“Like I said, feels like a—” He stops speaking. His blue eyes glaze over. I’m hanging on his last word, wondering if he’s gonna finish the rest of his sentence while I unbutton his jeans. He steps out of his clothes like a guy who is used to being stripped. I’m lost in the fantastic black-and-blue view. God, I love bruises on a pretty white guy.
“A good date,” he finishes.
“Yeah, baby. A good date.” I kiss him, but he doesn’t quite respond. With a chuckle, I lead him into the bedroom. My dick’s so fucking hard. The heat of Jacks so close. The scent of his skin sends sets my nerves on edge. My body thinks it’s time to make out, but my boy is in no condition.
Hell, getting Jacks in bed is like pouring milk onto my chocolate brown sheets. All white and sliding everywhere. Takes a bit to get Jacks into my bed properly. The boy’s gone all boneless on me. Damn. It’s all I can do to keep my wandering hands from taking advantage of my dazed and confused teammate.
A snore is all I get outta him. Damn, boy. Way to leave a brother hanging. I crawl into bed, pulling his deadweight close to me. If I can’t get him to sit still long enough to cuddle when he’s conscious, then I’ll have to do it when he’s concussed.
What a fucked-up relationship. The thought makes me smile. Who’da thunk it, as my Auntie Beulah’d say. Baby-child’s got a love life.
A loud snore explodes from Jacks. I roll him onto his side, spooning up close to him, hoping to keep those Sasquatch snores at bay.
I lie here contemplating what I should do about that bitch, Anderson. He preys on my mind for about a half hour as Jacks’s warm body melts into mine.
Yeah, I wish this was a good date.
Chapter Twelve
Irus Beaumont’s House
Jackson McCoy
My head hurts. I’ve taken my allotment of painkillers. Irus keeps a tight leash on those things. Stingy bastard. Another drink of coffee sends way too much caffeine into my system. Maybe it’ll help my head.
I stare at the sunrise. The hues are almost too beautiful to be real. Today is the day after the worst concussion of my career. I’ll find out how long I have to sit on the sidelines. To see if I get to participate in practice. Last night I slept in Irus’s arms. I can’t even remember. Was it different from our first night together? It felt good to wake up wrapped in his arms after I got over the initial panic. I think Irus is someone I could love. Everything about him makes me feel safe.
If only things were so simple.
The shower’s still running, and I listen to the sounds shift as he moves through the spray. I imagine Irus’s hot body wet and slippery. I wish I could get past the shower thing, but it wouldn’t be good. It’s better for the both of us if I stay out of his shower. Maybe if things were different. If I were different.
Irus insists I let him talk to the doc with me. I don’t need a witness to my defeat. I’m getting older in football years. Am I gonna get hurt all the time now? I think about Irus, only in the league for three years, and I feel like I’m in the twilight of mine, what with all these injuries. What would happen to us if I couldn’t play anymore? Would he still want me? Damn it. I’m the league leader in yards and touchdowns the last four years. Twice this season I’ve been out because of injuries. That’s how it starts. The steady decline of the body and skills. Is it time I focus on my life outside football?
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