Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  “Are you ready?” Irus asks, startling me from my wholly depressing thoughts. He’s just out of the shower. A thick, brown towel matching his sheets is draped around his hips. His skin’s wet. So black. I want to crawl back in bed with him and lick all the water from his body.

  “Yeah. Meet you later?”

  “You going to hang around till after practice?” Irus asks.

  “Well, if Doc doesn’t clear me to drive, then I guess I am, huh?”

  “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take you home.” Irus towels off, pulling on gray sweatpants, leaving them low on his hips.

  Fuck, he makes this difficult. The deep cut of his abdominals are distracting despite the nagging pain in my head.

  “What if—”

  “Quit running circles around in your nugget, man. Let it go,” Irus says.

  “But—”

  “Listen, all you gotta do is be honest, right?”

  “Jesus, I want to play sometime this season. Fuck. First I get traded and then never play again?”

  Irus is silent.

  I turn back to the sunrise. “I just want to play football. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You think too much for a concussed player.” He’s at my back. I can feel his breath on my neck. Irus’s hard body brushes mine, his wet skin making my T-shirt damp. His arm slides around my midsection, and he eases me back into him. He takes my coffee cup from my hand and drinks the dregs.

  “Shit, boy, you make bad coffee. Good thing you a ball player.” Irus smacks my ass as he turns to the kitchen. The bastard makes me smile.

  “I’m sorry. Just frustrated. You can come in and talk to Doc with me if you want.”

  “Like you had a choice,” he says.

  The expression of joy on his face surprises me. Almost like he’s waiting for me to let him in, but I don’t know if I can. Irus wraps his arms around me. I lean into him. His full lips skate across my neck, making me groan with pleasure.

  “We’re so getting out of this house late.”

  “At least we’re closer to the facility,” he mutters, his lips brushing my skin.

  I give myself to him, hoping some rough sex will deliver me from this fucked-up headache.

  “You know, you’re supposed to take it easy on the mental and physical activity.”

  “Good thing all I have to do is stick my ass in the air.”

  * * * *

  “Where the fuck’s my keys?” Irus tears the house apart for fifteen minutes before it hits him. He runs to the front door, but they’re not in the lock. “Christ. The one morning we can ride to the facility without having to worry about getting caught, and I can’t find my keys.”

  “Did you take them to the bedroom last night?”

  “Fuck no. I had my hands too full of boneless white boy.”

  “Hmm—sounds appetizing.”

  “Not until this morning,” Irus says, moving to grab my ass. His tongue slips between my lips to tease me. Heat rises in my groin.

  “Stop it. Find your keys. I thought I saw them on the dresser in the bedroom.”

  “Well, I don’t know how they’d get there.” Irus heads into the bedroom. “I must’ve brought them with me. I could’ve sworn I left them in the lock.”

  “Maybe you got up in the night. Too tired to remember.”

  “Mebbe. Yeah, boy. Here they be,” he says. When Irus comes out of the bedroom, he’s shaking his head in confusion. “I still don’t remember taking them in there. I never take them into the bedroom.”

  “You sure you’re not the one with the concussion?”

  He snorts. “It was your head hitting the headboard this morning.”

  “Crass asshole,” I say. I give him a quick swat on his ass. “Let’s get a move on, Irus. Quit stalling.”

  “I just don’t see why we can’t have another quickie.”

  “Because it’s not a quickie with you. Come on.”

  The drive to the athletic center isn’t long. The whole way, Irus is groping me from the driver’s seat.

  “Get both hands on the wheel and keep them there, man. Don’t get me all riled up before I gotta talk to the doc.”

  “It’ll get your mind off things.”

  “You’ve already done that, Irus. I’m completely relaxed. Just stop playing with my dick.”

  He parks the car and gets out, trotting around to open my door with an evil grin on his face.

  “I’m gonna punch you in your head, Irus Beaumont.”

  He dances away as I take a mock swing at him. We head into the facility. Irus keeps fucking with me. Cocky bastard. As we approach the locker room, I hear voices pitching back and forth in anger. Irus glances at me.

  Snatches of the heated conversation filter from the doorway.

  “You can’t expect us to just accept him.” Rhodes says, one of my fellow receivers.

  “He’s on our team. He took a beating last night for us,” Mal says.

  Irus walks into the room. “What’s going on?”

  Everyone talks at once, and I wait a second before following Irus. Els stands in the center of the room. Something’s up. Everyone’s milling around, like they’re waiting for someone, and a few of the guys won’t meet my gaze.

  “You check your phone lately?” Els asks me.

  “No, why?”

  “Twitter?”

  I shake my head. “Last night was spent trying to rid myself of a colossal headache a la Anderson.”

  This morning I was too busy with Irus’s dick buried in my ass. I try not to smile at the thought. Els looks dead serious.

  “He outed you, Jackson.”

  “What? What do you mean?” No. Oh fuck, no. Goddamnit!

  “We know you’re gay,” Rhodes says, an angry bite to the words.

  “I don’t know what you’re talk—”

  “Anderson outed you. He got suspended and went on a Twitter rampage. He spilled everything about you and Branson in Orlando,” Rhodes says, not even suppressing his snark.

  “Branson?” Irus looks at me. “You didn’t tell me fuck all about Branson in Orlando.”

  Shit. I can’t say anything. Everything I could say would out Irus. I don’t think he realizes just how much he’s revealing of himself. Too focused on Branson. When I say nothing, Irus turns away in disgust, taking my silence as an admission. Somewhere in the direction where Irus disappears comes the sound of breaking glass. I can’t see him for all the big men surrounding me.

  Breathing becomes a chore.

  I’m in a mental scramble.

  My brain can’t make sense out of what’s happening to me. I tense up, ready for a physical confrontation. Rhodes steps up like a posturing MMA fighter. Haines backs off like I’m contagious. Like my faggot ass will make him gay by proximity. The others ring around us, waiting to see who throws the first punch.

  “He says you a fag. You and Branson been having an affair. Said Branson disappeared for two days. Anderson says Branson spent them with you in Orlando.” Rhodes flashes his teeth like a snarling animal.

  “You been fucking the enemy, Jackson?” Brew pins me with a harsh stare.

  “Fuck! Fucking prick. The fucking sick prick.” I chuck my gear across the locker room. “So what? You wanna fight? Kick the fag’s ass? Come on, Brew. Rhodes? Not like my last team didn’t try. Let’s go.”

  “That why they traded you? Because you’re a faggot?” Rhodes asks, more of a taunt than a question.

  “McCoy!” Coach Daily shouts from the doorway.

  I can’t read the expression on his face. My gut churns. Adrenaline makes me want to throw up. If I had hackles, they’d be up, ready to fight. I learned my fucking lesson. This shit ain’t gonna happen again.

  Fuck, my head’s pounding.

  The big guys part like a sea, and Coach Daily stands by Irus. “Coach Bryant wants to speak to you. Now.” Coach Daily leaves no room for argument and vanishes before I can even open my mouth. I glance at Irus. He turns his back to me. For a second, I don
’t know what to do, shocked he could dismiss me so easily.

  Coach Bryant comes through the door at the other end of the lockers, not slowing down as he makes his way past me. “McCoy, get in my office.” He heads out the same way Coach Daily left.

  This is it, the thing I dread most, my nightmare come true. I can’t imagine life without football or Irus Beaumont. I guess I don’t have a choice now. I grab my bag. Coach is long gone. Once through the doorway, I head to his office, flanked by Coach Daily and Doc, who appeared from nowhere. The sneaky bastards.

  Coach paces behind his desk. “Sit down.”

  “Coach—”

  “I said sit down, McCoy!”

  Enough said. I sit in the chair opposite his desk. Anything to stop him from yelling. I’m having trouble dealing with high volumes. Doc says it’s part of my list of symptoms from my concussion. I just want it to stop. Daily closes the door. Doc starts to say something, but Coach cuts him off.

  “This has got to be the biggest pile of shit to ever land on my desk. What the hell am I supposed to do with this media fiasco? Huh?”

  “Sorry, Coach. I’ll quit. I’ll resign from the team.”

  “You’re under contract, McCoy. Is that what you want to do? You want to run and hide, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What do you want to do most?”

  “I want to play football. I want to win the championship.”

  “You’ve already won a championship.”

  “I’d rather win one with the Highlanders, sir. They’re a more deserving team.”

  “Then what the hell is going through your head?” Coach raises his voice, splitting my head open like a coconut, making me wince.

  “Sir?”

  “Damn it, son. Don’t you think this is something you should’ve told me when you signed on?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t give a shit if you’re gay. I don’t even care if you’re fucking one of my players. What I care about is honesty and how you play the game. You should’ve told me. In private, if you had to, son. As your coach, I would’ve listened. Especially if jilted lovers might come out of the woodwork.”

  “Anderson’s not my lover.”

  “Terry Branson?”

  Oh God, Emma. Terry’s wife. Has she heard? “Not anymore. He hasn’t been for some time.”

  “What about Orlando?”

  “Anderson’s lying, Coach.”

  “Did Branson go see you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what’s Anderson lying about?”

  “Branson showed up one night. We talked. He left.”

  “He didn’t stay for a lovefest? He was missing for a few days.”

  “We talked. He left.”

  Coach stares at me, his jaw working his gum feverishly. He knows I’m lying. I’m sure he can tell. I’ve screwed up the honesty thing again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’m calling a press conference. This is your chance to tell me what you want me to say.”

  “Coach, I can talk to the press myself.”

  “You’re concussed. No media contact. What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. Could I deny it?”

  “There we are with the honesty again, son. Is that what you really want to do? You want to lie?”

  “Sir, do you want me to publicly come out?”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about this right now, do we?” Doc asks. “How are you feeling, Jackson?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “Doc’s concerned,” Coach Bryant says. “Feels it would be best to limit your practice. I agree, for now. Does your head hurt?”

  Coach asks me to be honest, but I can’t answer truthfully. I can’t tell him how much my head hurts. He’ll keep me out of the mix.

  “I’m good, Coach.”

  “We don’t want to play you too soon. I want you healthy.”

  “Coach, I feel great. I need to get out on the practice field ASAP.”

  “You afraid the guys aren’t going to accept you the longer you’re out of full practice?”

  “It’s not a good time to test team unity, Coach.”

  “Do you think being gay makes you less of a football player?”

  “I—I’m the alien who’s invaded their world.”

  “You’re not an alien. Don’t underestimate your team. You’re their number one receiver.”

  “Come on, Coach. I haven’t been in a game long enough to make a difference one way or the other. The talking heads are calling me a waste of money. The fans agree—”

  “Some of the fans…fair-weather bitches. Only my opinion matters. Mine and the GM. You want to argue with Alan Parker?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t listen to the media. Stay off the social networks. I don’t need your confidence blown. You’re on concussion protocol—no interviews, no tweets, no facey pages. You got that, McCoy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, what do you want me to tell the sharks?”

  “If I say I’m gay, you realize the consequences, the ridicule, along with sponsors dropping out. A lot of things could happen, Coach.”

  “It’ll make the championship win all the sweeter. You let the GM worry about all of the other things. You work with Doc. Get healthy. Get back into practice the right way. No cutting corners. Don’t rush yourself. We’ll get you back in the game when it’s time. Meanwhile, help Haines out. Give him some advice.”

  Doc urges me from the room. On the other side of the door is Bennett, the receivers’ coach, waiting to talk to Coach Bryant. This man gave me so much support when I first got here. Made me feel welcome. Loved the hell outta my talent. Told me I was unstoppable. A workhorse. In my mind, he’s a relief to see as I come out of Coach’s office.

  “Coach Bennett,” I say, skirting past him into the hall.

  “Did you have the decency to resign, faggot?” Bennett demands.

  I’m not sure I hear him correctly, and it takes a second for his words to sink in to my fuzzy brain. Coach Bennett is always rooting for me, so it’s a shock to hear the hostility in his voice. “I—I tried, Coach.”

  Coach Daily presses past me, leading me away. “Fuck off, Bennett,” he says.

  “You’re not actually keeping this cocksucker? The little bitch destroyed the marriage of a respectable man.”

  “Bennett!” Coach Bryant bursts from his office, startling me, and I step on Coach Daily’s foot.

  “Ow! God, you’re heavier than you look. Get off my foot.”

  Coach Daily shoves me away, but I’m too engrossed in the argument between Bryant and Bennett.

  “The GM accepted your resignation. What’re you still doing in the facility?” Coach Bryant asks.

  “I held out hope you’d cut this man pleaser from the roster, or are you keeping him on as team fluffer?”

  “Get the fuck out of my facility!”

  I’ve never seen Coach Bryant so angry. Even when he was yelling at me in his office, he didn’t seem mad. This isn’t an emotion we see often, if ever, except on the field when he’s defending his guys. Defending us.

  Defending me.

  I fight the urge to knock Bennett’s teeth out as he glares at me. Fucking prick. This shit stings. Coach Bennett’s one of the men I admire. Now I don’t know how to feel. Anger? Shame? Yeah, shame. I ruined a marriage. I lied to my team and my coach. Hell, I’m still lying every time I bury the truth about Branson and Orlando.

  Coach Daily leads me from the office. Even though I really want to stay and watch the fireworks between Bennett and Bryant, I follow Doc to the training room. Up ahead, I see the conference room doors are open. Irus sits at the table. Els is next to him. Rhodes sees me and gets up. He makes it to the doors just as I ask what’s going on.

  “Team meeting,” he says.

  Irus looks at me as Rhodes closes the double doors, shutting me out of the conference. At the last minute, I see Irus look away, hi
s jaw clenched. So many angry faces. I can deal with all of them except Irus. I can even handle being excluded from the team meeting, but not losing Irus. Fuck, I feel like when my mom died. I’m going to throw up again. Should I be so nauseous all the time? Is it the concussion? Stress? I’m not going to tell Doc. I don’t want any more shit piled on today.

  “Jackson, don’t worry. Public opinion is a sixty-forty split in your favor so far. It’ll be okay,” Coach Daily says, his hand on my shoulder, trying to cheer me up.

  “I don’t give a fuck about public opinion. All I care about is what my team thinks.”

  What Irus thinks—believes—about Branson in Orlando.

  * * * *

  A few hours pass, working with the trainers and Doc, before I get a chance to talk to Irus. The time spent in limbo wasn’t pleasant, but I had to put Irus away for a while. To focus on my training and doing everything I have to in order to get back to full practice.

  In the hallway, I catch up to him as he’s leaving.

  Wait, he’s leaving without me?

  I guess I should’ve expected it, right?

  “Irus, can we talk?”

  “You want to talk? Now? Shit, McCoy, you had your chance already. You know, I don’t understand how you could lie to me. Branson’s been booty calling your ass the whole time you were in Orlando, and you pass on an opportunity to tell me the truth. I thought you were busy in Orlando getting in shape to be our number one.”

  I want to kill Anderson. The look on Irus’s face. Oh God, if he’s not careful, the guys’ll figure out we’re fucking. I glance around to make sure no one is in earshot. For some reason, it pisses Irus off.

  “Talk to me, Jacks. I’m right here. Don’t be looking around for a way out.”

  How can I tell him about Orlando? About what Branson did—shit. I don’t know what to say, what I’m supposed to say in this situation. I open my mouth, but close it again, clueless as to where to start. I can’t say Branson raped me. I’d be a pussy in the minds of my teammates. I’m already a faggot to them.

  Irus shakes his head and walks out. I want to go after him. The smart thing is to stay here and let him figure his shit out. Els comes down the hall, his bag slung over his shoulder, heading home too.