Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  Els towers over me. “He’s pissed ’cuz he lost it in the meeting. Rhodes said some fucked-up shit. Irus knocked the fucker in the teeth.” Els leans down to me. “Imma gonna tell you sumpthin’, Jacks. I don’t give two fucks if you’re gay. I just want you to catch the damn ball, got it?”

  “Me too.” Mal slips around Els to shake my hand. “Welcome home, brother.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. A few more guys clog the hall, coming to meet me. Some of them look uncomfortable, but only two guys look disgusted. Rhodes and Haines. Well, Haines looks more scared than disgusted.

  “We’ll make Anderson regret fucking with you.” Els is a big defensive back. I believe him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Even if all of you accept me, it’s going to be a media circus. It’s publicity the organization doesn’t need. Branson already calls us misfits. Punks.”

  “Well, then let’s show ’em what these misfits can do, right? You ready to give up so soon, Jackson?” Els skewers me with an appraising glare.

  I’ve only given up once in my adult life. In a car, in Orlando. It’ll never fucking happen again. “Not one bit, Eldridge.”

  “Then I says fuck ’em all.” He grins. “Well, maybe I should rephrase—”

  “Not on my account,” I say. “Prick.”

  The corridor reverberates with Els’s deep laughter.

  Rhodes pushes his way past me, shoving me into the wall, and I make a go at him. Mal holds me back. “You’re concussed, my man. What’re going to do? Fight?” Mal asks.

  Els knocks Rhodes down without any effort. Els is a big boy. He moves like Bigfoot, with long, swinging arms, and he has the longest reach in the league. He’s hard-packed muscle and black as night. The sleekest strong safety I’ve ever seen.

  “Naw, boy, you don’t get to touch my number one. You go look for a new job,” Els says to Rhodes.

  Haines squeaks by quietly as Rhodes picks himself up. “You all made a big mistake keeping the faggot over me.” Rhodes points at me.

  “You and Coach Bennett can go commiserate,” Mal says. “Maybe you all can find a job together.”

  My teammates behind me laugh. Rhodes is missing a front tooth. The gap is hilarious to me for some reason. His lip is bleeding. Irus punched him in his grill. The fact Irus hit him makes my belly warm, but it doesn’t mean the man wants to be with me anymore.

  * * * *

  Doc gives me a ride home when we’re done. He doesn’t clear me for regular practice. In all honesty, my vision’s still blurry. Waves of nausea nearly bowl me over as I go through my front door. I haven’t heard from Irus. I’m afraid to ask anyone about what went on in the meeting or how Irus is dealing with the situation.

  My car’s still at the facility. Coach says he’ll take care of it, but I’m not supposed to be driving anyway. Keeps me from making a mistake, I guess, because I want to go over to Irus’s house. Talk about a big mistake. I can’t explain about Orlando. There’s no fucking way. Fuck, I don’t even want to try.

  The house is cold. I contemplate building a fire, but it sounds like too much work. I do it anyway. Burn the chill off my life. The TV in the kitchen is on. I can hear Coach’s press conference highlights.

  “Is Jackson McCoy gay?”

  “The sexuality of our players isn’t a primary concern for our organization. We place a high priority on the player as he fits in with the team and performs at the pro-football level. Some teams are concerned with what their players do off the field. That has never been an issue for the Highlanders.”

  “Are the allegations of a sexual relationship between Terry Branson and Jackson McCoy true?”

  “Again, that’s Jackson’s private life. It’s of no concern to me. If Jackson’s gay, so be it. His game play isn’t affected in the least.”

  “Why isn’t Jackson here, Coach?”

  “Come on. You know league policy prevents us from placing a concussed player into a situation that isn’t conducive to their recovery, including media events.”

  “So we can’t talk to him?”

  “No, you can’t as of yet. When the time comes, he’ll talk to all of you.”

  “How’s he feeling after the brutal game last night?”

  “He’s sore. Frustrated. I’m not sure he fathoms everything fully concerning Anderson’s accusations. Like I said, he’s being monitored closely.”

  “A source told me Irus Beaumont stayed with him last night. Have those two buried the hatchet?”

  I turn off the TV. Yeah, I told Doc Irus was coming over. I had to, or he wasn’t going to leave me alone. Doc doesn’t like his concussed players living out in the boonies all isolated.

  My head hurts. Medication bottles sit on the breakfast bar. I consider taking something for my headache, but I think I deserve some pain. For a moment, I get lost in the black granite countertop. Threaded with gold veins, it’s a striking piece of stone I installed a few years ago. Mom would’ve loved it, but it makes me think of Irus. To me, he’s like gold. I fucked up by not telling him about Orlando.

  My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Terry. I hesitate. Do I really want to talk to him right now? No time like the present. “Yeah.”

  “You better not say a word, faggot.”

  “What? We’re already outed.”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Yeah, it takes a moment, but then I get what he means. “You mean something like Terry Branson likes to hold me down and shove his dick into my ass whether I want it or not?”

  “You little prick.”

  “What do you want, Terry?”

  “I want to know what happened in Orlando stays there, asshole.”

  “Who am I gonna tell? Oprah?”

  “Goddamn you, take this shit seriously. My wife’s coming un-fucking-glued! She wants a divorce. The house. The kids. She wants every goddamn thing I own.”

  “Wow, all because you can’t keep your hands off young, gay football players. Go figure.”

  “Listen, asshole, I can’t find my championship ring. I woke up, and it was gone.”

  “Maybe she stuffed it up your ass.”

  “Not funny, asshole.”

  “Will you quit calling me asshole like I’m the guy who told the world about us? Anderson’s the jackass here. Not me.”

  “I’m the one losing my entire life, McCoy. My wife is leaving me. You’ve got no one to lose.”

  “Don’t call me again, Terry.”

  I disconnect the call, not waiting for Terry’s response. The house is quiet. Terry’s words hit home. I have no one to lose. The only one I had was Irus Beaumont.

  I’ve already lost him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Next Morning

  Irus Beaumont’s Home

  Irus Beaumont

  The radio’s set on sports news. The Dick Richards Show. They’re playing sound bites from different guys around the league. Commentators, athletes, coaches, but the one playing now makes me sick. The guy talking is a quarterback, one of our division rivals, and nothing but stupid spills from his mouth. Who the fuck gave this guy a microphone?

  “What do you think of Jackson McCoy coming out of the closet?” Dick Richards asks.

  “What do I think? He hasn’t come out of anything yet. No one’s spoken to him.” Nevada’s quarterback is a big, lantern-jawed monster. He looks more like a defensive end than a QB.

  “He’s not allowed to speak to the media. Concussion protocol.”

  “Well, that’s convenient, Dick.”

  “Did you see the hit he took?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. I’m just saying, the dude hasn’t said anything. If it were me, I’d be screaming my head off. I mean, if it weren’t true, I think we’d be hearing from the guy. Alls I gotta say, man, is—not on my team. No way. Can’t have a guy ogling my ass in the locker room. McCoy better watch out. Irus Beaumont taking him out in practice suddenly makes a lot more sense.”

  “Are you insinuating Beaumont took McC
oy out because he found out about his sexuality?”

  “Not insinuating a damn thing. I’m saying it, and he’s covering his *bleep* with this whole burying the hatchet thing.”

  “Highlanders’ receivers’ coach, Bennett Johnson, resigned because, and I quote, ‘I refuse to work for an organization willing to keep a fluffer on the roster.’ Lost a lot of money in the deal.”@

  In my closet, I keep a set of golf clubs. Been trying to learn the game in the off-season. I rummage through the bag. My pitching wedge looks like it’ll do the trick. Today I use it for something entirely different. True, I’m hurting myself beating my radio into tiny pieces of busted electronics, but I feel so much better.

  I look at the broken plastic and think about Jacks.

  Jesus Christ. I’m such a dick. I know this, but I still can’t bring myself to call him. I’ve no clue how he’s getting in to the facility today. I try to tell myself I don’t care, but I do care…a lot. Just not enough to drive all the way out to the boondocks to get the guy. I’m still pissed at him. I gave him the chance to tell me something, and instead, he squirrels away secrets.

  With a few minutes to spare, I finish getting ready and down the last of my coffee, once again thinking about Jacks. Part of me hopes he doesn’t figure out a way to come in today. I don’t think I can stand to look at him. In my mind, all I see is Branson sucking Jacks off while I whisper stupid shit in his ear over the phone. God, I feel played. What’s worse is, I didn’t think Jacks was that kind of guy. It’d be nice if he wasn’t, but I’m a realist.

  The car ride’s miserable. The last trip to the facility was fun, but this is heart wrenching. I’m pissed and hurting. No wonder the guy was so evasive. He can’t even be honest about a past relationship. The truth now has probably saved me more heartache down the road, but it doesn’t feel that way.

  I keep telling myself I don’t care how Jacks gets to work. Deep down, I know I’m not that much of an asshole, but I’m already at the facility. My gut clenches when I see his car, but then I realize it hasn’t moved. Someone took him home last night, or he slept in the locker room.

  This morning we’re supposed to be in meetings, but Coach Bryant’s in the locker room, gathering all of us around him. An older white guy stands with him. He’s fit and tall. Damn. Taller than me for sure. The man looks familiar for some reason. I can’t pin down his face, but I’m sure to find out soon enough.

  Els slides in next to me. “Where’s McCoy?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Doc says you were gonna be the one babysitting him last night.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  Els looks at me funny. More of a disapproving stare than anything.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You gonna dump on his ass just like that? Did you really hit him and put him out because he’s gay?”

  “Oh, don’t go all Dr. Phil on my shit, Els. Jackson McCoy isn’t my problem anymore. He’s a big boy. He’ll figure his shit out.”

  As if on cue, Jackson thumps into the locker room, decked out in head-to-toe black leather motorcycle gear, dripping rainwater on the carpet. His long hair plasters his head and neck, wet from the ride in from the wilds. He stops when he sees the man with Coach Bryant. His face pales, and his lips compress into a flat, angry line. He unzips his jacket. I can tell he’s pissed.

  God, he looks good all leathered up. Shit, am I just finding out something new about myself? No fucking way. Still, I can’t deny how good he looks, even if his eyes have dark circles around them, and his face appears strained. Like he’s holding back a tide of emotion.

  “Jackson, my boy!” The tall, white-haired man with Coach Bryant swoops in to hug him, but Jacks maneuvers out of the man’s grasp. The guy towers over him like a Viking warrior. “Come on, give me a hug.”

  “No.”

  The man looks around the room with a big smile on his face and says, “I practically raised Jackson. Lived in my home for a while as a child. His poor mother struck with cancer—”

  “Don’t you talk about her,” Jacks says, a dangerous tone in his voice. There’s a current of hostility in Jacks’s body movements. He’s stiff and ready to strike, his full face helmet in his hand like a weapon, preparing to lash out at this guy for reasons I can’t fathom. Nor do I care to, because right now I’m getting pissed. Jacks rode his Harley in the rain all this way while still potentially suffering the aftereffects of a recent concussion. He’s lucky Doc isn’t here right now.

  “Guys, guys! Is everyone here?” Coach Bryant asks.

  “Rhodes isn’t,” Haines calls out from somewhere behind the milling crowd.

  “Oh well, I can’t wait. Guys, this is Paul Phelps. He’s agreed to come out of retirement to give us a hand as the receivers’ coach until we can find a suitable candidate. Please make him feel welcome.”

  Jacks walks to his locker, chucking his helmet into the cubby, making a thump we can all hear over everyone welcoming Coach Phelps.

  “Please everyone, just call me Paul. Or Coach.” He laughs. “Or Coach Paul. Hey, Jackie, I’m looking forward to working closely with you, again.”

  “Don’t fucking call me that, Paul. Hate it when you call me Jackie.” Jacks pushes past Coach Paul. “Don’t piss me off.”

  “Jackson,” Coach Paul calls out. “Heard you came out. Good for you, son.”

  “I’m not your son.” Jacks looks at Coach Bryant. “I’m gonna find Doc and get started. You don’t need me, do you?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Jacks doesn’t even look my way. I might as well not exist. Why’s he so hostile? Not like he’s the one who was lied to… Is it because Anderson outed him, or because I didn’t go see him last night? I’m the one who should be angry. Where does he get off acting like he’s the one with all the problems? I just found out my lover can look me in the eye and lie to me without flinching. I’m the one who has a right to be pissed.

  Branson pops into my head. The thought of that big man all over Jacks infuriates me. Now I hate the guy. I hate his face. His voice. The way he signal calls. Everything about the man pisses me off. The way he stood on the sidelines and enjoyed Anderson knocking the shit outta Jacks.

  The errant thought arrests me. Yeah, Branson enjoyed watching Jacks get taken out of the game. Not the reaction of a lover.

  Christ.

  * * * *

  A Few Days Later

  Highlanders’ Athletic Facility

  Lost in my head, I imagine Branson and Jacks together until I’m sick to my stomach. Every fucking day since Anderson’s tweets, I imagine the fucker’s hands all over my lover, or is he my ex-lover now? I don’t have a right to Jackson. He’s an adult. We’ve spent only moments together. Moments beyond sex. Hours talking on the phone, listening to him get off, and now I have to question whether he was alone or not.

  Could Jacks really be that kind of guy?

  It’s my fault for falling so goddamned hard for him. The vision of Branson fucking Jacks manifests in my head. Truth is, Jacks never really lied to me except by omission. Does that still make it a lie? He told me about Branson. He just didn’t tell me about Orlando.

  Jacks returns to practice, but he’s limited. He’s working with Coach Paul and the other receivers. Sometimes I watch him. He’s standoffish with Paul. Every time the man touches him, Jacks shrugs him off, sometimes violently.

  Today Jacks finally looks at me, and it takes all my strength to glance away. To focus on what I need to do in practice. The worst part is Coach Bryant has me covering Jacks while he practices passing routes. All that bumping and rubbing flusters me. I can smell him, feel his body heat, and I realize how much I miss him. He’s close enough to touch, but I don’t dare. Jacks keeps his eyes on the ball, never really looking at me except for cursory glances.

  After practice, I make it to my car, and I’m almost out of the parking lot when my phone rings. I look at it, but I know it’s Jacks by the ringtone. I hi
t the hater button, sending it directly to voice mail. A few minutes later the message comes through. I hit the playback. His fragile voice penetrates the car.

  “I get it. I’m sorry.”

  I play it back until I realize I’m crying like a bitch. I want to be there for him, but all I feel is rage. Rage against Branson. All I can see when I look at my lover is that fucker Branson digging his meat hooks into Jacks. Every day seeing Jacks at work is killing me. At least Coach took away Jacks’s motorcycle keys. One less worry on my mind.

  * * * *

  Two Days Later

  Jackson McCoy’s House

  The woods surrounding Jacks’s house are dark and sodden. The glow coming from the house soothes me. Yet I’m upset by it at the same time. Jacks is in there alone. He didn’t try to call me again. He didn’t beg. Didn’t plead his case. Instinctually, I think he knows to leave me alone when I’m pissed. To let me work through this myself.

  On my way to the door, I nearly slip on the wet stone walkway. That would’ve looked good, me showing up on his doorstep covered in mud. Maybe I deserve to get dirty for treating him this way. The front door has one of those old-fashioned bells in the center that has a knob you crank. I loved it when I first saw it, but now I twist it with a sick feeling in my gut. A shadow passes down the hall through the stained-glass window.

  The latch is thrown, and it swings open. Jacks stares at me.

  “Hi,” I mumble.

  “Hey.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Jacks stands back. I move past him into the living room.

  He joins me. I turn to face him. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Why?” Jacks asks, his voice husky, like he can barely speak.

  “It’s important.”

  Jacks fidgets. He refuses to meet my eyes. When he does, I almost lose my resolve, but I need to know the truth.

  “Irus—”

  “I need to know it’s over between the two of you.”

  “I told you. I’m done with Branson.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Orlando.”