Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

“What?”

  “Sometimes your blanket coverage is a shroud, Beaumont,” Jacks says with some seriousness.

  I laugh. “Thanks, bro.”

  “Well, I don’t like the Pirates. They’re dick holes,” Kane says emphatically.

  “You know, the trade was the best thing to happen to my career. I’m on my hometown team,” Jackson says.

  “Yeah, and you got some awesome dick out of it too.” Kane grins, and Jacks winks at him.

  “Can we not talk about my dick?” I ask.

  “Right, because I don’t need to know about your ex’s dick,” Garrett says to Kane.

  “Tha’s why football is played on Thanksgivin’, so nobody talks ’bout uncomfortable shit.”

  “You said it, Auntie.”

  “Watch the game, boy.”

  The talking heads take over at halftime. I mute the TV, but flip it over to a sports news network before tossing the remote back on the table. A few minutes later, the photos of Jackson and I are displayed on the screen. Kane grabs the remote to turn off the TV, but Jackson stalls him.

  “Turn on the sound,” Jacks says.

  Kane searches for the Mute button, but I grab the remote, clicking the button on the side. The TV blares into the silence. A panel of one woman and three guys discuss our relationship rather than the Thanksgiving Day game.

  “Just a few months after Jackson McCoy’s alleged affair with South Carolina Pirates star quarterback, Terry Branson, pictures are hitting the buzz feeds of every social media outlet of Jackson McCoy in bed with Irus Beaumont. Cobalt, what does that tell you about the players involved?” asks the pretty blonde woman, Jennings Taylor, of two former league players, Cobalt Palmer and Jonesy Pearl, and longtime sports commentator Doug Seadham.

  “Well, back in the day when I was playing, we didn’t really talk about it, but there were locker room ’hos. Guys we knew were gay. Who had relationships with guys on other teams, maybe some of their teammates, and who went out to clubs trolling for sex.”

  “Cobalt Jackson’s an ass,” I say.

  “My grandfather called him a big, blond, buzz-cut, lantern-headed, jack-jawing linebacker who didn’t have shit for brains.”

  I laughed. “I’d like your grandpa, I think.”

  Jacks smiles and looks back at the TV.

  “If no one talked about it, then how’d you know?” asks Jennings, her innocent blues intelligent and spearing.

  “There’s always gossip. Parties where things would get out of hand, you know.”

  “Are you calling Jackson McCoy a locker-room whore?” She redirects Cobalt’s accusations back with such sweet precision.

  “One of the most talented and outstanding wideouts in the league?” adds Doug Seadham.

  “You said it, Doug. A wideout.”

  “Are you implying that wide receivers are gay? All of them?” asks Jonesy Pearl, a former wideout himself.

  Cobalt grins. “Well, you going to tell me different, Jonesy?”

  Jonesy gets a gleam in his eye, steps up to the challenge, and jabs the older man in his expensive lapel. “I vote for the legalization of gay marriage. I vote for gender equality. I vote for my gay brothers and sisters to marry.”

  “Are you saying you’re a fag?” Cobalt asks.

  “What just fell outta your mouth, you Aryan SOB? My older brother is gay. That man has been with his partner for thirty years, but folks like you say he’s an abomination. How many divorces have you had? Three? You want to talk some more homophobic trash, asshole?”

  “This is actually entertaining,” Jacks says.

  “I think it’s meant to be. Why else would they have someone like Cobalt on there? The guy’s an ancient parody of a great defensive lineman,” Garrett says.

  Auntie Beulah huffs. “Should be me up there sayin’ my piece. Wouldn’t it be sumpthin’, ole black tranny me up there talkin’ ’bout gay football players. Former player myself, I’d do it.”

  “I’d pay to see that, Miss Beulah,” says Garrett.

  “So would I,” Jackson says with a hint of mischievousness, like he’s planning his own TV show.

  Kane says, “We need a gay sports news show.”

  “Oh Lordy, the world better look out for your gay ass,” I say to Jackson.

  “Yeah, you’re just the guy to smile, give them the finger, and then drop trow, showing your blue moon to the entire set,” Garrett says with a laugh.

  “It’s not beyond the realm,” Jackson says. The smirk on his face has me a little worried but more excited to see the old Jackson back in full force. I don’t know how long he’s gonna last when we start back to practice.

  Chapter Twenty

  Highlanders’ Athletic Facility

  Jackson McCoy

  The rain splatters the sodden field. We’ve been forced to retreat to our indoor practice field. The big roll-up doors are open to the storm rolling across the valley. Kane, Garrett, and Miss Beulah sit on the sidelines, enjoying the attention from all the players. Kane laughs it up with some of the receiving corps, while Garrett’s surrounded by linebackers and big uglies. Miss Beulah’s there with him, but her eyes scan the field, probably looking for Coach Paul.

  “You sure your auntie won’t do something stupid, like snap Coach Paul in half?”

  Irus looks up from stretching, hitches a shoulder, and grins brightly. “So what if she does?”

  “Damn it, Irus. You want me to do this, right? Give the deposition? We need to not do anything to Paul in the meantime.”

  “She promised to be good. I’ll take my auntie’s word over anyone else’s. Including yours.”

  Irus’s face is serious. I nod. My gut agrees with him, but my heart would love to see her snap the bastard in two pieces. “Okay, good. I can accept that. Bringing your family as a distraction was a good idea, but once we’re all in the locker room, it’s fair game. If those boys are gonna flip you shit, there’s no escaping.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  Coach Bryant walks through the lines, talking to the players who are preparing to practice. He sees Irus and me, so he ambles over. Coach Bryant is a towering big ugly with a perpetually sunny disposition, so when he’s angry, we all know it, and he can get loud.

  Today, he’s joking with folks. Generally, everyone is happy and ready to be back at practice. Coach Bryant is no exception. His smile fades as he approaches us, but his look is one of concern, not anger.

  “How are you boys doing?”

  “Good, Coach.” Irus stands up to shake out his loosening limbs.

  “So, I hear it’s official. There’s been a bit of a lifestyle change over Thanksgiving break.”

  “Coach—” I start to explain, but he holds up a hand to stall me.

  “You know I don’t give a rat’s ass that you two are fucking. Just know, with those pictures out there, the media is gonna want to talk about your private life instead of football. Keep it out of my locker room and off the field. You can be out, loud, and proud. When you’re here, you’re mine, you’re football junkies, and all I want is your dedication. Beyond that, remember this is football, it’s your life, and you share it together. We do what is good for the team, but not at the cost of the individual. Do you hear me, Jackson? Not at the cost of the individual.”

  I hear him. He means Paul. “I can handle it, Coach.”

  “Got a call from that FBI guy, says you made an appointment to do the deposition, asked if it was going to conflict with our schedule. I think he’s just wanting tickets to see us crush Ft. Lauderdale.”

  “Sounds like Maddox,” says Irus.

  Coach Bryant chuckles. “Big-time Highlanders’ fan he is—every time he comes in, he goes all fanboy on me.”

  “Maddox? Agent Cole Maddox?” Irus asks.

  “Special agent,” I say quickly.

  “Right. Special Agent Cole Maddox.” Irus smirks, but then turns serious. “He comes to the facility?”

  “Been here once or twice, checking on how things are going with Pau
l. I don’t like this, Jackson. I want to fire the guy.”

  “Let’s just string the fucker along, Coach. Have done with this shit once and for all.”

  Coach Bryant looks thoughtful, like he’s considering something new about me, and comes to a conclusion. He slaps his hand on my shoulder, connecting with the small practice pads I’m wearing. “Okay, girls, let’s go,” he yells. “First-string offense against defense! Let’s see how much that turkey dinner cost you all!”

  Irus grins at me. “I’m gonna cover you like…what did you say? A shroud.”

  “Bring it, sister. I got you beat.”

  We move into our huddles. Everyone is excited and ready. We run through a couple snaps. I scrub Irus on a go route, cutting in to receive the ball, and hesi around him to score a touchdown. I toss him the ball and give him a salacious grin. He’s not gonna let me do that one again anytime soon.

  The next drive downfield is fun and easy. I’m catching screens. Eagle makes a good run downhill, but Irus comes in and tackles him. Eagle hops up, shoves his helmet up off his face to teeter on the crown of his head, and yells, “You almost made me eat my moustache!” He runs his thumb and forefinger down the mussed facial hair reverently and eyeballs Irus, mean-mugging him for fun.

  We head back to the huddle. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Paul talking to Miss Beulah. Shit. Not good. Beulah sees me and waves, a big smile on her face. She links her arm through Paul’s and winks at me. Oh no. No. Not good. So not good. I can feel my stomach begin to churn. Someone grabs my face mask, there’s a whistle, and a voice announces delay of game. Five-yard penalty. Repeat down.

  Mal has my face mask, and he jerks me around to look in his eyes. “Focus, Jacks. WTF?”

  “Nothing, sorry.”

  “Keep it together, man. All right,” says Mal. “Let’s go.” He runs through the play and we break into formation. It’s an easy screen pass. My only problem is our free safety. He’s good, and if our middle linebacker reads the play, I’ll be in double coverage. Mal and I have done this before, and he threads the needle like it’s no sweat off his balls. Just gotta hold on to it and take the hit. With any luck, I can gain some yardage, but the play is designed to guarantee the down. Get the down. Worry about scoring later.

  We’re going on a hard count, trying to get the guys to jump, but they don’t. Ball is snapped, and I move. Out of the gate more like a Clydesdale than a Thoroughbred, trying to scrub coverage, feeling like I’m wading through quicksand, and Mal hits me right in the numbers. The sting of the football burns my hands and jams one of my fingers. I can’t hold on to it. The ball comes loose as my left knee collides with the ground. Linebackers scramble for it, but the ball’s whistled dead. Incomplete pass. It’s third and four. We’ve got one more try to get a first down. I’ve just fucked up, and Coach Paul sees it. He waves me out of the practice game and sends in Haines.

  On the sidelines, one of the assistant trainers looks at my hand as Coach Paul is in my ear bitching about my game play. The trainer tapes my fingers together. The white tape stands out clean against my dirty skin.

  “What’re you doing, Jackie? You’ve been dropping a lot of balls lately. Whatsa matter? Too much sand in your britches?”

  I jerk my head up and see the anger in his eyes. Real anger, like I’ve just cheated on him or something, and he steps closer still. I can feel his heat. His breath bears down on me, hot on my cheek as he yells at me, calling me worthless and sorry. The trainer leaves, looking uncomfortable with Coach getting in my face, and I don’t blame him. Just wish he hadn’t left.

  Paul towers over me. Even now, he’s still bigger than me, and he uses that size to his advantage by walking straight into me. There’s no choice but for me to give ground. He backs me up by the training table.

  “I made you, Jackie. I made you to win. Not to drop balls. Your ass is in this league because of me. What you do and don’t do on that field is a direct reflection of how I coached you. Bad enough you suck Irus’s balls, but now you can’t catch them?”

  “I can catch the goddamned pass.”

  “I thought you were a champion? It was a simple screen pass. You’re not going home tonight until I’ve made sure you know how to catch a goddamn screen.”

  Paul shoves me aside to focus on the game play. It’s not unusual for a coach to holler at his players, but this intense shaming isn’t Coach Paul’s style. I’m not used to this sort of thing from him. When he does dig into me, it’s in private, and I can fight back.

  I don’t dare call him out in front of all these people. He wants everyone to only see the likable guy. The coach who’s everyone’s friend. He prefers to get me alone and rip me a new one, away from prying eyes and ears. I expect tonight isn’t going to be any different. This isn’t about me dropping passes. This is about me sleeping with Irus.

  * * * *

  Practice wraps up for everyone except me. It’s dark outside and still raining. So I get to run gassers the width of the football field and back under the hot lights of the indoor practice facility. My side hurts. My legs burn. I collapse on the side of the field. On my hands and knees, retching the nothingness of my stomach. I’ve puked too many times tonight for there to be anything left. All I want is to run the gassers outside in the cool rain. No way am I gonna break down in front of Paul.

  I get to my feet. The room spins, and sweat burns my eyes. Please, just let me run in the rain. “Coach?”

  “Run it again.”

  I lick the sweat from my lips. “Can I run in the rain?”

  “You want to go outside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Irus and his family are watching Coach put me through my paces. This is embarrassing. Irus is pissed. I can tell by way his angled brows point toward the bridge of his nose. Been on the receiving end of his wrath before, and I know what it looks like. Kane and Garrett sit quietly, holding hands with solemn expressions. Beulah looks lethal. Coach Bryant comes in and sits down. Beulah, who looks about ready to come unglued, seems to settle down. Coach Bryant has that effect on folks.

  Paul looks around and nods. “Sure, we’ll go out into the rain.” He grabs a bag of balls and scruffs my pads, maneuvering me outside. The lights flip on, and I look back to see Coach Bryant standing in the doorway. Thank God, everyone else stays inside. I don’t want them getting wet on my account.

  I’m not going to break, and I don’t want to be saved. Perhaps Coach Bryant can tell, but he’s still watching all the same.

  In the rain, Paul grabs a ball and sends me across the field to catch a pass. It’s a nice throw, good spiral and trajectory, but I slip in the puddles forming in the grass. My cheek grinds into the ground, and my hair, plastered by the rain, gets in my eyes along with a splatter of mud. Dirt covers my hand and smears across my face as I attempt to wipe away the muck.

  Coach Paul hauls me up from the ground. He shoves me toward the sideline. I know what he wants. Another gasser, another painful run back and forth across the field at full speed. When I slip and fall, he makes me run it again. Doesn’t faze me. Mentally, I can handle this, but the stitch in my side is more pronounced.

  “Come on, Jackie! We’re not leaving here until you catch a ball!”

  Paul sends me out for a middle screen pass, thrown just a little too high, but I go up for it, feeling the scrape of the ball through my wet fingers. Damn it. I hit the ground with my fist, splashing water in my face, but it feels good. The rain washes the sweat from my eyes, and it cools me down. All I need to do is stay focused, catch that fucking ball, and shove it down Paul’s throat.

  Yes, I’ve been letting him get to me, but not anymore. The moments when he has me isolated, jack jawing about my waning ability and how Haines is ready to take my spot on the field, have almost been too much. He’s full of shit and bluster. Every second on this field with him tonight is one more reason to do the deposition. Another nail in his coffin. I can’t believe how much power I gave him. The control I still allow him to have over me.r />
  “Goddamn it, Jackie. Get up.”

  Paul hauls me upright, his aging yet hard face bent to mine. The water runs down the crags of his skin, his brows furrow in anger, and his fists grab my jersey, bringing us closer.

  “That’s goddamn Bert Beaumont in there, isn’t it, you little fag? What’re you trying to pull here, Jackie?”

  The big side door to the training facility opens. Irus is backlit by the light spilling from inside. He’s back in his practice pads. His shoulders are wide, his helmet is in his hand, and his dreads hang down to form the silhouette of the man I love.

  At the sound of the door, Paul turned, but now he looks at me again. “Does he know? Who have you told, you little slut?”

  “I haven’t—”

  “Bullshit!”

  “You think you’d be here, coaching a pro team, if someone knew you liked to fuck little boys?”

  He shakes me, doing his damnedest to pick me up, but we both know his strength only goes so far.

  I look over his shoulder. Irus is almost to us, but I wave him off. I want to hear what Paul has to say.

  “Do you think Coach Bryant is the kind of guy to cover up a coach’s involvement in child molestation?”

  Paul’s face contorts. “I did everything for you. All of it out of love. I loved you, and you returned it. Gave yourself to me, and now you’re spreading it around the locker room…allowing that thug to fuck you. You’ve always been mine, Jackie.”

  Gave myself? Thug? Rage blinds me, and I lash out, striking Paul in the mouth, going numb, hitting him again even as my vision narrows to black. Someone tackles me, and we slide in the mud, knees and elbows jabbing as we roll around. Grunts fill the air as I struggle against the body pinning me to the ground.

  “Stop it, boy. I’ve got you. Trust me.” Irus’s voice sounds strained.

  “What’s going on here?” Coach Bryant demands.

  Irus sits me up but keeps his arms around my midsection, holding me back as I scramble to my feet.

  “He called me ‘stone hands,’” I say. “Said I’m not worth the money.”

  Coach Bryant acts like he isn’t buying it and looks to Paul. “What the fuck is going on here?”