by Liz Crowe
Rafe had spent hours designing the locker room to his specifications along with state of the art training and workout facilities. He’d already put up about two thirds of the team in the JW Marriot in a nearby suburb. Where, thanks to one Nicolas Garza, he already had a huge bill for damages to one room from red wine spills and god knows what else.
All in all, the fact that he still had no real coach yet and had to lead this rag-tag group of men into their first season on his own made him as nervous as a cat. The added bonus of having accidentally gotten his forty-year-old wife pregnant only made it a thousand times worse.
As he drove he practiced his rah-rah-sis-boom-bah and his hardcore take-no-bullshit speeches, trying them on and discarding them in equal measure. Fuck it. I’ll just tell them my plan and give them their phones, room keys, and uniforms. They’re grown men. I don’t have to hand-hold them that much, please God.
When he emerged from his SUV in the baking hot parking lot of the soccer practice facility they currently shared with a bunch of kids and parents until the official opening of the Black Jack stadium, he tugged his hat down and pushed his Ray Bans up, hoping to escape recognition on the way in.
The sight of several high-priced convertibles and at least two vintage Jags and a Corvette made him grin. Men, boys, there wasn’t much difference especially among pro athletes. They worked hard and played harder, spending their money on fast moving things that made a lot of noise, looked nice, and made them feel important.
Rafe stopped, realizing he could be describing their automobiles as well as their wives and girlfriends. Because along with every pro sports team came the WAG contingent, trailing drama and distractions at every turn. Thank God Nicco had agreed they should keep a lid on the “gay athlete” thing. He’d said he would lay low and not draw attention to himself.
As long as Rafe kept the media focused on the team, and not on the fact it boasted a player who, for all intents and purposes, had been ruined overseas when his ex-wife claimed he “was as queer as a three-dollar bill.” Squaring his shoulders, he walked in, staying under the radar until he ducked into the conference room he’d reserved. He took a breath, closed the shades from prying eyes, turned and faced his team.
Chapter Six
Nicco narrowed his gaze, keeping his feet propped on the conference room table and generally taking up more than his allotted space. He watched the men mill about, greet each other, and ignore him. He’d been in Detroit for almost a month already, had more or less acclimated to the chilly air in the middle of the summer, and felt pretty good even if a little wobbly from last night’s overindulgence.
The whole “Black Jacks Boast First Openly Gay Player” bullshit had gone away, thanks in no small part to Rafe. He smiled, recalling the sort of photos that could have been taken last night in his hotel suite with the young black man—Terrance—Nicco’s new boy-toy obsession.
Terrance had agreed not to talk. Nicco knew better than to believe him, but he did things to Nicco’s body with his lips, tongue, fingers, and cock that negated his potential as secret-teller. He had no intention of giving any of it up anytime soon. It kept him from thinking about anything: Leandro, his own personal misery, the booze he consumed, and the fact he already had become an outsider on a team that only just now had its first official meeting.
His fingertips grazed a small card in his pocket, making him wince at the memory of his first encounter with the team psychologist. He’d set it up one morning after booting Terry out the door, along with a couple of girls he’d convinced to come by for some playtime. His head had been pounding, not so much from a hangover but shame.
When he had flipped through his expensive-looking orientation packet the words “team psychologist” had leapt out at him as if connected to a hand gripping him by the short hairs. Not a new thing, all teams had one. So, sick of his bizarre need for constant physical contact—for fucking, he’d corrected, tired of even glossing over it in his own stupid head—he made the call. In the meantime, he’d enjoyed the workouts with the trainers, the few times he’d scrimmaged around with some of the other players. They’d all been contracted but not obligated to do anything for a month but “acclimate to their new surroundings.”
Part of the acclimation came with the requisite social networking and attendance at some high-visibility fundraisers—which is where Nicco had hooked up with Terrance, who’d been attending as personal assistant to some politician. He’d also been encouraged to look around for a place to live with the assistance of an eager young real estate agent, an adorable, sexy, girl whose name he had forgotten within minutes of banging her brains out in an empty mini-mansion. Par for his course, really.
His first session with the psychologist, an earnest, nerdy-looking guy with square glasses and a cleft chin, had been brutal. Nicco had deflected and, to his credit, the shrink had let him front and show off like a dumb ass for a full hour.
Then, just as he was getting up to leave, convinced the whole thing had been a total waste, the guy looked up at him, pinning him with eyes so sharp and clear they made Nicco gasp in spite of himself. “Nicco,” he’d said. “When you’re ready to face up to your addiction, I’m here to listen. I know you have a problem with sex. You know you have a problem with sex. I’m glad you made this appointment. Next time, let’s make it more useful, shall we? And for your information, I did not support the concept of putting you out there as poster boy for gay rights or gay athletes.”
The man had removed his glasses, staring Nicco down as if he could see into his very soul. “I am gay. I have been with the same partner, a man I love dearly, for six years. I understand, on a certain level, what you’re dealing with. So,” he’d put the glasses back on and glanced down at his tablet computer. “When will I see you next?”
Now, Nicco pulled the card from his pocket and stared at the therapist’s name and phone number. Then ripped it into small pieces as the rest of the new team filed into the room. He noted two German players he’d had run-ins with in World Cup play, a South African player who must have cost the casino owners a pretty penny, at least three Brits, a Welsh guy or maybe Irish, and two South Americans whose dark, intense good looks made him shiver with memory.
A handful of fresh-faced young Americans interspersed in the group made him feel old. Which totally pissed him off. What was Inez thinking anyway? There were two per position in the room, two strong players for each spot—except his. He sipped his water bottle and glared at the Germans. Nervous tension gnawed at his gut but he kept his face calm. Finally when their temporary coach showed up and flipped the blinds closed, he relaxed.
So everyone in the room has to fight for their spot except me? That works. He dropped his feet to the floor at Rafe’s pointed glance and propped his elbows on the table prepared to ignore the forthcoming pep talk.
He’d already made plans for the night and wanted to rest up beforehand. This goofy welcome pep talk would be as good a time as any. Letting his thoughts wander to the nightclub catering to gay men and promising full discretion, he made himself stop obsessing over the failed therapy session.
The door clicked open and all eyes landed on the tall, blond man who walked in, backpack on his shoulder, dressed to play. Nicco’s scalp tingled at the sight of him—strong torso, long legs, firm jaw covered with several days’ worth of fuzz. Good Christ but he was a perfect specimen. Nicco kept his casual stance but startled when the kid’s bright blue eyes and huge white smile landed on him.
He resisted the urge to smile back. Something about the man made Nicco distinctly uncomfortable but horny at the same time. He suddenly wished he’d held onto the shrink’s business card.
“And Parker will be working with you, Nicco.”
Nicco sat up, knocking his water to the floor as Rafe’s words got his immediate attention. What the fuck? He stared at the polite hand the kid stuck in his face then over at Rafe. His throat closed up between the proximity of the impossibly handsome man and realization of the fact that the v
ision of masculine perfection he’d lusted after for the last few seconds wanted to take his spot on the field.
Oh hell no. He leaned back again and ignored his inner polite self. Instead, he smirked, ignored the punk, and turned to face their coach as if suddenly fascinated by what the guy had to say. Parker stood a minute, and Nicco watched his face turn red before he sat in the one empty chair nearest the door.
Rafe passed out new phones, reminded them of their obligation to “tweet” and “post profile updates” on Facebook at least three times a day. All shit Nicco already knew. Rafe’s hot young lady assistant issued key cards to the ones who’d just arrived, including the kid Nicco studiously ignored but whose very presence was making the front of his jeans uncomfortable.
He shifted in his seat, trying to get control of himself, a bizarre combination of anger and lust spinning around his brain. The room rose, and Nicco joined them making their way out into the hallway.
A gaggle of kids and parents awaited them, and the team spent about an hour signing soccer balls, slips of paper, jerseys, getting photos taken with camera phones. Nicco joined in to prove his ability to schmooze like a pro. At one point he caught sight of his new young coach with his arm around a tall, attractive, pregnant woman with coal black hair. Rafe caught his eye and beckoned him over.
“Nicolas Garza, this is Maureen, my wife, and her son, Adam.” A dark-skinned teenager next to the stunning woman stuck out a hand. Nicco took it, noting the kid’s own club kit and backpack. He took Maureen’s hand, kissed it, and eyeballed Rafe.
“Well done, young Rafe. What a vision. How did a loser such as yourself rate such beauty?”
Maureen frowned but her eyes sparkled. “Spare me, Nicco. I’ve heard all about you.”
“I have no doubt of that, lovely lady.” He gave a short bow. “But may I also say congratulations on the coming joy.”
She smiled at him, and he mirrored her, liking her already. He valued women who took no shit from him. Winking at Rafe, he made his way back into the teeming throng after nodding at the woman’s son, who didn’t look that much younger than his mother’s new husband. He immediately locked gazes with the blond American usurper and his throat closed up. The man stared at him wide-eyed and innocent, and Nicco had to grip the back of a chair to keep from saying something utterly stupid.
He’d wager his left nut that young Parker had never been with a man, but the sheer sexual energy pouring off him was intoxicating. His fresh, clean good looks spoke of a typical American, upper class upbringing, expensive soccer clubs and college scholarships. Shit Nicco usually despised and denigrated.
He broke the eye contact and set his jaw. The kid had another think coming if he honestly thought he’d be taking Nicolas Garza’s place on the team—pure and simple, no matter how fevered his sudden fantasy over popping the kid’s cherry. He ran a hand down his face and swallowed hard. Things had certainly gotten complicated and then some. But he had a focus now—keeping his starting spot ahead of the delectable Parker.
Chapter Seven
Parker smiled, signed jerseys, made random small talk with his new teammates, and tried like hell to ignore the blatant stare coming from the famous Spanish player. The guy had a nerve, ignoring him like that in front of everybody. So far, consensus on the team about Nicolas Garza remained consistent—he was the official bad boy, their token player everyone loved to hate. Parker didn’t think it was a good way to initiate team dynamics, but he wasn’t the coach.
So he did his thing, Tweeted, made a few Facebook comments under his new profile: Parker Rollings, Black Jack, signed more balls and grinned for more pictures. By the time they’d finished the fan scrum his ears rang and his stomach growled.
“Hey, Parker, do you have a car?” The dark-skinned South African forward slapped his back. “Need a ride?”
“Uh, sure, um….” Parker tried to remember the man’s name.
“Kago.”
“No car yet, so that would be great, thanks.” In Kago’s huge shiny SUV, they were joined by two Germans and a kid Parker remembered playing against in college. During the brief trip to the hotel, he learned Aric and his quieter fellow German, Tobias had both given up decent careers in the Bundesleague to take a chance on this American experiment.
Tobias was married, but his wife had stayed behind for a year just to hedge their bets. Aric had a girlfriend who’d be joining them in a few months. Kago kept quiet about his personal life, which Parker respected by staying silent about his own.
The other American, Cole Franklin from Somehere-who-cares, Ohio kept up a steady monologue about himself, his talents, his various trophies and championships, the many women he’d fucked, and how much more pussy he anticipated getting now that he was a pro player, precluding much other conversation.
Parker stared straight ahead listening to the chatter from the back dominated by the loud American and various grunts and one-syllable answers from the Germans. A hard reality struck him then—the gamble he’d taken coming here matched the huge crap shoot nature of the whole damn project. He had felt such an affinity for Rafe when he’d met him after the championship game, but until that moment he had no idea how far out on a limb he stood with this motley crew of players.
He grinned and looked at Kago who threw him a genuine smile in return. Maybe it would be fun. A convertible raced by them, top down, long blonde female hair whipping around on the passenger’s side. Parker bit his lip at the sight of Nicolas Garza behind the wheel, one hand draped over it, the other along the back of the seat, his dark face casual as if the whole driving thing was just an afterthought.
Swallowing the urge to grip his thighs and clamping down on all forbidden fantasy images, he took a long breath. The car sped up and zoomed around them, disappearing into the shimmering heat of the highway ahead.
All his intense imaginings about men had to remain in his head. He would likely never be able to experience the hard muscular planes of another man’s body under his hands. Not if he were to achieve his goal of pro soccer stardom. He swallowed hard and made a mental note to find a girlfriend, fast.
“So Parker. How do you feel about being pitted against Nicco the Terrible?” Kago asked.
Parker frowned. “Pitted against him? I figured I was just his second.”
“No. Our coach is going old school on us. Making us earn our spots in one-on-one competitions starting on Monday.”
Parker’s heart sped up. He had always admired the Spaniard’s style, but was confident of his own talents. “Huh. Well, I guess I’ll have to beat him then.” He blushed as the three older men burst out laughing. One of the Germans smacked his shoulder.
“Big talk. You have no idea how hard that bastard will work to keep his spot. But never mind. That’s for Monday. It’s Thursday and I, for one, have never been in a big American city. I say we hit at least three strip clubs, two casinos, and end the night with an orgy in…your room.”
Parker gave a weak grin at the roars of amusement and ran a thumb over the new debit card the pretty, dark-haired assistant had pressed into his hand earlier.
“Plenty of money here, Parker. An advance on your salary to get you settled.” Parker had never in his life thought much about money. Now on his own, worries about how to actually afford tucking singles into bikini bottoms and throwing cash at the gambling tables invaded his brain.
They pulled into the hotel’s swank front court, exited, and made their way to the bank of elevators. Parker’s head spun from residual stress, hunger, and anxiety at the thought of an actual strip club. He shook his head. Get a grip and act like a man, Jesus. Men do these things all the time. No big deal. He shut the room door and leaned on it a minute, trying to still his racing heart. He’d never regretted his sheltered life as student-athlete-with-regular-sex-from-a-girlfriend more than at the moment.
He glanced around at the suite, which boasted sleeping and sitting areas, plus a luxurious bathroom with a tub and shower big enough to hold a family of six. Parker
devoured an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl and tossed his new phone on the marble table top before slumping into a chair.
He stared at the new device wishing he had someone to call; someone who gave a shit he’d arrived safely and was settling into his new life. But he didn’t. His mother had called once leaving a terse, predictable message that made him ache for his old life while at the same time relieved he’d left it behind. He’d made his choice. Although disturbing erotic thoughts of the compelling Spaniard, the guy he was supposed to compete with for his starting position, made him doubt his sanity.
Rafe sipped his beer and attempted to relax. Maureen and Adam chattered with friends on either side of him as he smiled at the various locals who stopped at their table to congratulate him on pulling together such a great team His heart pounded in his ears, the gigantic, colossal mistaken nature of this project whipping through him like a hurricane. Huge. Epic. Failure waiting to happen.
His leg bounced from nervousness until Maureen’s calm, cool hand touched it. She kept talking to the woman on her right but her palm stroked his thigh, soothing, erotic, and annoying all at once. He wanted to crawl up the damn walls. Why had he put himself in all these simultaneously stressful positions? Jesus, just a year ago, he coached a group of teenagers on an elite travel team, his main stressors that of parents always pressing for more playing time or positive evaluations for their kids. With no real worries other than where he’d buy his next meal or what girl he would call to take off his edge.
He blinked, staring at his wife’s profile. They had gone through hell to get to this point. It had taken him months to convince her he loved her. He would not trade it for a million dollars. Still, he should have taken one glance at her brother’s proposal to take on recruiting for this crazy project and said “Hell. No.” before running in the opposite direction.