by Liz Crowe
His phone buzzed but he ignored it in favor of easing into Maureen’s under-the-table caress, needing her more than he needed anything at the moment. She turned to him, her bright blue eyes comforting. He smiled as the band around his chest loosened an inch or even two.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered, her hand planted firmly near his crotch, making his scalp zing with anticipation.
“Can’t,” he whispered back, moving so she could get a better angle. “Jack and the guy from the casino are coming by. They want a play by play from the team meeting.”
She sighed and sipped her lemonade. “Okay, but it’s already nearly nine.” She stared at his beer. “Jesus, I wish I could have one of those.”
“Hell no, woman. You won’t corrupt our son that way.”
He leaned into Maureen, taking a deep breath of her scent which had always thrilled him but now had a ripe undercurrent that never failed to bring his whole body to strict attention.
“I love you.” He’d never meant anything more sincerely in his life.
She put her head on his shoulder. “I know. And you’re going to be fine. This whole thing is going to be great. I know it.”
“Yeah, Garza and all, eh?”
“Well, he seemed very nice.”
Rafe snorted.
“Yeah, Dad, he did.” Maureen’s body stiffened. Rafe let it pass.
“You think so, Adam?” He thought his heart might burst from his chest. “I hope so. I really really do.” He had never asked Maureen’s nearly grown children to call him anything but Rafe.
Jack strode up, his eyes full of stress, but smiling at the sight of them. He dropped into the booth. Maureen leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Hey, handsome.”
He ordered a beer, then sat back and unbuttoned his top shirt button. “Fuck me. What a day.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow at him.
“Goddamned market is going haywire. People are back to writing purchase offers on the hood of their agent’s cars. Like the old days, but Jesus please-us is it stressful.” He grinned and sucked back half the amber brew. “Any good news to be had?”
“Well, Sevim gave me a verbal agreement about an hour ago. He’ll be in by Friday to sign a contract.” Rafe’s personal triumph over signing the Turkish coach faded at the sight of the unfamiliar local number on his phone. He’d programmed in all the players’ new numbers so he had no idea who this could be. “Inez.”
“Yes, this is the J.W. Marriott. We have a couple of complaints and, um, the noise seems to be coming from your floor. You know, the players’ floor.”
Rafe groaned. It starts.
“All right, I’ll call the manager. He should be in the building, and I’ll be right out.”
“Thank you, sir.” He hung up and met his brother-in-law’s dark stare.
“You let them loose? Tonight? You do realize where they are right? Smack in the middle of Detroit with casinos, strip bars, and nightclubs in their path?”
He ignored the man’s rhetorical bullshit and hit the speed dial for the team manager as he got to his feet. No answer. He ground his teeth and sent a text demanding a return call in the next five minutes. “Yeah, Jack I do. But these are grown men. They’re….”
“A bunch of prima donna professional athletes with too fucking much money and an ass load of testosterone to blow off. Loose in downtown Detroit. Better call the PR department.” Maureen started to slide out of the booth. Rafe took her hand and helped her up.
“I’m fine, honey. But I need to get home.” She glared at her brother. “You. Be nice.” The tension in his face softened as he looked at her. Rafe’s head still buzzed with stress.
“I’ll update you later,” he tossed over his shoulder as he led them out of the increasingly noisy restaurant. “I’m so sorry.” He kissed Maureen’s forehead. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“It’ll be fine. The hotel is probably being picky. Go make some threats and get them calmed down. You have practice, when?”
“Monday.” He winced, realizing the mistake, even as he said it.
“Oh, well, um, maybe you should call an impromptu one this weekend—you know, mandatory or something so they don’t…I don’t know.”
As he climbed behind the wheel of his truck and watched Maureen’s taillights disappear into the traffic, Rafe tried to figure out how in the hell he’d been named babysitter for a bunch of grown men.
Chapter Eight
The early sun warmed Nicco’s skin as he finished the sixth of his ten-mile run. His head finally cleared allowing him into the zone of pain-free euphoria he always reached at about this point every morning. No matter how late he’d been up, what or who he’d been doing, he never, ever, skipped his run.
The fog had burned off a nearby golf course and early players headed to the first hole. The brisk Michigan air brushed across his skin, making him break out in a chill. He slowed, headed up a hill, crested it and stopped, looking around at the vista of bright green. For some reason, it seemed unnatural and surreal, exactly like this whole fucking expansion soccer team experiment.
He sighed and started back down the other side, picking up speed and letting the increasing exhaustion in his legs distract him.
By the time he got back to the lobby, a bunch of his new teammates had gathered in the coffee shop, jawing and sipping from cardboard cups. They ignored him. He returned the favor, tipping a salute to the hot blonde receptionist who’d given him a stellar blowjob the night before.
Several teammates had made a half-hearted attempt to include him in their lame plans to hit strip clubs and casinos and whatever else Detroit could provide them last night, but he’d demurred and spent the evening between the legs of said lovely behind the desk. A much better tradeoff, considering the young coach had been called in at one point to yell at them all to shut the fuck up or risk getting booted to the curb of the high-class hotel. By the time that happened, he’d been passed out, sated, after sending what’s-her-name on her way.
He’d been subjected to a second round with the psychologist and spent a pleasant half hour baiting the guy about his own “I’m gay and I’m proud” confession. Then he passed the rest of the time staring sullenly at his own shoes.
“See you next week, Nicco,” the therapist had said at the quiet end of the hour. Nicco had snorted and slammed the door.
Leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator, he let endorphins from the hard run rush through his brain. He barely noticed when a hand appeared between the closing doors, forcing them back open. Grimacing at the delay Nicco looked straight into the bright blue eyes of the man who had haunted his wet dreams.
“Oh, um, hi. Sorry.” Parker Rollings blushed and ran a nervous hand through his short-cropped blond hair.
Nicco didn’t trust his voice so he nodded, annoyed by how his scalp prickled at the young man’s proximity. He stood up straighter, letting his gaze traverse the very pleasant landscape of young Parker’s, back, waist, and ass. He took a breath, tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. Which really pissed him off. When the doors slid open, Nicco remained frozen in place, gripped by uncertainty.
Parker turned to him.
“We got off on the wrong foot.”
Nicco nodded, throat closed in agony at the deep slightly southern cadence of the other man’s voice. “So, let’s try again.” The tall American stuck out a hand. “Hello, I’m Parker Rollings. Pleased to meet you.”
Nicco stared at it, willing the muscles and bones of his shoulder and elbow to cooperate. He observed his dark hand gripping Parker’s. And just barely resisted the urge to grab the rail behind him at the bright shock of chemistry passing between them.
Parker gasped and yanked his hand back, staring at Nicco as if at a particularly disgusting roadkill. Then, as is the way with polite, well-brought up American boys, he smiled, putting Nicco at ease in way that terrified him and turned him on in equal measure.
“And you are Nicolas Garza, the guy I think I
’m supposed to beat if I want my starting spot, correct?” He stood next to Nicco, forcing him to ease away ever so slightly. “Good run?” Nicco’s eyes refused to obey his brain’s direct orders and stared as the sweat droplets on Parker’s shoulders and beautifully defined biceps beaded up and disappeared in the dry cool air of the small space.
The silence expanded, encompassing Nicco in a cocoon of awkward lust. “Oh, uh, yeah, good run. You?” He passed a shaking hand over his face and moved another few centimeters away from extreme temptation.
The doors slid open. The two men didn’t move. Nicco pushed himself away from the wall, his body sore, frozen, old and used. The fresh beauty of the young man pissed him off for some reason. Take his starting spot? Not likely. He fixed what he hoped was a smug look on his face, turned to face Parker’s fresh-faced eager youth, and got slammed straight in the libido by a connection so intense his jaw dropped. He clapped his mouth shut and frowned trying to square the warring emotions in his brain.
Yep, time to see that shrink again.
Because something about his frighteningly real reaction to Parker Rollings made him want to take the kid off to a private cabin and just…hold him close. The young man oozed vulnerability, but it combined with a sort of innate strength just under the surface.
It made every hair on Nicco’s body stand up straight. He took a deep breath, started to speak, to say something resembling polite. Something not sounding like “I want to make love to you until you scream with pleasure.”
Parker spoke first. “Yeah, so see you Monday.” Parker put a hand on the back of his neck.
Nicco spoke without thinking. “Some of us are going out tonight. There’s this club….”
“Oh, um, I’m not really into….” Parker stopped, seemed to rally himself. “Okay. Great. What time?”
Nicco smiled. Round one to the old guy. “Late, ten thirty. Meet in the lobby.” But he wanted to warn Parker at the same time. To tell him not to come, to avoid it, to avoid him, Nicco, like the plague he was.
“All right, thanks.” A smile lit the young man’s impossibly handsome face, shooting another bright shaft of desire straight to Nicco’s gut. He stepped backward into the hall and lifted a hand at the closing doors then made his slow way to his room, his cock so hard under his loose-fitting shorts it made him limp.
He dropped into a chair, staring out into the sunlight and pondering just what in the hell he would do with young Parker, should he get him alone. Closing his eyes against onrushing emotion, he got up and stumbled into the shower.
Parker stared at the clothes he’d purchased, hoping they’d be okay for the club. Dark jeans, a white shirt with a brown pattern woven around the back and over a shoulder, black square toe shoes, new belt, even a new wallet holding more money than he’d ever had at one time. His ears buzzed and something zinged his nerve endings he couldn’t identify. He ran a hand over his jaw, decided against a shave, and climbed into the shower.
He’d spent nearly three hours practicing trying to work off some nervous energy. About half of the team showed up, and they’d done a few self-directed drills, laughing and getting the measure of each other before the official pre-season team camp started on Monday.
Parker had let his captain’s brain take over and observed the group, saw them interact, and allowed the first hint of optimism sneak into his subconscious. This Black Jack thing might work as long as they could pool their collective talents.
Parker spent a solid thirty minutes under burning hot water, the huge lonely space he’d nurtured since getting off the plane from Louisville receding for the first time. The hard workout he’d more or less guided everyone through had helped. His natural leadership tendencies showed themselves in the way the older men deferred to him.
He stood, hands on the cool tile forcing his brain to still, as his body kept revving, sending tingles from his scalp to his toes before settling firmly in his groin. He groaned and fisted himself, letting the water hit his face as Christie’s body flashed briefly across his memory.
He gasped, went up on his tiptoes as the dark eyes and face of the man who would be his nemesis appeared bright and compelling. The broad span of his shoulders, trim waist, firm ass and thighs made his hand move faster as the memory of the man’s lilting Spanish accent filled his consciousness, firing his fevered brain.
His body clenched. He moaned as the room darkened. Warmth coated his hand and stomach, as he held himself up against the wall, Nicco’s dark face finally fading. He washed off, anger replacing the knee-jerk horny.
He was not that guy. He was not gay. He couldn’t be. Not and fulfill his dream. He stepped out and dried off, yanking the new clothes on before slapping on some cologne. All in a haze of confused frustration.
A quick memory of Christie, the woman who’d been the first to convince him to wear scent, made him wince. She no longer played a part in his life. He’d left her behind, along with everything else he knew, loved or understood. A great well of loneliness yawned at his feet, making him gulp.
His phone buzzed. He answered as he threaded the new belt through denim loops.
“What’s up tonight, Parker?” Kago had been at the field today, and they’d had a great time with drills and chatter. He remembered now mentioning getting something to eat together later. He winced.
“Oh, ah, I forgot I’m headed out with, um….” He sat, wondering what had possessed him, thinking he could just “go out to a club.”
Kago laughed. “It’s cool, man. I was just calling to let you know I’m lying low. Drank too much last night, ya know. And you killed me with that workout.”
He dropped into a chair suddenly relieved and unsure why. “Sorry. Want to run in the morning?”
“Sure. Behave yourself tonight. Garza will only corrupt you.”
“How did you…?”
“I just do. Watch yourself, mate.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just some club.”
The other man snorted into the phone, setting Parker’s already rattled nerve endings alight. He put the phone down on the table and took a deep breath commanding the vision of the dark-skinned, compelling man out of his head for a few more minutes.
Nicco had already summoned a minivan taxi for them by the time Parker met up with the five other teammates and an attractive, dark-skinned man he’d never seen before. The steady stream of masculine laughter, commentary on the day’s games in Europe, and ribald jokes about the reputation of their interim coach filled the space, allowing Parker time to sit back and observe.
The news that Metin Sevim had been coaxed out of retirement and had agreed to lead them still shocked them all. Parker knew the guy’s story—everyone who knew soccer did. It truly seemed small miracle he would be showing up within days to coach them.
Nicco dominated the space. He seemed eager to share his vast, deep knowledge of the Euro leagues. Of the other men in the van, only one had played overseas. Everyone else was a raw rookie like Parker. The dark stranger monopolized Nicco’s attention and Parker’s eyes fixated on the slender hand he kept on Nicco’s thigh.
The trip to the heart of Greektown in Detroit took forty minutes. During the trip, the men consumed shots of expensive Scotch, which went straight to Parker’s head making him wish he he’d eaten something since lunch.
At one point, when the laughter and voices were loudest, Parker glanced over and locked gazes with Nicco. He frowned at the other man’s raised eyebrow. What in the hell did he need to prove? Who was that other guy, with his hand on Nicco’s leg? Jesus. It all felt contrived, a show for Parker’s benefit.
He broke the moment and turned his gaze to the window confused, pissed. The little kid at the grown up party sensation burned a hole in his gut.
“So, Rollings, you got a hot young lady friend joining us out here in the Motor City soon?” The other European older player, Lawrence Williams, a Brit, slapped his shoulder, making Parker flinch at the sudden attention the entire group directed his way. “Surely a
strapping handsome lad such as yourself has plenty of opportunity for bird watching before she shows up?”
“Ah, there is no one. At the moment.” He took a nervous gulp of his second Scotch. The group laughed louder at his cough as the alcohol burned his throat.
“There’s a good lad. No one to disappoint, that’s my theory,” The guy slammed his drink and leered into Parker’s face. “Variety is the spice of life, eh, my fresh-faced American?”
“Bloody virgin if you ask me.” The man with the possessive grip on Nicco’s thigh smiled into his glass.
“Be nice, Terry.” Nicco patted the man’s arm then leaned over towards Parker placing a warm palm on his knee. “Don’t mind them, love.” His lips tickled Parker’s ear, lingering over the “love” a little too emphatically for Parker’s comfort.
He smiled weakly and sat back, processing how much of a mistake he’d just made, agreeing to accompany this group downtown. Glancing around, he noted all eyes on the awkward scene Nicco had just created.
Nicco’s gaze never left his, and for a moment Parker wanted nothing more on the planet than to pull him close, cover his full lips with his own, fist his hands in Nicco’s thick, dark hair. He shook his head at himself. This could be a long night.
Chapter Nine
Within thirty minutes of arriving at Club Nubo, on the penthouse level of the D-town Casino, Parker knew he’d made a serious mistake. The huge space, lit only with flashing neon, boasted some of the most beautiful human beings Parker had ever seen in his life. He tried not to gape as he sipped a beer and took in the teeming dance floor.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a barely dressed, model-gorgeous woman touched his arm and ran her hand up his biceps. “Hmmm, new to town, handsome?”