by Liz Crowe
“Yeah,” Nicco had said, nervousness running up and down his spine like rats’ feet. “So what happens now?”
What happened came quickly and included a solid month of interviews up one side and down the other by every sports, news, and gossip channel. He’d gone on late night talk shows, mid-day women’s shows, you name it he’d been there, declaring his extreme gayness to the world.
He still didn’t quite understand why. Actually bisexual, but unwilling to explain how it gave him double the opportunities, he left that part out. A sick sort of publicity web got woven around him, thanks to his own words and actions. He got a shit ton of hate email, texts, but none of it bothered him. Because the one man he wanted to be out for would have nothing to do with him.
Parker and Ashley remained the happy, pretty, and perfectly hetero couple. He had no one. As the gay-boy darling of the press, the brave man who’d risked his career to declare truth to the world or however the marketing department was spinning it, he decided he deserved a vacation. To a ridiculously expensive and far away gay club where he could fuck his way through as many handsome, wealthy men as he wanted.
He’d heard of La Luna but had dismissed it as excessive and unnecessary. He had all the sex he wanted, until now, of course. So he paid their extortionist fees, and here he sat. Since he was now a minor celebrity, he got priority booking it seemed.
His team had been supportive up to a point. He’d known better than to pull this stunt during the season. His shrink had called him because Nicco had skipped his last two appointments, worried about his “motivation for such an announcement.”
Nicco had laughed and told him he’d never felt more free, more unencumbered, albeit a little lonely. The man had sighed in his ear, made noises about “negative motivations” and “more talk therapy” so Nicco had hung up on him.
Then he’d dropped to the floor of his condo and let tears slip from his eyes, finally succumbing to real chest-heaving sobs. He cried like a woman—for Leandro, and for Parker before he fell into exhausted asleep right on the hardwood.
The fallout had been immense but mostly in a positive direction, which had shocked him. A month after the fact, Nicco stood, ensconced in the public eye as a celebrity, a hero for the gay athletes everywhere. Handsome, mature, fit, successful, rich, and homosexual, forever and ever, amen.
He sighed then startled when the door in the suite behind him rattled and swung open. His chair tipped too far back, dumping him onto the terrace floor. “Shit, mother fucker goddammit!” He scrambled up, rubbing the back of his head, and found a towel to wipe the juice off his brand new linen shorts. His face burned and the acid in his gut bubbled up another notch. Why in the hell he’d be nervous when he faced nothing a week of screwing, then back to life as usual, escaped him.
Of course, he did have to make a decision in between all the fucking—about whether or not to stay in the States during the offseason. More importantly if he’d exercise his option to stay with the Detroit project. His agent had been screaming at him to get out of it. A couple of major league soccer teams had been nosing around until his Big Gay Announcement. Right after, his agent would only return every other one of his calls. Until the positive media onslaught, which seemed to remind said agent of Nicco’s future contribution to his agency’s bank account.
Nicco had developed a soft spot for the Motor City, and the thought of never getting to see Parker again made him nauseous. Besides, he had no choice. The BJ’s, as the Black Jacks had taken to calling themselves, supported him, at least on the surface. He’d best stay where he could still play. Because no matter what Oprah, Dave and the yammering idiots on the American Sports Network claimed about a “fresh new open mindedness,” the fact remained: Nicolas Garza had likely ruined his career with his little lifestyle reveal.
Which was one of the reasons he’d chosen this ludicrous setup. Maybe he would meet the love of his life here at this exclusive resort dripping with good-looking rich guys hiding from the world. He sighed and walked into the main sitting area of the luxury suite, prepared to meet his newbie buddy for the first night.
His feet froze and his whole body contracted in response to the man who stood in the doorway, thousands of miles from Michigan, suitcase in hand, Ray Bans sliding down his patrician rich-boy, American nose.
“What are you doing here?” Parker spoke first, breaking the moment. He glanced at the number on the door and on the key card in his hand as if they held the answer. Nicco saw a drop of sweat bead up on Parker’s temple. He ached to leap across the room, hold the obviously anxiety-riddled young man until he relaxed.
How this had happened, he had no idea. His heart pounded in a new rhythm, one of sweet anticipation.
Nicco stuck his hands in his pockets, determined to remain nonchalant. “This is where I was told to come, for my, ah, rookie trip.”
“Well they’ve obviously screwed up.” Parker dropped his case and frowned. Nicco’s mouth went dry. “I’m here too for …holy shit. And you are a rookie at these things?” Parker’s voice cracked, which made Nicco want to laugh, and cry and run away from him all at once.
He shrugged and tried to keep his voice neutral. “Yeah, so I see. And as a matter of fact, I am a rookie at ‘these sorts of things.’” He hooked fingers around the words, which felt lame and stupid.
“No. Hell no. No fucking way.” Parker started to back away, but his foot tangled in his shoulder bag strap, and he landed on his ass, cursing like a sailor. Nicco burst out laughing so hard he had to sit.
Parker scrambled to his feet and frowned; as Nicco kept guffawing, the stress of the past months and the extreme surprise of seeing the object of his lust at the door overwhelming him to the point of hysteria. Finally Parker shook his head, unable to suppress a wide, innocent grin that made Nicco’s heart hurt all over again.
I won’t do this to him. He’s too good for me.
Wiping his eyes, he rose and faced the tall, handsome American, put his hands on broad shoulders, biting his lower lip to keep the spasms of uncontrollable laughter at bay. “You’re right. This must be a mix-up.” He put a palm to Parker’s rough cheek, something he’d been dying to do for months and was surprised when the other man closed his eyes, and leaned into it for a half second. Then his eyes sprang open and he stepped away, rubbing his face as if scalded.
Nicco took a breath. “C’mon in anyway, have a drink. I’ll call downstairs and get it changed.” Parker’s lean frame moved out to the balcony as his own body started a long, slow dance of horny he was going to have to work hard tonight to dispel with some lucky stranger. Keeping his gaze glued to the man’s back, he picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.
After a thoroughly frustrating conversation Nicco figured out what he already surmised—the resort service had somehow matched them. He ambled out to the large terrace overlooking the perfect turquoise sea. Parker had fallen asleep in a lounge chair, which gave Nicco some unrestricted observation time. Before he did something rash, he put a hand on the man’s knee, startling him awake.
“Let’s take a walk.” He turned and headed back into the condo, needing some space to sort out how to handle this. He slipped off his ruined shorts, pulled on a pair of plain ones and turned. His throat seized up at the sight before his eyes. Parker stood up, had taken off his shirt and now faced him, in utter silence.
Nicco had seen him hundreds of time like this, and more, considering they shared a locker room. The more he’d had gotten to know the younger man, the more he liked. His goal-oriented focus, drive, and talent had earned him the captain’s role for the team. Natural leadership skills had shone since day one, and Nicco loved working with him to whip the team into shape on the field.
The subtle aura of vulnerability and innate shyness intoxicated him—a man used to show-offs, blow-hards, and self-aggrandizing assholes. Parker had a dry sense of humor, self-deprecating but not annoyingly so. Nicco would never forget the one moment they’d shared, that he’d engineered, which
had nearly freaked the poor kid out so much he’d fallen down the steps at the in his haste to escape. Plus, that odd, near-miss in the locker room when Nicco had been within a literal second of shoving him against the wall and kissing him until they were both dizzy.
Parker stood and stretched, trying to clear the fuzziness and confusion and whatever else rolled around in his brain. His body creaked and popped as he turned, tugging his travel-wrinkled shirt over his head.
Nicco stared at him, mouth all but hanging open. Parker’s face flamed in its usual fashion as he held the shirt in front of him.
His skin prickled, and his brain sent unwanted signals to the rest of his body, which began to betray him, in an obvious way, under his zipper.
Shit. I gotta get out of this. Now. This vacation is a huge mistake.
He swallowed and stepped past the man, who appeared frozen in place. “Excuse me.” He snagged his bag and ducked into the half bathroom.
“You know, I’ve seen you,” Nicco called through the door. “We share a locker room, for Christ’s sake.”
Parker propped his hands on the marble sink and stared into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. His body thrummed with erotic energy. He had to put a stop to this. He should never have come here. He can’t be with a man. It did not square with his goal of soccer stardom. And he definitely could not be with Nicco. Not and keep his sanity. “Yeah, well, you’ve done more than just see me if I’m not mistaken. That’s why I’m in here. Thanks.” He croaked out.
He emerged, determined to make the best of the next few hours and then catch a plane home. Nicco sprawled on the large leather couch reading a newspaper. Parker took a minute to study him, willing himself angry, anything to reject what his body wanted him to do.
His gaze traversed the long line of the man’s dark-skinned legs, crossed at the ankle, up to his black shorts, to the bare and fit chest. He ground his teeth and held back, palms itching to plunge into his thick mane of hair, to run his tongue along the strong jaw, down to his tempting, copper-colored nipples.
“Fuck,” he muttered willing his cock soft before taking a step into the room. He got caught in a mass of fabric as the wind blew a puff of warm air into the room, billowing the curtains right into his path. He batted them away and took his eyes off Nicco long enough for the man to get to his feet and stand mere inches from Parker.
He sucked in a breath. “So, let’s walk.” He stepped around the other man, yanked the door open, and stomped out into the hall.
The mantra played through his brain drowning out the sounds of the elevator during the awkward minutes it took for them to descend to the lobby. “I’m not this guy. I’m not this guy. I’m not….”
He followed Nicco out, nodded at the beautiful women at the desk and kept his eyes roaming, anything but stare at the broad shoulders of the man in front of him.
You are this guy, Parker Rollings. You paid more money to attend a week at an expensive gay resort than some families make in three months. You are here to fuck men. Or to be fucked by them. Whatever. Nervous energy shot down his spine.
At that precise moment he could imagine Nicco’s cock, against his ass, pressing inside his body, bringing pain and the most exquisite bite of pleasure. It made his face flame red and his breath catch in his throat.
They emerged onto the beach and shuffled along in silence. Soft, powdery sand felt good to Parker’s aching feet after he slipped off his shoes, leaving them at the hut near the resort bar. He had no idea what to say, how to start, how to end, how to extract himself, or even make a pass at the guy.
Their bizarre history stretched like a canyon between them. The easy conversations they’d had in and around the soccer venue felt very far away. Parker cursed himself and made a vow to only stay a few minutes, then get his ass back onto a plane out of here. They must have walked nearly an hour, well past the boundaries of the La Luna resort, in what had eased, somehow, into a comfortable silence.
He heard a shout. “Nicco! Nicco!” A small, dark skinned boy ran up, a gleam in his eye. “Is it you?” Nicco grinned at the kid.
“Yeah, I believe so.” He shrugged at Parker who couldn’t resist a matching smile.
“Hey, d’you wanna play? You and—hey, you’re Rollings, aren’t you? From the Black Jacks! Hey guys!” The kid ran off, leaving Parker and Nicco standing for a few seconds. Then they found themselves surrounded by a gaggle of boys and girls of all ages. A soccer ball appeared, got kicked into the air, and the race was on.
Parker chuckled. This he understood.
The sun beat down on the near-paradise of sand and sea as the men jumped into the pick-up match, playing full out, giving a few tips, but mostly enjoying the beautiful game they both loved.
Parker feinted, moved past Nicco, passed and his small team scored, causing paroxysms of delight, high fives, and various celebrations. Nicco frowned, called his team in for a quick conference, then raised an eyebrow at Parker and held up a hand to signal resumption of play.
Parker trotted forward, easily maneuvering around the small bodies, letting a few of them take the ball from him on purpose as he made his way to the makeshift goal. “Now!” He heard Nicco call and suddenly the entire opposing team descended on him, circled him, forcing the ball away from his feet by the sheer mass of their numbers. He grinned, sprinted after Nicco who headed straight for the opposite end.
Before Parker reached him, he planted the ball into the small net and turned to accept his own celebrations. Parker watched, sweat dripping from his hair as the man let four or five small kids climb up his arms. Parker’s chest constricted at the sight, scaring him, forcing him to turn away.
After another hour, the kids’ parents gathered them up and the two men wandered back to the La Luna private beach and sat together, sore feet stuck in the surf. Covered in sweat and sand, Parker allowed a happy relaxation to ease into his chest.
He dropped back on one elbow and watched the huge red sun-globe hover over the sea, turning the fluffy clouds an amazing array of colors. He observed Nicco rolling his shoulders and propping his elbows on his knees and wanted more than he wanted to his next breath to reach out and touch those shoulders, back, and more. He shook his head.
“That was fun.” He hated the sound of his own voice.
“Yeah,” Nicco grunted, keeping his gaze trained on the horizon. Frustrated fury surged through Parker’s brain.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve fucked up your resort weekend by showing up. I don’t want it either so I’m gonna head back and see if the front desk can get me a flight.” He gasped when Nicco turned to him, mocha dark eyes glistening with emotion. Within seconds the man loomed over him, hands on either side of Parker’s face, forcing him to lie back or they’d knock foreheads. Nicco’s warm breath, his intense stare, made Parker shut his eyes, willing the urges coursing through him far, far away. Then, suddenly, he didn’t want to fight it anymore.
The sand scratched his back, the cool water lapped at his feet, and when he opened his eyes ready to accept whatever Nicco offered, the man glared at him then backed away, resuming his seated position, staring at the sea. Parker stayed put, flat on his back, collecting himself. A warm palm touched his thigh.
“I’m glad you’re here. Stay. Por favor.”
Parker closed his eyes again, terror and raw, primal lust raging through his soul. While something else in him achieved a sort of peace then, with Nicco’s light touch to his leg. This would be complicated. As he propped himself back up on his elbows and the men sat in comfortable silence for a while, he knew it would be worth it, and determined to make it so, for both of them.
Chapter Fourteen
Nicco winced as his newly-sore feet hit the cold tile of the bathroom floor. After a long hot shower, he wound a huge towel around his waist. As a small spark of anger caught, burning a little brighter behind his eyes.
Jesus Christ, Garza, you seduce men and women with ease. What is your fucking problem? You want this kid. Take him. He’s ready. It’
s a purely physical act. You understand the mechanics. The kid is an obvious bottom. You prefer to top. Perfect. Do your thing.
Nicco’s chest burned and his skin felt raw, flayed at the word floating through his head about Parker…“mine.” At loose ends, unsure if he should amble out of the bathroom naked, with a towel, fully dressed, or what, which pissed him off even more.
He glared into the mirror, dragged fingers through his wet hair and set his shoulders. He’d be damned if this kid, this…unbelievable, handsome, smart, talented, and compelling man would turn him into a nervous teenager.
He jerked the door open and walked out with the large towel still around his waist, determined to get control of this thing. To take what he wanted, go back to Spain, and never darken the door of America again. Not if it meant exposure to heartbreak. He’d come out publicly, so he could never play in Europe, but he had plenty of money. He could retire, consult, coach, or sit on a beach for the rest of his life. Of all the things Nicolas Garza was careless about, one of them was never money.
It had been a foolish stunt with the Black Jacks, putting himself out there, a prancing pony for the media to drool over and the public to crush to their collective, open-minded bosom—or vilify as “all that was wrong with sports.” He’d cut himself off at the knees with it for certain. He was stuck in America now, of all places, the country that had at least at first taken on his open homosexuality with a media-frenzied fervor.
All the foolish fantasies he’d allowed himself years ago with Leandro, the one man he loved more than life, came rushing back. Scenes of domestic bliss, of shared goals, happiness, and more flashed through his head as he took in the sight of Parker. The tall man stood in front of a gigantic television tuned to a premiership game, shirt in his hand, his perfectly-formed back and broad shoulders an insurmountable temptation.
Nicco took a breath and headed for the mini bar. Alcohol. That would help.