Unnecessary Roughness (ESC Mavericks Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  "Unlock this fucking door," I growl, my breaths coming in quick bursts.

  "Nate, come on. We can work this out. It's--"

  I whirl on him, and I must look fucking wild because he recoils like I'm about to fuck him up.

  "What's there to work out?" I ask, feeling like I'm just about to lose it. "I get it. You're gay enough to fuck me, to have your dick in my mouth, but you don't want to be gay enough for anybody to know about it."

  "That's not what I--"

  I reach across him, lunging for the lock release. As soon as I hear the click, I go back for my own door and open it before he can stop me.

  "You know what, Owen? You were right. I am better than this shit. And you can suck your own dick from now on."

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I vault out of the seat and start walking for the exit, my thumb outstretched and tears streaming down my face.

  20

  Nate

  It's a good fucking thing practice is canceled over Thanksgiving break.

  Not having to room with Owen was a start. I crashed on Eli's couch until my last class that Tuesday. ESC doesn't have a big campus, but somehow I managed to avoid Owen for those couple of days. It wouldn’t have mattered if Coach made us hit the field, since he’d probably still be there. Not allowed to practice, but hovering like a motherfucker on the sidelines. But Coach let us have the whole week off, and Eli and I were gone as soon as our last classes finished.

  The drive home only takes me an hour, and when we aren’t talking about football or dumb shit, I fire up my Spotify playlist to try and drown out the thoughts racing through my head. As mad as I am at Owen right now--as hurt as I am by what he did--I can't help but wonder what he's doing for the holiday. It's probably just him and his dad. I don't think he's even talked to his mom for more than a few minutes since the divorce. And considering what an asshole Tom Collins is, I doubt he's going to do anything special.

  Not like at my house. Thanksgiving is a Big Fucking Deal for the Vincents. Not as big as Christmas, where all my nieces and nephews and younger cousins are showered with gifts. But Thanksgiving ranks pretty high up there.

  There's always a ton of food, though that goes without saying. My grandma makes the traditional spread of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, all that good stuff. But our Cuban neighbors go all out too, making platters full of ropa vieja. It's enough to feed three families our size, and that's saying something since we have a pretty huge family.

  It's not all about dinner, though. Football has always been a big deal for us. We watch the game together, then afterward we get a game of tag football going. Me and my siblings, my cousins, even some of my aunts and uncles join in. Somebody always forgets it's tag football, not tackle, and then somebody else starts shit and it devolves into one big fight about the official rules before Mom yells from the house and tells us she's going to give all the pumpkin pie to the dogs if we don't get our asses inside.

  I usually look forward to this day all year long, but this time I'm just... I don't know. I'm not dreading it, but it's not doing much to improve my mood. Probably because I planned on bringing Owen with me. It’s not like Eli’s a poor substitute. I really appreciate him being here, even when he’s just sitting quietly and offering support. But as soon as we get to my folks’ place, I have to tell my mom she can’t fawn over my boyfriend because we aren't a thing anymore.

  I tell myself not to think about him--to enjoy this time with my family, and fuck him for making me wish he was here--but it doesn't work. Everything reminds me of Owen, from helping my mom cook to listening to Eli talk with my aunt about the Mavs’ chances of a championship this year to getting my hands on the ratty old football my folks have kept around since I was five.

  Especially when my nephew Jordan just totally fucking flattens the neighbors' grandkid as he's running the ball down the patchy field. My sister is yelling at him, but he's got this cocky grin on his face like he knows just how cool that move was.

  It reminds me of Owen and that stupid, smug smile he'd get after dropping me on the practice field. Or after making me come so hard I was shaking afterward.

  God dammit. Not helpful. And really fucking awkward.

  "Nate, tell this boy that is not allowed in touch football," my sister grouses.

  Andrea was always my favorite growing up. She's ten years older than me, so she was the cool one, where my brothers were just dicks. She was especially cool when I finally came out to my family during the whole blowup in high school. Now that she has a kid of her own, she's definitely cashing in on all the favors I owe her.

  Looks like a lesson in sportsmanship is just going to be another way of paying her back for driving me to football practice when she first got her car.

  "What?" Jordan asks with feigned innocence, that smug smile still stuck on his face. "I didn't mean to knock him down. It was just momentum."

  Eli—who’s playing man coverage on Jordan’s team—snorts at that. “Yeah, man. It was momentum. You know how it is.”

  “You are so not helping,” Andrea says, shooting him a glare.

  Eli just flashes her what the guys like to call his panty-dropping smile. The smile he and I know is actually his “make any guy drop to their knees to worship his cock” smile. It works on Andrea, though. She tries to hide her face, but I can see the blush.

  "Sorry, dude," I say, putting an arm around Jordan’s shoulders. "Physics isn't gonna get you out of this one. No matter what Eli says." I scoop the ball off the ground and toss it back to my brother Tony, who's taking turns with his wife snapping the ball for the kids. "Give them ten yards for that."

  Jordan and Eli both pout, but Andrea cuts her son a look that makes him quickly suck in that bottom lip. I wait until she's not paying attention to nudge him and say, "Hell of a tackle though, little man."

  "Seriously, Nate!"

  So much for Andrea not paying attention. I grin and get back to my role as QB, and we play until Mom calls us in for pie. The smell of warm spices is a comfort that brings me back to better times. That is until Tony decides to act like he gives a shit about my life beyond football.

  "Thought you were bringing that boyfriend of yours?"

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom flailing, waving her arms, making all sorts of gestures to try and communicate to Tony that he Should Not Go There. Eli’s just glaring fucking daggers at Tony the whole time. It would be funny if the whole thing wasn't such a sucker punch to the gut.

  "Not my boyfriend anymore. Not sure he ever was."

  It feels like everybody in the living room stops eating at once to hear me say that. Mom's glower must get through to them, because nobody bothers me about it past that. Andrea just lets me know she's around if I ever want to talk, but I don't plan on taking her up on that offer any time soon.

  I manage to dodge the bullet until later that evening when Eli comes in from talking to my mom about her vegetable garden of all things. He and I are sharing my old room, and the bunk beds I used to share with Tony. The frame creaks as he pulls his massive self up there, and I pass him an N64 controller so we can play Goldeneye.

  “So what’s the deal with you and Collins?” he asks before I can even lean over and turn on the console.

  I blow out a breath and flip him off in my mind, even as I jiggle the game cartridge. “I never said it was Collins.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes boring through my skull. When I look up at him, he’s got one brow arched and his full lips are pulled into a smirk.

  “Really, dude? You two looked like you wanted to go at it every time you were together. All the straight boys might miss it, but it’s not like I’m gonna let that shit slide.”

  A pang of longing hits me because I know exactly what he’s talking about. There were so many times where I’d catch Owen’s eyes across the locker room and I’d just know I was going to get turned the fuck out later.

  “So what happened?” Eli presses. “You seemed happy.”
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  I can hear the concern in his voice and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep him from seeing how much it affects me. Eli’s a good guy, but sometimes he acts like I’m his little brother or some shit. He doesn’t need to spend his time worrying about me.

  Problem is, he’ll know if I’m lying—he always does. So I just suck it up, shrug, and tell the truth. “I was happy. ‘Til I figured out the guy I l—” My jaw clenches as I force myself to stop before I say the word. “When he decided to pretend he didn’t like dick.”

  “Shit.” He scrubs a hand over his short hair, and I use that moment of quiet to start up the game.

  Eli takes the hint, and we play through a few maps where the only talking is him giving me shit about my shooting skills and me giving it right back to him.

  After a while, though, he says, “You need to get laid.”

  It’s so out of the blue that I lean out from the bottom bunk to look at him, expecting to see that trademark shit-eating grin on his face. But he’s completely serious, dark eyes fixed on me.

  “You offering?”

  “At your parents’ house?” He makes a face and I laugh. “That’s fucked up, man. Besides, we tried that once. Remember?”

  Unfortunately, I do. During my freshman year, once Eli figured out I was gay, we started fooling around a little. But even at that point it was like sticking my hand down my brother’s pants. It was too fucking weird, so we never took it beyond that.

  “Get you some good dick with a random guy attached,” he says casually. “Tell him his game is weak as hell, and he’ll fuck you ‘til you can’t even remember Collins’ name anymore.”

  The grin I expected to see earlier is there now, and I know just from looking at him that he’s tried the same thing.

  “That work for you?” I ask skeptically.

  “We aren’t talking about me, are we?”

  I smirk and try not to let myself get caught up in telling him he deserves better than a straight guy who’s never going to look his way. I know he’ll just argue with me, then we’ll start shit and my mom will have to break it up like we’re two kids fighting on the playground.

  Instead, I rope him into another few rounds, and when he conks out for the night, I browse Grindr like the trash I am, looking for a hookup with some guy who's probably married and has three kids.

  It doesn't take me long to get a bite. My profile pic has my tight football pants hanging low on my hips, showing off my V as I pull up my jersey to give the camera a good view of my abs. "Straight" dudes go nuts for that shit.

  But the tacky, direct questions I'd usually just answer to get on with it are pissing me off tonight, and Owen's words keep running through my head.

  If I was so much better than being some bi-curious dude's convenient piece of ass, why the fuck wasn't I good enough for him? Why doesn't he want me the way I want him?

  And why did I let myself fall for a guy who was never going to love me back?

  21

  Owen

  The last thing I want right now is to spend Thanksgiving with my dad, but I didn't exactly have a choice. It was either that or hope the college wouldn't notice me staying in my dorm over the holiday break, and considering every inch of that room reminds me of Nate, that seemed like a terrible idea, too.

  So I'm sitting across from my dad in a booth at Perkins, picking at my turkey dinner. The food's not bad, but I keep imagining what it would've been like to go with Nate--to meet his family and eat a home-cooked meal for once. Honestly we could've just barricaded ourselves in our dorm room and ate a feast of turkey-flavored ramen and I would've been happy, because the past few days have absolutely sucked.

  I was hoping Nate would confront me, get in my face like usual. We'd yell it out and I'd say what I needed to say--what I should've said Sunday--and things would be fine. Or at least better than they were.

  But Nate froze me out instead, and I had to stop myself from going over to Eli's like a jackass and begging him to give me the time of day.

  "What about Saint Leo's?" Dad asks. "Or Santa Fe?"

  I look up at dad and see his attention is on his tablet, his fingers tapping over a Bluetooth keyboard.

  "What about them?"

  I know I'm being petty, but I don't give a shit right now. I'm still mad at him, and still too much of a fucking coward to tell him that to his face.

  "There's no reason you can't transfer your credits. Saint Leo's doesn't have a football program, but they could get your foot in the door with UF."

  I close my eyes and let out a breath. Dad and I have been having this same conversation from the moment I picked up a football. He's always wanted me to rep the orange and blue, and when I was a kid there was nothing I wanted more in the world.

  But then I grew up, and the things I wanted changed. Being a bench warmer for the Panthers opened my eyes to a lot of shit I just didn't want to deal with, especially when Dad's pride in my accomplishments turned to telling me how I was failing and letting me know Florida Tech would start me if only I showed more initiative.

  He can't accept that the only reason I was even on that team is because of his reputation. Or maybe he can. Maybe he knows I'm not really cut out for D1 or D2 ball, and he keeps doing this shit to try and desperately keep his own dreams alive, just like Nate said.

  Either way, I'm sick of it.

  "I'm not going to UF, Dad. You and I have talked about this."

  He just waves this off. "Another university, then. The suspension's going to hurt your chances of getting recruited, but you can still walk on."

  I stifle a derisive snort. Hurt my chances? More like torpedo them. Me going off like a loose cannon, beating some other player's ass told everybody I'm a liability. And since I'm not some superstar, nobody's going to take a chance on me now.

  Still, I have thought about walking on somewhere. Back when Nate got his letter from Eastshore, I started daydreaming about what it would be like to be on the same D1 team as him. A fucking pipe dream, especially now, but some part of me can't seem to let it go completely.

  "Eastshore has some really good undergrad programs, and they're one of the best teams for walk on retention in the SEC."

  Dad makes an amused noise in the back of his throat and brings his coffee cup to his lips. "If you like being part of a massive publicity stunt, sure."

  Something about the way he says it just digs under my skin, and my response is automatic. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know exactly what it means. The 'Rainbow Tigers' are a D2 team at best. The only reason their program stays afloat in D1 is because they're the inclusive school, and the NCAA wants to cover its ass."

  I set down my fork and stare across the table at him. He just keeps on looking at his tablet. "Even if that were true, what does it matter? Do you have a problem with me being on an 'inclusive' team?"

  "Don't start with me, Owen. I'm not in the mood for the social justice bullshit. You know damn well what I meant."

  His words dig deeper, hitting an exposed nerve this time. I draw in a breath through my nose and try to decide if I'm really going to have it out with him in a diner, on Thanksgiving.

  "I know you don't want anybody to associate me with that 'social justice bullshit,'" I say, the words leaving a bad taste in my mouth. How the fuck did social justice become a bad thing to some people? "That's why you shut down those rumors about me and Nate, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, it is." He finally looks at me, and his gaze is hard; cold. My dad's never been all that warm, but this look hits me hard. "You know how hard it is to make it in the NFL if people think you're gay? That's just the way things are, and there's nothing bigoted or homophobic or whatever about me wanting to keep my son from getting mixed up in that."

  My dad and people like him are the reason I wanted to keep things quiet. They're the reason I acted out as a confused kid years ago. It's not that blatant "all gays should burn in hell"-type bigotry you can just ignore. This is casual, everyday, "you're worth less bec
ause you like men" bigotry that feels a lot more personal, and a lot more painful.

  "And what if I were gay?" I ask, point blank.

  He holds my gaze, and now I can see exactly what Nate was talking about. There's something in his eyes commanding me to stand down, and some part of me almost obeys.

  But I'm tired of letting my father control my life. I'm tired of him acting like he knows what's best for me when really he just wants to extend his own legacy.

  "You already said you're not, so it's a waste of time to talk about it."

  His voice is firm, like he's about to tell me to go to my room. And don't you dare come out as anything but straight, or no phone privileges for a week.

  "Yeah. It's a waste. Everything about me is a waste, right? Waste of potential, waste of talent, waste of genes."

  "Don't be dramatic, Owen," he says coolly, his gaze narrowing as I start to slide out of the booth. "Sit your ass back down."

  But it's too late for that, because my own words trigger something inside of me. It is a waste. My whole life has been that way so far, because I've been doing my best to live up to my dad's expectations--to let him cling to the youth he wants so desperately to keep.

  I like football, but I never wanted it to be a career. I don't want to go into architecture so my dad can make use of me at his company. I sure as hell don't want to be at this restaurant, listening to him dictate the rest of my life over a few pieces of turkey and a pitiful slice of pumpkin pie.

  There's only one thing I've ever wanted just for me: Nate. Nate's been the one thing I wanted for so long, but never let myself have. And now that I've got the chance to build something real with him, am I really going to let that slip through my fingers just because it's not what my dad wants for me?

  "I'm not going to UF, Dad. Not now, not ever. And if I want to go to Eastshore? Guess what. That's where I'm going."