by Liz Crowe
He rose and dropped a blanket over the guy, his requirement for hydration way stronger than his need to get laid again. By the time he’d downed three bottles of water in the kitchen, the attractive man was behind him, kissing his shoulders, pressing against his back in a way that made him grin. He gripped the marble counter and let the guy grab his rapidly stiffening flesh. He flinched, then relaxed as the man bit down on his shoulder and increased his palm’s rhythm, and his fingertip’s journey towards its target.
“Spread ’em, baby.” The man placed a mocha colored thigh between Nicco’s and forced his legs apart, continuing to work him from front and back. Trying to gather his senses, to get his brain to click in and stop this—he didn’t even know this kid’s name for fuck’s sake—he groaned as a slick finger breached the ring of tight muscle.
“Oh yes,” he hissed and arched his back sensing the climax on his horizon. He tugged open a drawer and grabbed a condom. The pleasant buzz of physical need drowned out the reminders that, if the sting in his ass was correct, he’d done this more than once in the past twenty-four hours. The pain of repeated contact was overpowered by the sensation of the man’s hand on his flesh, of his lips on Nicco’s greedy skin. He winced as the man’s finger exited his body but gasped in pleasure when dark hands spun him around and pulled him in for a tongue-tangling kiss.
He stopped, staring into the perfect stranger’s eyes.
“I want you to fuck me this time, soccer boy,” the man growled. Nicco smiled and took the condom, rolled it down over himself and flipped their positions so the man’s dark ass was tilted up to his gaze. He ran a hand down his back, gave the lovely boy a hard smack, making him yelp and squirm and spread his legs farther.
After rubbing lube around the man’s inviting opening, he slipped in, groaning at the tight glove of pleasure that encircled his cock. He watched as the man fisted himself and ran a dark hand up and down the thick flesh as he pumped into him, bringing the orgasm ever closer.
He grunted in surprise when a completely naked woman appeared, sleep-scruffy but gorgeous. When she leaned in to give his nipple a quick lick then a suck he grabbed her hair, fisted his hands in it and let go in one long moan of satisfaction.
His hips jerked as the orgasm went on forever, making his vision darken, drowning out the anger at himself for waking up with a pile of strangers yet again. Ah, Nicco, he sighed before slipping out of the man’s body and walking into the bathroom. The huge shower welcomed him without a word. You truly are a goddamned mess.
Chapter Four
Parker groaned and rolled his shoulders. As his teammates’ loud voices filled the outer hallway, he had to grip the open locker door to keep from dropping into a crouch at the mercy of the pain in his skull.
Just one more game—one more match, and his life as soccer player came to an end. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on not throwing up. The rest of the team burst into the room, slapping asses, joking and tugging off practice uniforms. He sat, trying to remain calm.
“Yo, Doc, you okay?” He shrugged the hand off his shoulder and pulled his own soaking wet practice shirt off before grabbing a towel and heading to the showers. His neck ached from the blow he’d taken winning a fifty-fifty ball during a scrimmage. A random, unintended elbow from a teammate had bestowed a massive nosebleed and likely double black eye on him in the process.
He didn’t trust his voice at the moment, especially since stars still did a little dance around the edges of his vision. He’d blown the trainer off, put ice on his swollen face and sat watching the rest of the practice—their last before the NCAA final game to be played on their home field tomorrow afternoon.
The other men swarmed the showers, forcing Parker to hang onto the edge of the door to keep his balance. He swayed, hoping no one would notice. He knew damn good and well he had a concussion but was not about to let on and lose his starting spot.
The swirl of steam, soap, and chiseled male bodies did its usual song and dance on his nerve endings. Reverting to his standard comfort zone, he made himself picture his girlfriend Christie, her lips, breasts, soft hair, and deep blue eyes. The way she’d eased him into a sexual relationship within a few weeks of meeting him at college almost without his noticing still shocked him.
He wasn’t complaining, although overall her bossiness leached over into other aspects of their relationship enough to make him deeply unhappy with his own complacency.
“Doc! Toss me the shampoo!” He opened his eyes without realizing he’d closed them and came face to face with Jax—Jackson Reynolds, their star goalie, already recruited and signed to play for Manchester United after graduation and hands down the most well-endowed male on the planet.
Grinning as he rubbed soap down his well-cut torso, Jax held out a hand for the bottle Parker tossed his way. For a split second, unable to could stop himself, Parker saw his teammate fist his amazingly long cock, ostensibly cleaning himself but with an enthusiasm that made Parker breathless.
“Fucking-A Excalibur, spare us the whack-off session, would ya?” a voice called through the thickening steam. “We all know how much you love yourself. But we do not wanna watch.”
Jax flipped off the room in general and turned back around to face the water, much to Parker’s relief.
“Hey Doc,” their trainer’s voice broke through the general bullshit eddying around the crowded room. “Come see me when you’re done.” Parker put a hand on the tiled wall. He refused to jeopardize his chance to start in the last game of his soccer career. But he couldn’t fake not having a concussion much longer.
Keeping quiet he finished, toweled off, and tugged on jeans and a team sweatshirt, ignoring the near constant pounding behind his eyes and the regular stream of texts from Christie. He couldn’t deal with either right now.
He sat, gulped down more water, and pulled the final acceptance letter from the University of Michigan School of Medicine from his backpack. Finally, his father’s dream fulfilled. Wincing at the thought of the dinner his parents had planned for him and Christie the night after the NCAA championship game—and the not so subtle expectation that he produce an engagement ring for her—he ran a hand down his locker door, which boasted his number, name, and captain’s arm band.
Blaming the tears pressing behind his eyes on the blow to the head, he slammed the metal door shut. Nearly nineteen years of his life had been devoted to playing the sport he adored. Practices, club politics, high school roughness, state championships, and receiving a full ride to the University of Louisville’s top ranked team—all done now. He’d never play again. The thought clogged his throat with nausea.
He could play at the next level, maybe even in Europe. Of course, his parents would not hear of it so he’d not put himself out there as a viable recruit.
Dr. and Mrs. Rollings had other plans for their only child, ones that included the letters “M.D.”, the lovely blonde college sweetheart wife, suburban house, and two point five similarly blonde-haired, blue-eyed children. He shuddered and made his way into the trainer’s office, an “I’m okay” smile plastered to his face.
One thing he suspected about his very nature made his intimate moments with Christie even more of a struggle. His body would cooperate. He had little problem getting hard, staying that way, pleasuring her, and then coming. But it held little appeal for him. She was simply not what he wanted.
Parker Rollings was a good boy, an obedient young man who did not rock boats or upset apple carts or do anything not expected of him. His tyrannical father and heavy-handed mother had only the one son, their golden boy. They had poured years of double-focused energy into molding Parker into the man they wanted—with the M.D., the wife, the kids.
So he accommodated them, thinking nothing more than to please those who loved him. Until now—because he wanted to play soccer, not go to medical school. He wanted it so deeply it hurt his gut and kept him up at night.
Well, that and the fact he suspected he was gay.
*****
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Parker glanced around the field, checking in with his various teammates using the non-verbal cues they’d invented as the game kicked off. Nervous energy buzzed through his brain, which remained fuzzy even with a double hit of Tylenol and a solid ten hours of sleep the night before. He’d begged off Christie’s requests for dinner, and after finalizing a paper for his last class he’d fallen face first on the bed and passed out for the better part of the night, rising only to drink more water and take another pain killer.
The game commenced and within minutes, calling on his years of experience, Parker realized he could not play. His presence presented a detriment. He’d make mistakes, and cost his team this crucial game.
Gritting his teeth against a near constant hum of nausea and pain, he moved the ball around, passed it off when he should have taken shots, ignoring caustic commentary from the sidelines. His own teammates kept yelling at him, and he lost his normal ability to manage the field leaving teammates floundering and playing kick ball instead of the level of soccer that got them to the collegiate championship game in the first place.
“Nice try, loser.” The opposing player slammed into him and stole the ball with a move Parker had learned how to thwart in middle school. “Now get out of my way.” The yellow-uniformed player eased past Parker’s defenders, planting the ball square in the upper right of the goal. A groan rose from the sold-out crowd, but he remained frozen in place.
Trained to take a full ninety minutes or more of constant running and contact, Parker dreaded the inevitable request for a substitute. He loved this damn game. Had loved it nearly his whole life. The combination of a concussion and the emotion over leaving the field on this, his final game, almost brought him to his knees.
He persevered through halftime, redeeming himself at the thirty-fifth minute of play with a strategic shift to the left and a feed to his forward, which drew the defenders off goal, allowing him to take the return pass and plant it firmly in the back of the net.
The resulting congratulatory scrum nearly made him pass out, but he kept on, and at the break the score remained one-one. He gulped down Gatorade and tried not to meet his coach’s eyes.
“Goddammit, Doc.” The man yanked his face around, ending the little charade. “Where the hell is your head?” The trainer pushed the coach aside and knelt in front of him, holding out a singlet indicating his ass would be planted at least for the start of the second half.
“No way, I need him in there,” the coach sputtered but lost the battle to the older man who had a thriving orthopedics practice and a lifelong love for soccer and took his role of “team medical advisor” seriously. He put a hand on Parker’s shoulder.
“He sits, or he risks brain injury. Period.” The coach slunk off, shooting an eye full of evil at the kid who’d popped his star midfielder in the noggin during yesterday’s scrimmage. Parker sat back, taking deep breaths, trying to keep his lunch down.
The team readied itself and took the field again while Parker watched from a completely unique perspective on the sidelines. He’d been a starter from the get-go and his stomach roiled with misery having to sit now.
At the eighty-second minute of play he stood and started pacing, calling out instructions based on how he observed the other team shifting to adjust to Louisville’s pace. He watched in horror as Chris Singleton, their star forward, slated for a huge contract in the English Premier league went up to head in a goal and a defender came out of nowhere, undercutting him and forcing the man to land funny, buckling an ankle in sickening slow motion. Parker yanked off his singlet and stood, staring at the trainer and coach, daring them to say no.
They didn’t. He rushed out, slapping a high five to Chris as he was helped off the field. The scoreboard told the story. He had exactly three minutes to end this thing or risk overtime. He fully realized his team did not fare well past ninety minutes into penalty play. They were gassed and needed to finish this off in regular time.
Calling out a few quick changes he repositioned his defenders four back, and shoved a forward to mid so he could set up a play they’d worked on for the last six months, with himself in scoring position.
The men readjusted without comment, and the whistle blew. The second they threw in, the re-aligned midfield took control, passing and keeping the ball away from the other team’s aggressive forwards long enough to draw the opposing defenders into the fray at the center of the field. He made his way across the front of the goal and lifted a hand as the clock ticked towards ninety minutes. Accepting the long pass, he faked to his right then nailed it with his left foot, planting the ball firmly in the back left corner as the horn sounded, signaling the end of the game.
Rafe stood smiling as the Cardinal fans took the field, swarming over their team and its star captain, Parker Rollings. Then he made his way down after a few minutes and tapped the coach on the shoulder, flashing his credentials.
Soaked from a cooler full of Gatorade, the coach followed Rafe to the other side of the field. Several other MLS scouts and even one from La Liga floated around, but Rafe’s own star power as a former World Cup level player and the amount of hype the marketing department had pumped out about his team gave him the entrée he needed.
The two men sat on the empty bench and observed the celebrations. “So I assume you’re here about Parker. He’s one of my only players not signed.”
“Yeah. I am. Can I talk to him?”
“Sure. I mean, officially, but he won’t go. He’s already turned down bigger names than yours. He’s done with soccer after today, at least as a player.”
“Uh-huh. Something tells me after this game, he might change his tune.” Rafe used a confident tone, hoping to convince the coach to help him.
“Good luck. He’s a quiet kid but amazingly smart and talented, as you and many others realize. A waste of a great player if you ask me. But he’s bound by what his parents want, and they want a doctor, not a professional athlete in the family.” The coach put a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Son, if you can convince him to play for your start-up team, you will not only be the envy of every American scout and several European ones, you will make my fucking day.” He stood. “Excuse me, I gotta go celebrate. I’ll send Parker over.”
*****
Parker stared hard at his girlfriend of nearly four years and willed her to not be so obtuse. Her huge eyes filled with tears as she kept talking, kept touching him while he packed his bag.
“Honey, I don’t mind. I get it. I…I think you should keep playing, really.” He slammed the suitcase shut and looked up at the bare walls of his apartment before whirling around to face her.
“No, Christie, you do mind. You wanted me to go to med school as much as my parents did, so just can it, will you please?” He put his hands on his hips, suddenly sorry for his harsh words. The urge to be away from her overwhelmed him to the point he had to grit his teeth not to say something worse. “It’s over.”
She sucked in a breath. “You don’t mean that.” Crossing her arms, she took a step away. Parker watched as if from miles away as he picked up his suitcase and started for the door.
“I’m sorry, Christie. But I do. I’m going to Detroit to play soccer. I’m not going to med school in Ann Arbor. I’m not giving you an engagement ring. Actually, I’m breaking up with you.” She grabbed his arm. He winced at his own words. “Let go of me. We’re through.”
“No. Parker. I love you. You love me, I know you do. You’re just unhappy and confused.” Her sudden self-righteous look made him want to yell and throw something—like his fist—through the drywall.
“And you can stop channeling my mother. You are not going to be the next Mrs. Doctor Rollings, okay?” He jerked his arm out of her grasp. A montage of their years together ran through his head. The early weeks of awkward flirtation…her thrill at being the girlfriend of the school’s soccer star…the other girls who threw themselves at him and her smugness when he rebuffed them…the moment they took the last step beyond heavy pettin
g and the hours since spent exploring each other’s bodies. While an extreme fantasy life played out in his head, dreaming of different sorts of bodies under his hands, of long lean torsos and rough faces against his. He sighed and turned back to her, putting a hand to her cheek.
“You deserve better than me, Chris. I’m no good for you. Not anymore. It’s not you, I swear it. It really is me. I’m not who you think I am.”
“You’re exactly who I think you are, Parker. A passive aggressive shithead.” She flounced past him and threw open the door. “All those nights we laid in my bed and talked about our future. All the times we….” She bit her lip, and Parker shut his eyes so he wouldn’t be tempted to take it all back just for the sake of avoiding this very confrontation.
He hated this, despised disappointing people. He had loved her, in his way. But his new goal shone like a bright beacon of hope—to continue to play soccer away from his nagging parents and overbearing girlfriend. He set his jaw, stayed quiet, and let her have her say.
“Never mind. Go. Play your stupid game on that stupid team. I hate you and hope I never see you again.” The last spoken at decibels Parker figured deafened dogs in a three-mile radius. His heart sank in his chest at the sight of her familiar hair, face, body as she glared at him. His head jerked back at her slap, but he took it, twice, before gripping her wrist.
“Enough. I’m sorry.” He kept his voice low, his temper under tight control as always. His upbringing as the only child of strict, boring Presbyterians whose biggest fear was “making a scene” truly left him no choice. Even on the field he managed to be the one star player without a hot-headed tendency to lose it in a fit of emotion. Talented, calm, and strong were three adjectives always added to his name as a player.