by Liz Crowe
He was a natural leader, coaches always said, but prone to bouts of introspection—as if that were a bad thing. Never had a single red card and only one yellow warning only because he had yelled at a ref to stop play on behalf of an injured player on the opposite team.
His college sweetheart, the one and only sexual partner of his entire life, despite spirited attempts on the part of many soccer player groupies to change it, stared at him. “You’ll be sorry, Parker. You aren’t cut out for that kind of life. Those pros, they’re gonna rip you to shreds. You....” She threw up her hands and let a tear slip down her face. Parker stood still, using all of his willpower not to fold her into his arms, to apologize, and go back to the status quo.
Everything in him he truly believed part and parcel of Parker “Doc” Rollings rebelled at this scene. But for the first time in his life he felt compelled to resist what others expected of him—to reach out for what he wanted.
Being a jerk did not come naturally. He felt like a class-A one and hated it. He’d watched so many of his friends and teammates through the years channel their aggression into asshole behavior against women, but he’d managed to stay above the bullshit, content with Christie.
She turned and left without another word, as panic settled deep in his gut. His family had temporarily disowned him for this bout of rebellion, and he had just cut off his one remaining tie to the life he’d led for the last four years—well, for his whole boring, planned-out destiny, he supposed.
He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Tall, dark blond hair and blue eyes, jaw rough from lack of attention these past couple of days, he grimaced at himself. Happy now, Doc? You just threw away everything you know for this fucking game. Better get the hell up to Detroit and make the best of it.
He squared his shoulders and walked out into a new reality. The niggling doubt and worry about how he could channel his growing sexual desire still remained. But he’d made his choice. Being a pro athlete left zero room for alternative lifestyles, and he knew it.
He’d find another girl, likely marry, and have some kids; being gay no longer was an option. In the meantime, this break had to be complete, including the sexual one with Christie. He felt strong but weak at the same time. Sure of himself, yet gut-churning terrified. All of which buoyed him, and made him even more positive about his decision.
Chapter Five
Rafe groaned and rolled over, throwing an arm over the swell of Maureen’s stomach. “Jesus, woman, you are gonna kill me.”
“Complaining are we, stud muffin?” The beautiful, amazing woman who’d changed his life forever stretched her long legs and sighed. “I warned you, remember? In spite of my birth control shots, bam, I’m knocked up. Your Latino swimmers are a very determined lot.”
“But my love, you are voracious.” Rafe propped up on an elbow and ran his finger across her lips. “I mean, more than usual.”
“Yep. And it will only get worse.” She grinned and grabbed his fingertip between her teeth, then gasped and sat straight up making a bolt of panic hit his brain. He scrambled up beside her.
“What, querida, you okay? Shit, did I hurt you? You kept telling me to go harder. Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at her, worry gnawing at his gut at the sight of her bright red face.
The smile she shot him as she grabbed his hand and put it against the tight swell of her belly made him temporarily forget how to breathe. The strange, fluttery movement under his palm alarmed him more than anything he’d ever experienced. He jerked his hand away. His wife raised an eyebrow at him, making him feel like a shithead.
“What, did you think I was kidding all this time? Just gaining weight for the fun of it? That’s your kid in there, Inez. The one you wanted.” He stared at her, then put his hand on her stomach again, mesmerized by the activity under his palm. A tear dropped on his hand, surprising him.
“Oh, Maureen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She shook her head. “No, I know. I’m an emotional wreck and that’s only gonna get worse too, lucky you. But I do love you, Rafe. This,” she held his hand in place as they felt their child move inside her, “just proves it.”
He leaned in to capture her delicious lips, felt his body stirring to attention again in spite of the workout she’d given him last night and this morning.
She moaned and rolled onto her back, pulling him on top of her. “Now you get the idea,” she whispered as he parted her legs and slipped inside her once more, body and soul sated by their connection.
*****
Fear stole into his psyche as he sat at the kitchen table, nursing his second espresso.
“Morning.” Rafe shifted his attention to the young man who wandered into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Training today?” Adam, half of a set of twins, lived at home for the summer between his freshman and sophomore years at college, helping to coach at a local soccer camp. His sister Ella had opted to intern at a public policy think tank in Washington D.C., making her mother insane with worry.
“Yeah,” Adam regarded him a minute in that disconcerting adult way he had. “Got your first team meeting today?”
“Uh-huh. You can’t come, so don’t ask.”
“Oh, man.” Adam slumped in his seat. “But I wanna meet….”
“You will eventually, but I’m not foisting the family on these guys right off the bat.” Rafe put a glass of chocolate milk in front of him. “Your top priority today is to guide twenty rowdy ten-year-olds into the light of the beautiful game. Focus on that. Drink your milk.”
“Whatever.” Adam smiled and chugged a huge glass of the stuff. “Hey, are those the uniforms? Can I see ’em?” He made a beeline for the large brown container near the door.
“Sure, fine. But don’t….” The young man looked at him expectantly. But Rafe couldn’t think of a single thing he could do to harm the damn things. “Never mind. Have at it.” He kept sipping coffee, trying to quell the uneasy jumpiness.
When his phone buzzed he sighed, noting Maureen’s brother’s name on the screen. “Yeah.”
“Good luck today, Coach.”
“Thanks. I think. How the fuck did you talk me in to this anyway?”
“Her name is Maureen. You married her, and if I’m not mistaken, got her knocked up. That’s how.”
“Oh, right.” He put his cup down and decided to end the conversation before he got even more uptight. Jack expected results, and Rafe fully intended to deliver them. But his heart pounded a little too hard for his taste at the moment, and he resented the pressure his brother-in-law put on him. “Well, I need to….”
“Sara wants you guys to come over tomorrow night. Got some kind of a celebration dinner planned. Kids welcome.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll let Maureen coordinate it. I really gotta….”
“I know. I know. I’m micro-managing. God knows I hear it enough from the missus. It’s just …now that all the players and pieces of the puzzle are in place and I can back off, I don’t want to.”
“Tell you what, do me a favor and check in over at the new stadium today if you can. I know you love that shit, and I need to focus on the room full of prima donnas I just hired to play for me—well for Metin, once he shows up. But listen, Jack.” Rafe hesitated, unsure how to bring it up. “The thing with Nicco. It’s a no-go. He’s not interested. I need him to focus, and the team does not need the negative publicity. Can you tell the marketing harpies to back off about it?”
“Sure thing. And for the record, I almost regret having you step aside as coach, now that I see your rapport with those guys. Also, for the same record, I agree with you about Nicco. The last thing we need is to be a target for gay-bashing assholes.”
Rafe ran a hand through his hair, weighing how he should respond but relieved Jack agreed with him about Nicco. “No, Jack, I am not a coach at this level. I’m better off as his assistant. He’ll need a good cop figure, because he will likely come in and start bashing heads. I’ll bet you even mon
ey most of the old guard we have on the team will not want to listen to him at first.”
He ended the call and sat gathering his thoughts. The marketing department had set up a blog designed to look as if it wasn’t part of their efforts. It had personal information, photos, and all sorts of crap about every player. The whole thing made Rafe very uncomfortable but he bowed to the promotional minds. If they were going to make an impact, break through all the clutter of options people had for their discretionary income and get them to buy tickets and attend matches, they had to be in the spotlight, even if they manufactured it. They had to make romantic heroes out of all the players, and of the team itself.
The project had cost millions, including their Black Jacks stadium, which boasted a brew pub, two coffee shops, and several cocktail bars along with the usual concessions. It also had enough wireless technology embedded so no one would ever lose a signal, no matter how much bandwidth got used. Each seat was encoded so when fans checked in on their social networks they could show themselves via the cameras set into every possible angle with the “Black Jack Check In App” available for all smart phones for free.
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 vision 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.