by Liz Crowe
He and Parker had spent several hours evaluating the team’s strengths and weaknesses with both Rafe and the new coach. He blew out a breath and answered the call.
Nicco sat, nursing a giant pitcher of ice water and fist full of painkillers, gazing out the window of his newly-rented condo in Royal Oak. He knew damn good and well avoiding temptation by placing himself a solid forty-minute ride away from downtown had been wise in theory. While his natural inclination for constant input, for physical and mental stimulation, kept him dipping into pools of debauchery plenty. Much to the chagrin of his new coaches and the club’s constantly yammering public relations people.
He’d ditched Terrance and taken up with a girl he’d met at a club about a month ago. She provided the sort of caretaking that soothed him, staying over and making breakfast, coffee, doing his laundry. She never asked for much in return, which made Nicco face and embrace his total shithead most days. He was honestly satisfied with both men and women sexually speaking. But something drove him to a female after Terry—if for no other reason than to dispel the near constant low-lying level of horny he sustained over his teammate, Parker Rollings.
Playing with the guy hadn’t helped. They’d clicked as if they shared a brain on the field, which shocked him. He’d always been a lone ranger, the superstar buoyed by a supporting cast of normal men. Parker proved soccer truly is a beautiful game— he was a dancer in motion, an amazing blur of arms, legs, torso, his footwork nothing less than exquisite. Shocked he was playing at this expansion level, and he hadn’t ended up at least in the major league soccer ranks if not in one of the premiere European leagues, Nicco watched, and his respect grew daily, along with desire to have him.
He sighed, and clutched his phone, an unfamiliar nervousness taking hold. Before he knew it, he’d pulled up a number, stared at it a minute then put the device to his ear.
“Hola.”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Parker answered, his voice the usual blend of polite interest and deflection.
Nicco put a hand over his eyes. Why had he called the guy? Parker epitomized the phrase “cool as a cucumber,” keeping his wits at his crucial position, a natural leader on the field. Poor kid took no end of shit from the rest of the team for his tendency to blush bright red at any provocation. Nicco adored watching him, playing against him and being in his general vicinity, so much that he’d caught himself fantasizing about him with alarming regularity.
Didn’t help he’d manipulated the poor kid into a position so he, Nicco, knew exactly what to expect down under as it were—and he had never forgotten it. He wanted more but remained convinced Parker couldn’t handle it. Besides, he’d seen the new girlfriend hanging off his arm. They made a lovely couple.
“Watch out for Bolo today.” He named the striker for Orlando, the established major league soccer team they faced in their inaugural game. “He’s got a wicked bad habit of high cleats when he gets frustrated. You will frustrate him I am certain.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.”
Silence swirled between them. Parker spoke, making Nicco’s pulse race. “You’re pretty amazing, you know. Don’t think I’ve said that yet.”
Nicco snorted, tried to get the image of Parker in his arms as far out of his head as possible. “No, I’m just a plodder. I practice a lot. I’m over the hill, as I’m reminded daily watching all you youngsters.”
“Spare me, Nicco. False modesty doesn’t suit you.”
He laughed. “Nailed, as it were.” He sank into his seat, ran a hand down his face. “Okay, I’m good. I know it. But you, young Parker, you are….”
“Spare me, will you?”
“Fine. Watch Bolo. See you in a few hours.” He stood and stretched, hoping a shower would chill his ramped-up libido at the sound of the other man’s warm, American southern accent.
“Nicco?”
He stopped, gripped the phone so hard his hand ached. “Hmm?” Attempts to sound casual when nearly dying of lust proved harder than he’d thought.
“Thanks.”
Trying not to beg to let him prove how great they could be together, Nicco ground out, “For what?”
“For showing me how to play the game at this level. Proving to me I can do it. You pushed me harder than anyone, and I know it.”
“Oh, uh, sure. Well, you know, I’m a natural born teacher.”
Parker’s easy laughter made him smile. “Well, natural born something, but anyways, thanks. See you in a few.”
Nicco stared at the phone, willing the man back to his ear, then finally set it on the table and flopped down on the bed. He couldn’t play like this—pent up, horny, moony over some kid who barely even realized what he wanted out of life. Didn’t take long to get it done, as images floated through his head of Parker, of his strong torso, and deep blue eyes.
Chapter Eleven
Rafe paced the office as Maureen propped her feet up on a chair and flipped through the glossy, full-color program and Adam studied the team’s classroom white board. He replayed the scenes over and over again. The potentially disastrous set-pieces that had gone off without a hitch, the hat trick his amazing young midfielder had managed, a last-minute substitution when his star German defensive back went down on a yellow card foul for the asshole Bolo. And finally the breathtaking final goal by the team’s number one troublemaker, bringing him to the score at the end.
Detroit 4. Orlando 3.
Their first game, an exhibition against a legitimate soccer team, in the rearview mirror finally—with a victory to boot.
Holy shit. He felt the goofy grin encompass his entire face once again, heard the loud yelling and celebration in the locker room next door.
“Go already, Jesus,” Maureen smiled at him from across the room. “Celebrate with them.” She made her slow way over to him; put her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
He leaned down and kissed his wife, long and deep. She put a hand to his face. Adam cleared his throat, loudly.
“Cut it out guys. Can I go with you to the locker room? Please?” Maureen shot him a look of disapproval.
He was about to agree when Jack and Sara burst into the room. Jack held a half empty bottle of expensive champagne and handed it to him.
“Drink up, mi hermano. Here’s to the ballsiest game of soccer I have ever seen. Well the fuck done.” He smacked Rafe on the shoulder and grinned like an idiot.
“You boys carry on.” Maureen put a hand to her back, bringing Rafe right down to the Earth where he was scheduled to become a father at any moment. “Sara, can you run me home?”
“Maybe.” His sister-in-law shot him one of her patented about-to-administer-a-lecture looks.
“Hang on a sec.” Rafe put the champagne bottle on his desk and stopped Maureen before she left. “Honey, I need to be with you. I mean….” He touched her stomach, waited for the usual shifting under his palm. It didn’t come. He frowned and moved his hand lower. She batted him away.
“I’m fine. Go. Be with the team. Then get your ass home. You owe me a foot rub. This kid of yours is about to beat me to death from the inside.” She pressed her lips to his, making his heart beat faster, like it always did when he realized his luck. “Proud of you, Rafe. Well the fuck done indeed.”
He watched, speechless as she let Jack kiss her cheek and rub her stomach, then waddled out.
“You sure know how to time things, my man.” Jack grabbed the champagne and started out the door. “Now let’s go see the room full of men-boys who are gonna get us the first expansion league championship.”
Rafe shook his head and followed the other man down the hall.
A roar of pleasure made Nicco turn from his locker and smile as the young assistant coach entered the room trailed by a suit, one of the team’s funding sources or something. Metin, the surly Turkish coach had already slapped everyone on the back and left, muttering about getting home to his family.
Nicco had come as close to feeling warm and fuzzy as a guy like him got, wat
ching Sevim’s progress in the past few weeks. He had known the man well—they’d been teammates for a time on the Madrid team. What had happened to him should never happen to any man. If the rumors were true and he had his shit together on all fronts, Nicco wished him nothing but the best.
He shook his head, recalling the match. It had been a fucking gutsy playbook. Long on tricks, passing, and heavy-handed defense and less about attacking than he liked, but the men had executed it to perfection, throwing off Orlando’s run-and-gun style. This damn thing might work, he mused, watching as the team patted Rafe’s back and passed around beers and champagne.
“Well done, ya raging bastard.” Rafe stopped in front of Nicco, arms crossed. “Please confirm for me: your celebration plans do not include farm animals or hookers. The PR department can’t take the stress.”
Nicco shrugged. “No promises, paesono. Must keep my options open.” His eyes betrayed him, strayed to the left and caught Parker facing his locker, the taut muscles of his currently bare ass begging for Nicco’s caress. Rafe’s hand on his arm brought him back from fantasy land. He smirked, hoping to deflect. “Why? You inviting me over for farm games?”
“Don’t,” the young coach whispered.
“What?” Nicco pulled his arm out of the man’s grip. But he knew damn well what.
“Leave him alone. I mean it, Garza.”
“Fuck off, Coach, with all due respect. I know what I’m—”
Rafe cut him off. “He’s a good kid. Don’t ruin him.”
Nicco rolled his eyes but his gut burned. He knew he had to stop all the fantasizing before it went any further. Parker had a full life ahead of him. An amazing young talent, who’d doubtless soon have the soccer world at his feet—what could Nicco offer him? Nothing but a washed-up, dirty old man history. Nothing good would come of a connection, as much as his body ached for it. Corrupting the innocent best stay off his to-do list. Now that his coach had spelled it out for him Nicco embraced the reality.
“Okay.” He settled his face into neutral lines. “Relax. Jesus.”
Rafe let go of his arm and walked over to his team captain, the man in question, who’d donned dark jeans and a stark white button down shirt. Nicco watched, trying like hell to suppress the surging need to touch, to kiss, to possess, but the three-foot chasm between them remained too wide.
Parker’s head spun and his heart still pounded with residual adrenaline. He jumped at the sensation of Rafe’s arm around his shoulders.
“Amazing work, Rollings. Truly. Thank you.”
Parker smiled, let himself relax, but he couldn’t shake the tingly sensation all over his skin. His eyes met the dark ones over Rafe’s shoulder then darted away.
“Sure, yeah, I mean it was pretty awesome.” Rafe grinned at him, pulled his phone from his pocket, and frowned at the screen. Parker grabbed his arm, alarmed at the way the man’s face drained of color. “Shit. Nicco!” he barked out, trying to get someone’s attention.
Nicco appeared on Rafe’s other side and they eased Rafe down onto the bench.
“What’s wrong?” The coach’s phone slipped from his hand and bounced across the floor. Jack picked up and looked at it.
“Oh hell….”
“What?” Parker demanded. “Where’s Fred?” he glanced around for their trainer, a retired physician. Jack swallowed and pulled Rafe to his feet.
Fred took one look at the coach’s pale face and smiled. Jack stared around, at a loss it seemed, a rare occurrence for him. “Let’s go,” the tall white-haired gentlemen said. “Move out of the way, you assholes. It’s time for the real work to begin.”
Rafe walked out without a word, dazed-looking, flanked by the other two men. The team hooted and clapped, patted his shoulder as he passed them.
“Damn, I thought he was gonna pass out for a minute there.” Parker sat, sensed Nicco next to him and had to shut his eyes against the urge to lean into him, to clutch his face, to feel something, anything, as long as it was the other man’s flesh under his fingers.
He stood, grabbed the keys to his new car, his new condo, and started out, needing space to process the events of the last three hours.
“Parker! Don’t forget, we’ve got that party….” Kago called after him. But Parker ignored him, making a mental note to text an apology. He needed to be alone.
Chapter Twelve
Six Months Later
Parker stared at the screen, unwilling to process the information glowing, like an omen on his web browser. “It’s official. A Black Jack Gentlemen comes out as the first openly gay soccer player.”
He stood up, his chest pounding. After pacing around the room for a few minutes he sat back down, still unwilling to acknowledge Nicco had done it. He’d insinuated it to Parker at their last practice, telling him he’d made a decision about something and he hoped it didn’t screw up the team’s dynamic. But he was through pretending.
He’d pinned Parker with such a gaze at that moment, as they stood facing each other across a fifty-fifty ball during a squad scrimmage, Parker had a tough time shaking it off and moving his legs. He’d known then what it had to be. So now, there it sat in black and white on his screen. He could practically hear the sports universe convulsing in response.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, trying to parse why he had an urge to call the man, to talk to him, ask him why he’d done such a crazy thing. Parker had deepened his reliance on Ashley, on her calm, reassuring presence in his life. Her ability to organize a party, or an outing, or just about anything astonished him daily. It reminded him of his mother, really, if he were honest with himself. But he still fantasized nearly non-stop about his dark, compelling teammate.
Ashley never demanded anything more of him than what he wanted to give. They had sex on a regular basis, usually at his place, in his darkened bedroom. Its quiet predictability was a relief in a way, familiar and reassuring—but mechanical, not much more than simple physical release.
Nicolas, on the other hand, had been embroiled in a public and very dramatic relationship with a wealthy, semi-divorced socialite. The sex party rumors about her giant mansion in the suburbs rampantly smeared over every possible soccer tabloid, making the most splash overseas, where soccer players enjoyed celebrity status. The woman loved nothing more than making loud declarations of her abiding love for “her Nicco”.
For his part, Nicco always smiled for the cameras, forever accompanying her to glitzy events, walking red carpets wearing tuxedos, looking as amazing as ever.
They had maintained their closeness on the field, combining leadership styles to guide the Black Jacks to a winning season. It had been a blur to Parker. He could hardly wait to get to practice every day, to see Nicco, to talk to him, to feel the other man’s body against his during scrimmages.
They laughed, joked, slapped ass with the rest of the team for a few hours every day—a few hours that kept Parker going until the next day. More and more he would close his eyes as he entered Ashley’s welcoming body and dream of Nicco under his hands, of the man’s hips, and ass grinding against his. The entire concept of having sex with a man intimidated Parker, but he knew as well as he knew his own shoe size, he wanted it with Nicolas Garza, badly. Even if just for one time, to break the tension and prove, perhaps, his fevered imagination had transformed the whole thing into something more than a physical act.
The season had ended, as they all do. The Black Jacks emerged as champions of the expansion soccer league’s regular season. Parker had pulled a hamstring in the final game, which went well with his broken thumb thanks to a clumsy fall he’d made, and a suspected foot stress fracture. He had more money in the bank than he could spend, a willing girlfriend in his bed, and a brutal crush on a fellow teammate.
A teammate who had decided to become the poster boy for gay pro athletes while at the same time dumping his famous and very wealthy socialite girlfriend. Gutsy, Parker would concede. The blogosphere already had erupted with support and vitriol, but Parker decided t
o ignore it.
He had a meeting with his agent this afternoon to ask for a transfer. As much as he truly loved this team and what he’d done for it, he had to get the hell away from Nicco. The concept of being “the gay soccer player’s boyfriend” was just too much for him to take. Besides, considering Nicco his “boyfriend” involved more jumping of the gun than Parker wanted to contemplate.
Since the lone, bizarre encounter at the club where Nicco had blown him, while tricking him to thinking a girl did it, he had been all business. Behaving in an utterly professional, jovial, just-buddies, manner without a hint of anything more, which killed Parker daily.
He saw an email drop into his inbox from Jack, stating the team’s full support of Nicolas Garza’s recent revelation, hoping Nicco’s teammates would not consider this to have any effect on the man’s playing ability or his crucial contribution to the Black Jacks’ success. The hard fact remained—Nicco had been key to the team’s winning season. He’d thrown himself into the effort with every ounce of his considerable energy, rallying players who flagged, propping up others who slumped, berating those who slacked. Acting in a way that surprised former coaches and teammates alike—as if he wanted to be part of a team and not the lone superstar.
Now, he’d ruined everything and forced Parker’s hand. He had to go. If Nicco were out he had no more excuses. Even if the pro soccer world was ready for a gay player, it would hardly be willing to accept a couple in an openly homosexual relationship. While Parker wanted nothing more in the world than to play hard, practice harder, then go home with Nicco he knew it would not work.
He loved to hear the man laugh—a harsh-sounding thing at first until he’d gotten used to it. The guy’s propensity for practical jokes found many targets, which had finally made him accepted by his fellow players, especially once he’d proven himself so adept at leading them to victories.
Parker adored the sing-songy cadence of his voice, the way he was so single-minded about the game. Their weekly strategy sessions impressed Parker even more. Nicco could easily be a coach, someday.