Indulgence (258 page)

“Back off, Garza. You don’t scare me. And yeah, I’m filling
in until I can convince that stubborn Turk to take the job. You know that.
Jesus, man, you’re the only one in the building who gets this. Work with me.
I’ll keep the marketing whiz kids off your back. I can nix the gay poster boy
project with a single word. Just tell me now.”

The other man’s deep brown eyes narrowed. Then he winked and
patted Rafe’s cheek. “You got it,
patrón
.” He shouldered past him into
the hallway, whistling.

Rafe watched him go, fists clenched in repressed need to hit
something. He’d been warned by several men who’d been in his position as
Nicco’s coach and manager before.

“A rare, raw talent. And a shit of a human being.”

“Can’t see past the end of his own cock long enough to
focus. Otherwise he’d still be world class.”

“If you can channel him for the game, you won’t lose. If
you can’t, your life is a guaranteed living hell of scandal, booze, and
babysitting his ego.”

Rafe knew about Nicco’s not-so-secret bisexuality. Realized
that his marriage had dissolved when his ex-wife had discovered his affair with
a man. That guy had been killed along with his entire team when their plane crashed
between South America and Australia.

Rafe had done his homework and also realized there were
darker rumors about Nicolas Garza—drinking, drugs, and even some folks who
claimed he had a sex addiction, which could rapidly destroy what was once one
of the very best soccer athletes in the entire world.

Rafe sincerely hoped that he hadn’t opened a giant can of
worms bringing the guy into the rampantly anti-gay, puritanical arena of
American professional sports. How his marketing department honestly believed
parading him around like … like a show pony, as he’d said, bragging about how
open-minded the new expansion league and its teams were by respecting their
players’ personal lives all the way into the bedroom could in any way be a good
plan, he had no fucking idea. He groaned and sank into his chair, contemplating
the dream roster he had posted on a wipe-off board on the wall. What had he
been thinking anyway?

Maureen, his wife, had laughed herself into hiccups when he
came home and bragged about signing Nicolas Garza to the Detroit Black Jacks.
Her teenaged twins, a son and daughter, both hot-shit players and huge fans of
the Euro leagues themselves, asked one question: “Why?”

Rafe hoped they were all wrong. As a bonus to all this
drama, he had hit yet another snag in his attempt to get Metin Sevim, former
superstar forward in the Spanish premier league a decade before, to agree to
come out of early retirement and coach. He was a perfect fit—young, with a
defensive, strategic mindset both Rafe and Jack agreed was key to their
success. If only they could convince the guy to listen to them.

A group of businessmen asked Jack to help spearhead the
effort to get Detroit included. It stood to reason. Michigan had a ton of
premiere soccer clubs. Its major city had successful pro teams in most other
sports already. The money had been conjured, by Jack, thanks to D-Town Casino
and a huge auto supply company.

His brother-in-law had acted fast once the two companies had
agreed to co-sponsor the Detroit-based team. He put Rafe in charge of
recruiting players and finding a coach. Then Jack hired an incredibly slick
marketing department with social networking platforms and regular promotions
lined up for the young team already.

Rafe had his doubts about some of the control the front
office was given over the players and hoped Jack knew what he was doing. While
this whole “Black Jacks embrace same-sex relationships: signs openly gay player
from Spain” thing he was prepared to cut off at the knees. Nicco did not need
it. A team still in its infancy certainly would not benefit from it. Hell, he’d
probably never get the coach he wanted if all that crap started hitting the
media.

The rest of it, he facilitated, heading off the grumbling
from players when they were issued their smart phones and laptop computers.
They were required, by contract, to cancel any and all social networking
accounts they currently held, then re-open them, using the Black Jacks as their
“employer” and posting photos of fellow team members, practices, uniforms,
events, anything as long as the updates came at least twice a day, always
referencing the team. Anyone caught with a secret account could be let go
according to their signed legally binding agreements.

The marketing lady knew her shit. Rafe had been assured. So
when her staff caught one or more of the players slacking, cursing on line,
complaining, or in any way sounding like they were not one hundred percent
enamored to be a part of the Black Jacks and the expansion league, they got
dragged into Rafe’s office for a chat about their contractual obligations. He
hated it. But he recognized it as part of the new world order. The capture of
hearts, minds, and wallets now had to be done via social networking.

He grabbed his overnight case and locked the door behind
him. He had tickets to the NCAA Men’s championship game in Louisville,
Kentucky, and less than an hour to get to the airport and checked in, thanks to
his star player’s melodrama.

A couple of kids on the Louisville team, one of whom was
supposedly headed to medical school and had no interest in playing
professionally had caught his eye. Rafe would bet Jack Gordon’s Stingray that
Parker Rollings would be a perfect foil for Nicco at midfield and around them
he could build a powerhouse of a team. One that might make the league sit up
and take notice in the first year. If he could only convince the young man that
“soccer” made a better choice than “doctor”—and based on what he’d read between
the lines of various interviews with the kid, Rafe believed his chances were
damn good.

Nicolas glared at the line of soccer balls, blaming them for
the shit direction his life had gone. He got a running start at the first of
the twenty spheres and drew his right leg back. Relishing the hard, jarring
sensation of connection shooting up from his foot through his shin to his hip,
he sent it sailing to the top right corner of the empty net.

Maybe if he’d gone in a different direction, not heeded all
the stupid ravings about him as a kid.

Wham
, another bull’s eye hit.

Maybe if his mother hadn’t gotten starry-eyed and greedy,
pushing him ever harder on the pitch and away from schoolwork. He grimaced as
the one he’d hit with his weak left leg went sailing wide and hit the post.
He’d been recruited to
La Liga
, Spain’s soccer league, at nineteen and
never darkened the door of a university—something he still deeply regretted,
wondering how his life might have turned out vastly different.

He grunted and sent another ball straight to the middle of
the net, exactly where any decent goalkeeper would catch it. Maybe if he didn’t
feel so fucking alone, so empty, so bereft of real emotion, he wouldn’t seek
out near constant physical connections. Maybe if he could wake up not so
fucking angry every day.

He had hoped this little adventure to America would help. So
far, not so much. The girl he’d finger-fucked and let give him a hand job on
the plane was sticking like super glue. Although today he had texted her the
coach’s warning and hadn’t heard from her again. Hopefully she got the message.

Despite his seeming ability to find it around every corner,
trouble did not make him happy. Especially now, as he tried to manufacture a
new persona for himself: Nicolas Garza, the wise old man at twenty-nine, coming
to the aid of this amusing little Detroit soccer project.

His next kick went wild to the left, pissing him off even
more.

Maybe if the last words he shared with the love of his life
hadn’t been furious and full of hurt. He’d wanted to quit soccer for the man,
for Leandro, honest to Christ. He had loved him so completely, so fiercely, it
terrified him. Which had lead to his fatal overreaction in the other direction,
moving away from emotion and toward emptiness via more random fucking. He sat
on the grass, chest heaving, holding back tears as night fell over the field.

Without a doubt, “Maybes” are a huge part of his life. He
stared at his hands, turning them over, marveling at how much trouble they’d
gotten him into since his lover had slammed the door on their last argument and
boarded a plane back to Brazil. They’d been teammates for Deportivo when they
met and damn good ones, but Leandro got traded almost immediately, placing him
opposite Nicco for many games.

Their connection had been instantaneous and intense. Leandro
Roberto, or “just Leandro” as is the way of Brazilian footballers, brought out
the small bit of good left in Nicco. Calming him, and providing stability in a
world of crazed fans, money, parties and bullshit. But Nicco had screwed up
royally, getting angry with the man for something he couldn’t even recall. So
he, Nicco, had let some female groupie coax him to her villa for an orgy.

He put his head in his hands letting the cool night air dry
the sweat from two hours of running and solitary practice. This stupid,
beautiful game represented all he knew, all he understood, all he loved. It
brought him ecstasy and misery in equal measure. It had given him Leandro, and
had taken him away forever. So now, stuck here in no-man’s-land, with a cocky
former American star for a manager and a female stalker, he faced his final
destiny.

Nice work, as usual, Nicco. Very nice work.

As a bonus, his new team wanted to shove him into the
spotlight, framing their open-mindedness by making him the spokesperson for gay
athletes. God. What a mess. He sincerely hoped Rafe had gotten his unspoken
message. He had no interest in being anyone’s poster boy. His sex life was his
business and no one else’s.

Screw the Black Jacks and their marketing department six
ways to Sunday.

He’d taken perverse pleasure in doing the requisite social
networking by writing curse words in Spanish for a while, until he’d gotten
caught. Then he used utterly idiotic posts like: “Just took a hot shower. Next
time you should join me.” Or “I need breakfast. Can some woman come fix it for
me?” All of which earned him yet more slaps on his wrist—and thousands more
followers every day, in a perverse counter-reaction to the marketing
department’s efforts. At the moment Nicco Garza was the most popular team
member on the ’net.

He leaned back on his hands, taking in the night sky and the
huge, hulking indoor venue the team called home next to the grass field he
preferred. This Midwest ghost town next to Canada chilled him. He hated it. But
he had no choice. He had nothing really but his game. And his next fuck. Nicco
got to his feet, forcing emotion out of his head, gathered the balls and lined
them up again.

*****

Nicco woke with a start and sat straight up in the bed as
the hangover grabbed his brain in a pair of steel vise grips. Looking down at
the jumble of arms and legs in the king sized bed he groaned and tried to
disentangle himself, managing to fall to his knees onto the floor. Once the
room stopped spinning, he sat back against the silken duvet cover.

The pile of flesh on the bed moved, grunted, and rolled
over, revealing a man, with skin a deep chocolate and firm as only the truly
young can boast. He also presented the type of morning hard-on best represented
by youth. Nicco’s body reacted to it as snippets from the night before raced
through his consciousness.

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.