Indulgence (259 page)

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.

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.

*****

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.