Indulgence (261 page)

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.

He shifted in his seat, trying to get control of himself, a
bizarre combination of anger and lust spinning around his brain. The room rose,
and Nicco joined them making their way out into the hallway.

A gaggle of kids and parents awaited them, and the team
spent about an hour signing soccer balls, slips of paper, jerseys, getting
photos taken with camera phones. Nicco joined in to prove his ability to
schmooze like a pro. At one point he caught sight of his new young coach with
his arm around a tall, attractive, pregnant woman with coal black hair. Rafe
caught his eye and beckoned him over.

“Nicolas Garza, this is Maureen, my wife, and her son,
Adam.” A dark-skinned teenager next to the stunning woman stuck out a hand.
Nicco took it, noting the kid’s own club kit and backpack. He took Maureen’s
hand, kissed it, and eyeballed Rafe.

“Well done, young Rafe. What a vision. How did a loser such
as yourself rate such beauty?”

Maureen frowned but her eyes sparkled. “Spare me, Nicco.
I’ve heard all about you.”

“I have no doubt of that, lovely lady.” He gave a short bow.
“But may I also say congratulations on the coming joy.”

She smiled at him, and he mirrored her, liking her already.
He valued women who took no shit from him. Winking at Rafe, he made his way
back into the teeming throng after nodding at the woman’s son, who didn’t look
that much younger than his mother’s new husband. He immediately locked gazes
with the blond American usurper and his throat closed up. The man stared at him
wide-eyed and innocent, and Nicco had to grip the back of a chair to keep from
saying something utterly stupid.

He’d wager his left nut that young Parker had never been
with a man, but the sheer sexual energy pouring off him was intoxicating. His
fresh, clean good looks spoke of a typical American, upper class upbringing,
expensive soccer clubs and college scholarships. Shit Nicco usually despised
and denigrated.

He broke the eye contact and set his jaw. The kid had
another think coming if he honestly thought he’d be taking Nicolas Garza’s
place on the team—pure and simple, no matter how fevered his sudden fantasy
over popping the kid’s cherry. He ran a hand down his face and swallowed hard.
Things had certainly gotten complicated and then some. But he had a focus
now—keeping his starting spot ahead of the delectable Parker.

Parker smiled, signed jerseys, made random small talk with
his new teammates, and tried like hell to ignore the blatant stare coming from
the famous Spanish player. The guy had a nerve, ignoring him like that in front
of everybody. So far, consensus on the team about Nicolas Garza remained
consistent—he was the official bad boy, their token player everyone loved to
hate. Parker didn’t think it was a good way to initiate team dynamics, but he
wasn’t the coach.

So he did his thing, Tweeted, made a few Facebook comments
under his new profile: Parker Rollings, Black Jack, signed more balls and
grinned for more pictures. By the time they’d finished the fan scrum his ears
rang and his stomach growled.

“Hey, Parker, do you have a car?” The dark-skinned South
African forward slapped his back. “Need a ride?”

“Uh, sure, um….” Parker tried to remember the man’s name.

“Kago.”

“No car yet, so that would be great, thanks.” In Kago’s huge
shiny SUV, they were joined by two Germans and a kid Parker remembered playing
against in college. During the brief trip to the hotel, he learned Aric and his
quieter fellow German, Tobias had both given up decent careers in the
Bundesleague
to take a chance on this American experiment.

Tobias was married, but his wife had stayed behind for a
year just to hedge their bets. Aric had a girlfriend who’d be joining them in a
few months. Kago kept quiet about his personal life, which Parker respected by
staying silent about his own.

The other American, Cole Franklin from Somehere-who-cares,
Ohio kept up a steady monologue about himself, his talents, his various
trophies and championships, the many women he’d fucked, and how much more pussy
he anticipated getting now that he was a pro player, precluding much other
conversation.

Parker stared straight ahead listening to the chatter from
the back dominated by the loud American and various grunts and one-syllable
answers from the Germans. A hard reality struck him then—the gamble he’d taken
coming here matched the huge crap shoot nature of the whole damn project. He
had felt such an affinity for Rafe when he’d met him after the championship
game, but until that moment he had no idea how far out on a limb he stood with
this motley crew of players.

He grinned and looked at Kago who threw him a genuine smile
in return. Maybe it would be fun. A convertible raced by them, top down, long
blonde female hair whipping around on the passenger’s side. Parker bit his lip
at the sight of Nicolas Garza behind the wheel, one hand draped over it, the
other along the back of the seat, his dark face casual as if the whole driving
thing was just an afterthought.

Swallowing the urge to grip his thighs and clamping down on
all forbidden fantasy images, he took a long breath. The car sped up and zoomed
around them, disappearing into the shimmering heat of the highway ahead.

All his intense imaginings about men had to remain in his
head. He would likely never be able to experience the hard muscular planes of
another man’s body under his hands. Not if he were to achieve his goal of pro
soccer stardom. He swallowed hard and made a mental note to find a girlfriend,
fast.

“So Parker. How do you feel about being pitted against Nicco
the Terrible?” Kago asked.

Parker frowned. “Pitted against him? I figured I was just
his second.”

“No. Our coach is going old school on us. Making us earn our
spots in one-on-one competitions starting on Monday.”

Parker’s heart sped up. He had always admired the Spaniard’s
style, but was confident of his own talents. “Huh. Well, I guess I’ll have to
beat him then.” He blushed as the three older men burst out laughing. One of
the Germans smacked his shoulder.

“Big talk. You have no idea how hard that bastard will work
to keep his spot. But never mind. That’s for Monday. It’s Thursday and I, for
one, have never been in a big American city. I say we hit at least three strip
clubs, two casinos, and end the night with an orgy in…your room.”

Parker gave a weak grin at the roars of amusement and ran a
thumb over the new debit card the pretty, dark-haired assistant had pressed
into his hand earlier.

“Plenty of money here, Parker. An advance on your salary to
get you settled.” Parker had never in his life thought much about money. Now on
his own, worries about how to actually afford tucking singles into bikini
bottoms and throwing cash at the gambling tables invaded his brain.

They pulled into the hotel’s swank front court, exited, and
made their way to the bank of elevators. Parker’s head spun from residual
stress, hunger, and anxiety at the thought of an actual strip club. He shook
his head.
Get a grip and act like a man, Jesus. Men do these things all the
time. No big deal.
He shut the room door and leaned on it a minute, trying
to still his racing heart. He’d never regretted his sheltered life as
student-athlete-with-regular-sex-from-a-girlfriend more than at the moment.