Indulgence (265 page)

*****

Parker went through his usual pre-game ritual—running five
miles and consuming a four egg omelet with a cup of coffee and orange juice.
The past months had been a blur of sheer physical stress and strain and
avoidance of anything resembling up close and personal time with one Nicolas
Garza. They’d battled it out, giving each other mutual black eyes more than
once during fifty-fifty battles for the ball, and Parker had loved the
contact—had relished the minutes he got to spend so close to a perfect example
of a classic midfielder.

He’d remained strictly professional, never lingering long in
the locker room and keeping to himself or with the more low-key members of the
team, such as Kago and the Germans. He’d even been approached by an agent and
had entered into discussions about representation.

“You’ll need a place to land once this little experiment
goes pear-shaped, Parker,” the guy had insisted. “And you are the real deal.
Not like all these has-beens.”

Parker had been named captain and as the attacking mid with
Nicco on his left wing. Many claimed Nicco had caused such external strife for
the team in general, getting photographed in any number of compromising
positions; he’d put the whole experiment in jeopardy already. But Parker didn’t
care. He had determined the team would succeed.

This pre-season start-up was absolutely crucial. He’d been
over to Rafe’s house for dinner, met his amazingly cool and very pregnant wife
and her son from an earlier marriage. They discussed tactics, concepts,
personalities and the competition for hours. And for the first time he felt
truly needed, a part of something important.

He glanced down at his phone, noting the name he’d
programmed in a few weeks ago. Sighing, he answered, acknowledging the surge of
undeniable ambivalence. “Hey, Ashley.”

“Just wanted to wish you good luck,” the girl said. “Miss
you.”

He ran a hand down his face. Ashley had fallen into his lap
more or less, at a team bonding event. She worked in the marketing department
and happened to be a dead ringer for Christie. When he’d spotted her across the
room blatantly staring at him, he’d lifted his juice glass at her pretty smile.
By the end of the night he had her back in a dark corner, kissing her with
something approaching desperation.

The next morning he’d actually been shocked to find her in
his bed, snuggled down into his chest. Now, apparently, he had a girlfriend.
Who, thankfully, proved the opposite of Christie personality-wise. Undemanding,
busy with her own job, not clingy or needy, but a damn tiger between the
sheets. Ashley Trent could be what any man hoped for in a girlfriend. Parker
hated himself for staying so disconnected from her, using her body to take his
edge off, to quell the near constant level of lust he lived with daily. She,
however, didn’t seem to mind or resent it. She left him alone when he needed
and appeared when he wanted.

“Thanks. We’ll be fine, I think. I hope. I don’t know.” The
butterflies beating the inside of his stomach transformed into small bats
making him a little nauseated. “See you after?” he asked weakly, not even
caring, but knowing he was supposed to ask.

“Maybe,” she said breezily, making him grateful in a way
that sickened him. He needed her but he knew why—she kept him from facing
himself, from acknowledging he would play this season and then get his shiny
new agent to find him something else.

He could not play with Nicco. No matter they formed the
middle of a strong team. Their chemistry on the pitch was undeniable. The press
that had been allowed to watch some early scrimmages commented on it—how the
two of them seemed able to anticipate each other’s moves before they made them.
Which would be key to winning in a new league surprisingly stacked with
talented players.

“Parker,” she said, sounding a million miles away.

He blinked, realized he’d been drifting, pondering exactly
how much he enjoyed playing the game he loved with Nicolas Garza. “Sorry, babe.
What?”

“Nothing….” Her voice faded. “Just…play well. I’ll be
watching.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He hung up. Dropping the phone to the floor
of his rented loft overlooking the Detroit River, he allowed himself a few
minutes of remorse. She deserved better. He resolved to break it off with her
after this game. He was obviously incapable of real emotion, so embroiled in
his own mind with Nicco.

The thought of coming back to an empty condo after the game
today made him twitchy. He toyed with calling her back, asking her to meet him
afterward, for dinner, for anything. But he let it go.

The intervening weeks had been tough beyond imagining as the
Detroit summer edged away and the temperatures eased down into the seventies.
The lack of humidity provided a nice break to his Southern-bred thin blood. The
covered, state-of-the-art venue had inevitable delays but had its grand
opening. The team got exactly one full workout on its artificial turf after the
giant, ribbon-cutting opening ceremony.

Tempers ran short and hot among the team and its coaches.
Frustrated by delays and the onslaught of media plus all their extra chores
online, the men still put in near nightly appearances at high-visibility
fundraisers and other boring events. After all the drama, the stress, and
brutal practices in the summer sun, the day had arrived—their first official
game as a team.

Rafe scheduled aggressively, putting together a nice mix of
gimmie games and challenging matches. The new coach, once he’d finally shown,
had proved as tough as everyone had warned. The tall, dark Turk with the terrible
tragedy lurking in his past seemed to embrace the conflict roiling through the
players’ ranks. He even egged on some of the more volatile players, coaxing
higher levels of play with his harsh but apparently effective words. Willing
them to explode with fury for the express purpose of showing them how immature
they had acted.

Parker emerged from the shower, rubbing his hair, ignoring
his body’s clamor for more physical contact. His phone buzzed again—Nicco.

Parker’s scalp tingled, and he contemplated ignoring the
call. But the two men had formed a bond around the concept of a winning
season—they were both fierce competitors. Plus, for all his bullshit, all the
drama seeming to trail after him like fog, Garza remained a stone-cold pro at
the game. He had a fiercely strategic mind when it came to breaking down
opponents since he’d played against many members of opposing teams in Europe.

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.

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.”