Indulgence (266 page)

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, watching 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.

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 to 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.

He frowned, bit his lip, and recalled an odd conversation
and near close encounter they’d had one night toward the end of the season
after the rest of the team had showered and left. Leaving the two of them,
battered and bruised, mainly from going head to head against each other.

Parker had looked up to find the locker room echoing and
empty and Nicco sitting a few feet away. The look in the man’s eyes had been
sad, remorseful, with a finality that startled Parker. “What’s up?” he asked,
keeping it casual as he got to his feet. He groaned and stretched out his newly
sore elbow and tried to work out a kink in his back. He’d missed the trainer’s
attention and would need a double treatment tomorrow just to suit up and play.

“I was married once, you know,” the handsome Spaniard had
stated apropos of nothing.

Parker had winced as he lifted his practice jersey off and
touched his sore ribs. “Well, I hope you didn’t beat on her like you just did
on me,” he said, mildly, not realizing how suggestive it sounded until it had
escaped his lips. He felt the familiar flush creep up his neck to his face.

A warm smile had spread over Nicco’s sweaty face. “No.” He
stood, turned to his own locker, and started to undress.

“I heard about her.” Parker had been unable to rip his eyes
from the sight of Nicco’s lean, strong back. “Saw some pictures. I followed the
Euro league pretty closely once upon a time.” He gave up on standing when Nicco
stepped out of his shorts and stood still facing away from Parker. He had
intimate knowledge of the subtle strength of the man’s body—he boasted the sore
ribs, black eyes, and scuffed skin to prove it. His mouth dried out as his gaze
stayed glued to Nicco’s backside.

“Yeah, guess you did, being the youngster you are.” Nicco’s
voice had been soft. He’d wandered over to the towel shelf, grabbed one, and
fastened it around his waist before crossing his arms and spearing him with a
glacial stare.

“Don’t call me youngster,” he’d squeaked out, wincing at the
sound of his voice. “She left you, spilled the beans about you…your….”

“Boyfriend,” Nicco’s voice had been strong, firm, in command
of the situation. Parker felt like a blithering idiot with his gaping stare and
constantly blushing face as Nicco continued. “Yes. She was fun for a while.
Loved to look good, spend money, show off. It was more or less required of me
to obtain one—you know, a wife. But…,” he shrugged, “I never loved her.” He
sat, suddenly, as if deflated. He put his head in his hands.

Parker had risen as if in a trance and closed the gap
between them. He’d put a hand on Nicco’s bare shoulder. He was dying to soothe
the man, to assure him it was okay, people made mistakes. Nicco’s outer
persona—cocky, confident, aware of his extreme talent on the pitch—remained at
odds with the man he saw right now. Parker had always sensed a deep
unhappiness, a restlessness that lent itself to sometimes bizarre,
unexplainable bad choices.