Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (25 page)

JENSEN

I thought a week would do it, give my head and dick some time to move on, but they haven’t. It’s ten at night on a Saturday, prime hunting hour, but I’m sitting in a quiet apartment thinking about her, a
clean
apartment. That’s the funny thing. I cleaned this place up a week ago before I went to see her in some delusional act because I thought she might actually come back here with me, that she’d instalust and beg me to take her.

She did.
You
fucked it up.

I see my bed through the doorway. Yep, still empty.

I can’t even bring myself to jerk off, she’s got me so good. I’ve called her, texted her, emailed. I even sent her a message on Facebook for fuck’s sake, like anyone actually uses that any more. She must know how desperate I am, how much I need her, so why’s she giving me the cold shoulder?

Because she was wet, ready, and you did fucking what? You left. You’re a fucking idiot.

I am. I’ve got no idea what came over me that night.

My keys beckon hanging by the door, but what would I do? Go all Richard Gere and hang out of a limo under her window? It’s not my style. It’s not
hers
. She’d see right through it.

I get down on the carpet, the reassuring weight of my body on my hands. I do twenty push-ups in quick succession, switching to single hand and then pikes. I work it until the sweat blots everything out and stings my eyes, until every muscle in my body is aflame.

It’s stupid, childish. You don’t get ripped doing a hundred push-ups a day, but I have to do something to take my mind off her. If not, I’m going to go insane, and that’s simply not a possibility right now, not with the one of the biggest games of the season around the corner.

Fuck it.

I stand and grab my keys, don’t even bother putting a shirt on as I jog down the stairs and into the street, setting the quickest pace I can. Wind rushes around my ears. Sweat cools on my back and arms.

A group of girls doing burpees at a boot-camp all turn and look as I stride by. I wink by instinct, but it feels good. I’m where I belong here in my natural habitat. King of the fucking jungle, baby.

But as the path peters out and I hit the beach—people thinning at this hour, the ocean barely moving—my thoughts return. Even when she was mad, she was hot. It was my fault, no doubt. Something came over me I still don’t recognize. It’s weird not being able to trust yourself, like I’m in control of my own damn head.

Legs for days, the hot space between them waiting for my member
—fuck, I can’t stop myself. Even when she was sixteen, Scarlet was a knockout blow for my cock. Her new braces couldn’t stop me drooling and slobbering at the mere thought of her. And think of her I did, every night, dick in hand and eyes plastered to the ceiling picturing her above me, her snowy blonde hair floating around my face.

She’s got you good, partner. I know it, you know it and Josh probably does too.

Josh—I haven’t spoken to him since the shirt-front at his place. I see him in training, but he’s staying away. Just as well. Every time I look at him I see Scarlet, her face puffy and wet. It’s a miracle I haven’t rearranged his face yet for even having the arrogance to cheat on her in the first place.

Focus, Jenny-boy. Focus on the game.

I look to the end of the beach and double the pace, feet shoveling sand, lungs filling and expanding, and the world soon lost to the solid beating of my heart.

*

A week-and-a-half and still no word from Scarlet. The game with the Whitecaps is only a few days away, and Coach has been drilling us all hours of the day. I’m seeing defenders in my sleep, dodging imaginary witches’ hats on my way to the fridge.

It’s not even sunrise yet, a heavy cloud of fog hanging above the field. I put my hands together and blow heat into them, jogging on the spot to try and stop my calves seizing up from this madness.

“You know what to do, boys.”

Coach puts his pen behind his ear and starts moving around the stations.

I look down to Ledinski set up in the box. He looks nervous for a goalie. It’s no wonder. Two weeks ago I knocked him out cold with a kick right down the line, thought I’d killed him for a second. Poor bastard drew the short straw today.

I fire off two balls, send the first wide to give him something to do. I shoot the second right into his chest. It’s got to be at least one-twenty. He manages to cop it, stumbling back before dropping the ball and putting his hand up in surrender. I heard Arne Riise once broke Alan Smith’s leg with a free kick—something to aspire to.

“Ready?” I shout.

He shakes his head, but it’s more of a ‘Jesus, I get up in the morning for
this?
’ kind of look.

“Might want to brace yourself for this one,” I warn, falling into the kick.

*

Normally we hit the showers at full volume, overgrown teenagers looking for a peephole, but tonight is different. We’ve been training for almost twelve hours straight. My fucking foot’s numb from kicking so much.

I get my head under the water, shake out the pain that’s set up shop in every square inch of my body.

She comes to me, cheeks growing pink under my scrutiny, the same pastel shade as the saucers her nipples sit upon. I imagine myself running my nose along the pulsing in her throat, make my voice low and gritty, get her good and wet.

Lewis, one of the midfielders, sees me barring up. “Come on, Collins. I know I’m hot as fuck, but seriously, man.”

I look sideways from under the water, smiling and glancing down. “You got a pretty ass, Lewis, but you couldn’t pick a lock with that thing. How’s
that
going to satisfy me?

He grabs his package. “Motion of the ocean, my man. That’s all I’m saying.”

Behind him I see Josh toweling off. If I’ve taken training up a gear, Josh has gone up ten. I’ve never seen him so determined. Coach has his hand on his shoulder, and I don’t need to see his lips to know he’s saying ‘Good job, son. Solid work out there’.

Ol’ green eyes rises up, but I remind myself who it is who’ll be scoring on the night.

“What you been hitting lately?” Lewis is saying, soaping his balls.

I’m pleased to see my dick’s back to DEFCON One, well deflated. “’Bout three-hundred.”

He shakes his head. “Not what you’re benching, moron. Ladies. Where you parking that sewer snake of yours lately?”

I shut off the shower, stand there with water streaming to my feet. “Actually, I’m on something of sexual sabbatical.”

Lewis stands back, eyebrows raised. “Shit. You
are
switching teams.”

I wink. “Wouldn’t you love that?”

Lewis laughs and walks off, slapping his ass.

I’ve got my towel over my head when I collide with someone coming into the locker room. I pull the towel off.

It’s Josh.

His eyes are bloodshot. “You should watch where you’re going.”

“Likewise,” I caution.

He clips me on the shoulder, walking away, but I grab his arm, twisting him back. “Hey, we can’t keep going on like this.”

“Why, you worried it’s going to affect our game?”

“We work best when we’re on the same page.”

“Can’t say the whole twin telepathy thing’s been working for me lately. You seem to be playing your own game. Coach has noticed.”

I look over to Coach, who’s carefully watching the exchange from behind the sports section of the paper. “I’m sure he has, but as long as we’re winning he’s got nothing to complain about, does he?”

Josh grins. “Guess not.”

I detect a hint of bourbon on his breath. Fuck knows how he managed to smuggle that in. “Look, that was a dick move against the Silverbacks. I’ll concede that.”

“What’s the catch?”

“You admit you were an ass to Scarlet.”

Josh places his hand on the locker beside us, scoffing, “What does it matter? It’s done. It’s over. You want me to get back together with her, is that it?”

That’s the last thing I want. “I just want to hear you say it.”

He lets go of the locker. “Okay, I was an ass to her. Is that what you want?”

“It’s a start.”

“Good.”

“Good,” and he walks away.

It’s hardly the Treaty of Paris, but this is how it always goes with us. We’re twins. We fight, we get back together. If one of us lost a chromosome we’d probably make a good couple. It’s what Pops told us over and over again, ‘Blood comes first, boys—always’. Not that he lived by his words. Sold his brother out for a dodgy shares deal and never looked back. I wonder if that’s how we’ll end up eventually, as strangers. I can’t imagine a world without Josh, no matter what he does, no matter how great the crime. But there’s a first for everything.

*

I’m watching old Premier League matches for inspiration. Chelsea midfielder Frank Lampard storms down the field slippery as shit. He took out the FWA and Barclay’s awards in ’04. Hell of a player.

I look around the apartment. It could do with a woman’s touch. There’s a box of unopened gear Nike sent over at the start of the season, a life-size cut-out of myself in an astronaut’s suit I did for team promo, looking to the heavens as if Thor himself were to hand me his hammer to clean away the competition with.

There’s not a single poster or picture on the walls, just a glossy six-by-four of Josh, Scarlet and I on top of the bookshelf (notably free of books). She must have been eighteen or so in the picture, all of us down by the timber mill out of town. I’d just read
It
by Stephen King and was scared shitless a clown was going to pop out of a drain one day and kill us all, given how much Rosie mirrored Maine. The clown never did show up, nor were there any child orgies… Nope, just the three of us, me the ever-resilient third wheel. How much it would kill me to see him groping her, kissing her right in front of my face.

He’s your fucking twin, your vag bro.

I hold my phone and cannot believe I’m about to do it, but Coach is right. We need to be one out there come Saturday night.

It’s time to bury the hatchet.

Pete’s
, I text him, knowing full well this is an offer he never turns down.

*

Pirate Pete’s isn’t exactly a fast-food giant. They have a single store that hasn’t seen a lick of paint since they opened in ninety-nine. Back then they were the only burger joint for miles. Now they’re flanked by McDonalds on one side, Carl’s Jr on the other. Still, they make the best damn cheeseburgers you’ll ever eat, Pete himself often on the grill and seemingly growing grayer and grayer with every passing year.

“Boys!” he shouts from the kitchen window. “Great game the other night.”

“Thanks,” Josh replies, the handful of customers assembled in the dining room paying little attention to the tete-a-tete.

We swing into our usual booth by the window. The vinyl of the seats is striped blue, yellow, and nuclear-waste green, the color scheme probably the sole reason this place hasn’t taken off.

Pete’s wife, Glenda, waddles over. “How many today, boys?”

Josh looks to me, steel in his eyes. “You keen?”

I smile back. “Bet your ass, I am.”

“Make it five a piece, Glenda, extra cheese.”

She winks. “You got it, Jen.”

She disappears off to the kitchen, leaving us alone. Outside the window there’s a group of football fans lounging off the back of a pick-up swilling Bud Lite.

Josh spots them. “Will you get a look at those fuckers?” He shakes his head. “Most pussy sport I know. Get padded up like the Michelin man to go out there and do what? Make a play, throw a ball. I mean, where’s the skill in that? Australia, the UK? Those guys play full-contact without any protection. And we call it God’s sport. Fucking America, man.”

“You’d move to the English leagues if you could?”

He picks up a knife, taps it against the table. “Fuck yes, and you would to. Don’t deny it. Soccer’s come a long way here thanks to Beckham and his ass bandits, but England is where it’s at. An army of fans, real heritage—it’s a religion to those guys. It’s a religion to us.”

He’s right. Once we found that soccer ball in the drain, we were sold. We practiced in the street come rain, hail, or shine—practiced until our toes bled. We still do. That’s why we’re the best. That’s why we’re both pulling six figures straight out of college.

“So, we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” I offer, taking the knife from his hand.

Josh looks behind himself. “You talkin’ about Pete? I mean, he’s put on a couple of pounds, but—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Scarlet.”

“Yes, Scarlet.”

Josh rolls his head like he’s sick of hearing her name. “What do you want me to say, Jen? Was I cheating on her? Yes, I fucking well was. Was that a decent thing to do? Probably not, but we’ve been growing apart for a long time.”

“You told me
you
broke up with
her
.”