Fourth and Long Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Loose Id Titles by Michele M. Rakes

  Michele M. Rakes

  FOURTH AND LONG

  Michele M. Rakes

  www.loose-id.com

  Fourth and Long

  Copyright © March 2015 by Michele M. Rakes

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623008703

  Editor: Heather Sedlak

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 170549

  San Francisco CA 94117-0549

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  This one is to Papa, Scott, and Jay, my football buddies. To my nephew, Ian, for his love of football. To my mom, who always said I could write, and to Chris, who keeps her entertained on her journey.

  Acknowledgment

  My entire family for their support. ERWA for offering such a great place for writers. Individually, Daddy X, Daily Hollow, Chase, Theophilia (my other football buddy and lover of men in uniform), Spencer Dryden, and Meg (Meggers) Amor for all their love and support and tireless beta reading.

  Chapter One

  Postgame Gathering

  Ray Eldridge’s Basement

  Irus Beaumont

  The television blares in the corner of the room. The announcer irritates me, and I can’t stand watching the replay. The play-by-play floats through the basement, driving me nuts.

  “Deep from their own end zone, McCoy runs it back! The twenty, the thirty. No one’s catching him! Beaumont’s close… McCoy’s at the ten… Beaumont’s got him, no—touchdown Pirates! What a great runback! Wait! There’s conflict in the end zone. Some pushing and shoving. Stripes throws the flag! Beaumont’s ejected from the game.”

  I lost my shit tonight on special teams. Should’ve taken McCoy down, but he’s elusive. The way the guy jackrabbits around the field is unnatural. I’ve got the height and reach advantage on him. He shouldn’t have scored a touchdown. Whiskey doesn’t soothe what’s wrong, but it helps drown out my teammates around me. Doesn’t drown out the talking heads and the fucking replay, though.

  “Turn that shit off,” I mutter.

  Someone across the room mutes the TV but doesn’t turn it off. I watch in embarrassed horror as I throw the punch responsible for my penalty. The game-clinching penalty. The reason we lost the game. Once I was out of the game, McCoy ran roughshod over our secondary with no one to pick him off except our strong safety, Ray Eldridge. The whole debacle wasn’t my fault. The blame lies with Jackson McCoy.

  Can’t even commiserate in silence. Eldridge’s man cave is just as raucous as any sports bar right now. The other play-off game is going on, the one to decide who will play the Pirates in the championship, while we sit here like whipped dogs. The hell of being the early game on Sunday means you get to sit and watch what could’ve been.

  All the ruckus makes me want to drink some whiskey, pick up some rough trade, and go home to fuck all my aggressions out. Won’t do any good. McCoy is permanently embedded into my hypothalamus.

  Eldridge saunters over to interrupt my thoughts. Not much there. The only thing on my brain is what these hormones are doing to my system or how significantly Jackson McCoy disrupts my homeostasis.

  “Irus, man. You gotta learn to keep your cool. You can’t get ejected from games. You’ll wind up suspended.” Eldridge joins me at the bar. “We a lowly expansion team. Nobody gonna cut us any breaks, I-reese. Gotta make our own opportunities. Like the way I built this bar.” He strokes the elegance of the dark wood with a wide palm. “Hard work. Dedication. Ain’t no one gonna give it to us, man.”

  Els put the work in himself to transform his basement into a high-end man cave. Top-shelf liquor, complete back bar, plumbed for a glass washer and an ice maker. The room behind me is reflected in the high polish of the mirror. Some of my boys are getting happy despite the loss. It was a good loss. A close game.

  Eldridge slips behind the bar and refills my glass. He’s a man endowed with sage wisdom. I sometimes hate him, but he’s my friend and mentor. A great football player and the leader of our defensive team. He’s a man I can rarely ignore.

  I sip my whiskey. “He called me Iris.”

  Els leans on the bar, comfortable in the role of compassionate bartender. His long black fingers look like gnarled spider legs. Not too different from my own football-calloused hands.

  “Listen here, Beaumont. I know what this is…this rivalry with pretty boy,” says my soulful strong safety.

  Tonight his tone scares me. What does he know? My gut clenches in anticipation and fear. If Els finds out about my ulterior motives, the true root of my aggression toward Jackson McCoy, I’m done for in this league. I’ll lose my friend and my team. I wait, not breathing, to hear the words You’re gay come from Els’s mouth.

  “You been beat by him too many times, and it pisses you off. Ain’t nuthin’ ta do with no trash talk, I-reese.”

  Eldridge’s deep baritone laugh is swallowed by the sound of our teammates hollering at the TV. Els makes his way back around the bar to sit beside me. He throws his heavy arm over my shoulders. The man is drunk and mocks my pride. I’m good with that if it means he doesn’t know why I truly can’t stand Jackson McCoy. Els doesn’t need to know. I n
eed to put McCoy out of my mind before I go nuts.

  “Fuck you, Els. Get up off my back, fool. You old drunk.”

  “Who you callin’ old, boy?”

  “You, bro.”

  He claps me on the back, laughing even as he knows his prime’s passing with each season. Twenty-nine is the beginning of the twilight years for a safety, any safety in the league, but he doesn’t think about it too much. At least, not that he tells me.

  A loud voice comes from behind us. “I-reese, I-reese Beau-mont! Tell me, my brother, how’s your hand?”

  The reflection in the mirror is of a lean guy with an almond face, tiny freckles, and not near as dark as me. Taylor Sims. Tay’s a classic hanger-on with a loud personality and a scheme for everything. Played ball in high school, but he never had the grit. Football was just something to do. His momma liked him running around a field instead of out causing trouble. “Idle hands,” she had liked to say.

  Good ole Taylor has a knack for nailing things right on the head but not realizing the implications of the discovery. One day I expect to hear Taylor say, Yo, I-reese, you in heat or sumpthin’, you actin’ all into Jackson McCoy. That mean you’re gay? He’ll laugh like it’s a great joke. The rest of the room will be looking at me like I’m an anathema.

  Lots of my fellow players are religious. I know how they feel about gay men based on their faith. The time they spend praying before and after the games shows me how devoted they are to God. My Auntie Beulah still believes in God, even after she became a woman and learned the hard way about living life out and proud. She’s now a shunned former pass rusher who should be in the Hall of Fame. One of the longest careers in the league. She holds the record for the most sacks in a single season.

  The biggest indicator of antigay sentiments within the organization are the number of gay jokes told to me in the locker room. I laugh, not because I think they’re funny but out of fear. I leave the room when they’re bad. There are days when it’s all I can do to keep from punching someone in the mouth. Can’t do that, though. I’d get outed. My career would be over.

  Sometimes I think there have to be other gays in the league, just by the numbers, but I’ve never met any of them. Too dangerous. My career is too important. Only one or two of the guys tell crude gay jokes anyway. Most of them come from the assistant coaching staff. The old ones who don’t know any better. It is what it is, and my auntie tells me to play my own game. “Don’t let them sassy boys mess wit’ your head, I-reese.” Auntie is wise beyond her years.

  Even as a child, I called her Auntie. When we weren’t in the locker room, I knew it was safe. She trusted me with her secret because I realized she was different all on my own, and I accepted her unconditionally. Because I felt different. Auntie may have been in the league, but I still feel like an anomaly.

  Taylor hangs on me. “Boy, you need to get them ’locks tight; you be looking haggard.”

  “Get up off me.” I knock his hand away from my head. Man don’t need to be messing with my dreads.

  “Come on, boy, don’t be pissy,” Eldridge says. “Tell the man about your hand.” He sounds like my uncle Clyde, Auntie’s older brother and the man who raised me when I wasn’t bouncing between other family members.

  “It’s broke.”

  “Whaddya break it on?” Taylor asks.

  “Weren’t you watching the game?”

  “Naw, man, I was making out with Eldridge’s sister.”

  “Boy, you better not have been, I’ll break you in half, toss you in separate directions.” Els stands.

  We all laugh. Taylor doesn’t realize the true threat in Eldridge. Everything is a big joke to this guy, but oh well, we all put up with him.

  “Seriously, Beaumont, what happened to your hand?” Taylor insists on asking me.

  “What kind of asshole puts their helmet down when a guy takes a shot at him?” I ask Els.

  He grins wide, his teeth pearly against his dark face. There’s a glint of gold on one incisor. “The same kind of asshole who takes a shot at a guy wearing a helmet.”

  They laugh. Yeah, Eldridge thinks he’s real funny. I just can’t laugh at myself right now. “I guess that’d be me.” I pick up my drink and walk away.

  Eldridge follows me. “Come on, man. Tell me what’s really up.”

  I eye him, trying to judge whether he’s truly ready to listen to my rant. In the end, I give in to him. “I wanted it bad, bro. So bad. It’s all that golden boy’s fault. How the fuck he beat me, Els?”

  “Won’t know until we watch the film.”

  “Blondie beat me. He beat me. That just don’t happen.”

  Els scratches his jaw, roughing up his stubble with his nails. “What do you think happened?”

  “It started earlier in the game.”

  “When he busted your coverage?”

  I glare, but it doesn’t faze Els one bit. “I was running downfield, pacing him. He cuts back, and the ball just falls in his hands. I reach him as he gets his hips around. The bastard winks at me as he gives a quick hesi and makes me plant my feet.”

  “I saw that…a little shake an’ bake,” Els says, followed by a sly smirk I can’t possibly forgive.

  “Shit, bro. Ease up.”

  “Keep going,” Els encourages me.

  “He’s fast for a white boy. I mean…jeezus, he’s short but he runs like he’s long.”

  “Sure, he’s fast. Winked at you, huh? You’ve heard about him, right?”

  “No, what?”

  “Heard he might be a little weak in the wrist.”

  “Huh?”

  “The rumor is he’s gay,” Els whispers.

  “Naw, I don’t think—”

  “He winked at you, didn’t he?”

  Gay? Jackson McCoy? Oh Lord, don’t tease me like this, my heart can’t take this kind of jolt. “You think he’s gay?”

  “Don’t know. Not in the locker room with the guy.”

  “You can tell by just being in the locker room?”

  “My gaydar is strong,” Els says sagely.

  Is he trying to tell me something? “No, seriously, bro.”

  “Sure—he the one eying your fun bits.” My friend and mentor barely suppresses his leer.

  “Fuck, Els!”

  “Well? I don’t know how to tell—except—maybe ask him. Why?”

  “Man, you got me all fucked up.”

  “Don’t sweat it, I-reese. Seriously doubt he wants at your funky ass.”

  “You got it all wrong. He’s not gay. Just kills me with kindness. Makes it hard to talk shit to him. He calling me Iris today isn’t like him at all.”

  “Sure, kindness is his way. He treats you the same as any other corner. He’s been in the league longer, dealt with all you young bucks, and he’s good. He not gonna let you draw him into any shenanigans. Yeah, you fucking decleated him. Most time dude’s like ice. Even the most cool player is gonna react. You must’ve finally got under his skin.”

  Lord Almighty, I’d like to get into him another way. “Not before he scored. I hit him so hard, I think I went through him, but it was too late. He fucking stood up and winked at me again. Said, “‘Nice hit, I-ris.’ Told me I hit like a girl.”

  We’re silent for a moment. A few of the guys are wrestling and getting loud. Els’s wife bangs on the floor and hollers, “You don’t shut your boys up, I’ll skin your scrotum! The kids are sleeping.”

  “Ya’ll wake my kids, you get to deal with my wife,” Els says to the room. He looks at me and winks. Fucking asshole.

  “One and done, Els. We had our chance at the championship, and I blew it.”

  “Next year, bro. We’ll get him next year. Think of it this way: no one expected this ragtag team to make it this far, let alone be playing the best team in the league for a divisional championship.”

  “They’re changing the divisions next season, you hear that?”

  Els sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s because of the expansion. Two
years out and it didn’t work. They say we suck.”

  “We don’t suck. The divisions were unbalanced.”

  “Won’t be playing Pirates anymore.” Translation: I won’t be up against Jackson McCoy. The way his body feels slamming into the ground beneath me is a secret pleasure. My body heats up just thinking about hitting McCoy. I down the rest of my drink, barely listening to Els.

  “The Pirates will still be on our schedule,” Els is saying. “Just won’t play them twice. What it means is we get a chance to play them in the national championship.”

  Battling Jackson for a ring? Damn. My imagination churns out visions of Jackson congratulating me with his mouth. Oh fuck!

  Taylor runs up to us, his eyes wide and excited. “They’ll be playing Boston in the championship. Boston just won twenty-three to ten over San Antonio. It’s not going to be easy for the Pirates—even if they’ve got the infamous Jackson McCoy.”

  * * * *

  Night of the National Championships

  Irus Beaumont’s Home

  “Fielding snaps the ball. Branson drops back, looking long—finds his target—McCoy deep downfield goes up…snatches the ball… He’s down in bounds. Darrell’s all over him, McCoy spins…into the end zone. Touchdown Pirates! That’s the game!”

  I roll away from the TV, yanking the covers over my head. Fucking McCoy. Pretty boy’s everywhere, and now the bastard has a ring. Pro Bowler has a championship ring. I hate him even more.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about McCoy. Not while I have a slick, young twink in my bed. There’s definitely something I can do to take my mind off Golden Boy’s skills.

  “Shut that shit off.”

  “Irus—”

  “I don’t want to hear him, the interviews, the gloating.”

  “Who?”

  “Fucking McCoy.”

  “You mean the hottie with all that long blond hair hanging out of his helmet?”

  Yeah, all that golden hair. Fuck, I’d like to pull it—wrap my fingers up in it as I fuck him nice and hard. I look to the TV. There he is. His helmet is off, and his hair is all sweaty. That pretty-boy smile plasters his face. How can those baby blues show up so bright? McCoy shines like he’s in the room with us.