Page 3

Two

Knox

T he team is pissed as we file off the field and back to the locker room. A few throw their helmets on the ground, and others are calling it bullshit. No one likes losing the first game of the season. I’m struggling even more knowing I contributed to it with a big-ass fumble. I’m better than that. My hands are huge and sticky, so I don't fumble passes like an amateur, and Luke and I have an almost telepathic connection to know where the other is on the field for shit like that. But this time, Buffalo’s lineman held me up, and I couldn’t get away as fast as I should have to grab that ball and run it into the end zone. Those points would have won the game.

Luke pats my ass as he follows me into the locker room. “ Don’t put it all on yourself. I can see you’re all up in your head. It’s one game, and one fumble. It won't be like that every time, and you know it. We all have our good and bad games. I took that massive hit in the second that absolutely could have been a beautiful pass if I’d decided to throw it instead of run, so I’m just as much at fault.”

He means well, and I appreciate it, but that sack he’s talking about didn’t cause a turnover with the other team running the ball halfway back down the field. “I hear you,” I say, anyway. No one wants to listen to me mope, especially Luke, one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL.

“Mathews, Contraire, stop gossiping and get your asses over here,” Coach Adams yells, his face a mottled scarlet that doesn’t look good for us, or his coronary artery.

We walk all the way into the locker room and sit on the bench in front of our lockers at his command.

“Get the fuck out of your heads and stop feeling sorry for yourselves,” Coach starts, looking around the room at the entire team. “It’s one game. Yeah, you played like shit and had some terrible calls, but we can learn from this. Next week, there’s another game, and the week after that all the way until February, if we’re lucky. We’ve only failed if we walk away from this without learning the lessons it taught us about our weaknesses and where we can improve. Practice this week will drill into those spots so we’re not left holding our dicks in our hands again next game. Now, hit the showers and see the PTs. I want you fresh for the next practice when we’re going to run those plays the way they should have been done today.” Coach Adams finishes with his not-so-motivational speech and turns it over to Coach McAvoy.

“Contraire, you’re on media duty. Don't let them get in your head about what happened, and I don't want anyone saying shit about Antwon, got it?” Coach McAvoy tells me.

We nod our heads in understanding, and the coaches make their way out of the locker room. I rise to my feet, feeling a weight on my shoulders that makes me far heavier than two-sixty, and shuffle back out for my newly appointed duties and the media circus that is our post-game press. Once I’m settled behind the microphones and the reporters have closed in on me, I answer questions about the game, sticking to my perfected lines. Finally, I pick my favorite local journalist to finish up by nodding in her direction.

“Contraire, that was a hell of a game tonight. It’s too bad you took a loss after that fourth-quarter fumble. How do you feel about that attempted comeback to bring the Condors into the end zone that resulted in a turnover? Lilah Williams, The Atlanta Free Press.”

I like Lilah. She pays attention and, despite asking questions about our loss now, has been more than fair to the Condors in the five years I’ve played for Atlanta. She’s at all of our home games and often asks for quotes, knowing I’ll give her a soundbite or something worthy of print. I keep trying to get her to be my friend, but she’s been pretty set on remaining professional, which I respect, but I can tell we’d get along great outside the field. Women in professional sports have it tough, and I’d never make her life harder, so I make sure she’s treated with all the respect due to her profession, and give her a worthy response.

“I gotta give all the credit to my main man, Cool Hand Luke, doing everything he could to get me the ball, even if I couldn’t hold on to it. The team has unmatched synergy this season, and you’re seeing it more and more on the field, whether we win or lose. I was looking for openings, and Luke was counting on me to get there. That pass had a bit too much heat on it, and I couldn’t get to where I needed to make it happen with the route I took. We used every second to push and just couldn’t keep up with what Buffalo was putting down. They played a good game, but it’s always hard to lose. I know we’ll get more chances for wins with this being the first game of the season.”

“What can you tell us about Antwon Goodwin leaving in the third quarter?” Lilah asks, phone pointed at me, recording as she pries into why our wide receiver left mid-game. I don’t fucking know why the asshole left. He’s a hothead, looking for glory on and off the field, and has been butting heads with our coaches during the pre-season.

“I couldn’t tell you anything about that. I was doing my job, smashing my head against defensemen and looking for openings so I could break tackles, make plays, and catch passes. I wasn’t paying attention to where my teammates on the sidelines were. All I know is that those of us out on the field, in the huddle, were doing everything we could to bring it home. We played our game, and that’s what counts.”

“The way you and Luke Mathews work together shows your chemistry on the field is unmatched, and you seem tighter than in seasons past. What would you say has been your biggest change this season to create that so-called synergy you mentioned?” Lilah pops a manicured hand on a thick hip and smiles with those luscious lips painted Condors' crimson.

My stomach knots into a ball of dread. What’s she getting at? Does she think there’s something more than a tight team going on? Because that ain’t happening. First of all, I’m not into any of my teammates, and second, I wouldn’t tell her if I were, especially here, in a room full of vicious and hungry reporters looking for a compelling story to sell papers or subscriptions. The last thing I need is someone outing me. But I’ve been managing the press my entire NFL career, and there’s nothing to tell other than the truth.

“Luke is one of the best quarterbacks I’ve played with, and he’s leading this team better than ever. We’re dialed in. Focused. Our lines are working together, and I’m doing my part to support that. We’re a team first and foremost, so we have to know each other inside and out, know how each other thinks, and anticipate where the other will be and what they need. That’s what you’re seeing this season.” If only my team really knew who I was, deep down, off the field.

“We love seeing the Condors come out on top and are hoping for more wins. Thanks for answering my questions,” Lilah says, stretching her hand out for me to shake. I stand from the media set up to step around the table and move away from the microphones so she’s close enough for me to speak with her directly, without the rest of the media scrum hearing our conversation.

I take her hand, which is firm and warm. I like this chick. She’s real and reminds me a lot of Harlowe, my sort of ex-girlfriend-turned-bestie. Lilah and I really could be friends if she’d let me, so I make her the same offer I do a few times every season and hope she takes it as friendly as I intend it to be. “Are you ever gonna hang out with me? We could grab food or drinks, casual-like.”

Lilah tilts her head, a slight smile playing on her lips as she appraises me. “Knox Contraire, I told you, I don’t date local athletes. That gets messy too quickly.”

“As friends,” I clarify. “You’re safe with me. Of course you’re hot, but I would never hit on you. I can even set you up with someone on a visiting team if I know any good single dudes, if that’s how you like to date.” I smile and wait for her response. She did make it pretty clear she fucks athletes, just not the home team guys.

“That’s not a bad offer,” she muses, looking up at me, whiskey eyes sparkling with humor. “But I’ll have to pass. I’ve heard the 'just friends' line a few too many times to believe it.”

Damn. She’s hard to get through, and I’m not going to come out and tell her I have no interest in her physically. “You wound me with that suspicion. We’ve known each other professionally for years,” I say. When she just stares at me mutely with a knowing smile, I continue. “Fine, if you ever want to grab a drink or just hang out as friends, nothing more, you can text me. No pressure. You have my number and you can use it for more than a soundbite or a quote for a story.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, sliding the phone into her back pocket and looking up at me. “Good game out there tonight.”

With that, she turns and leaves, hips swaying in tight black pants that hug her curves and catch the eyes of more than a few guys who follow her progress out of the press room. Damn, that woman has it going on. I know it, and I’m not even attracted to women. I turn to leave, my media responsibilities complete.

I need to let off a little frustration after that shitshow of a game, and what better way than jacking it to a stranger on the internet? Once I’m home, I open Vers—an anonymous dick pic app for gay men I’ve been using for a while to get my kicks in the safest way I can to protect my image—and pull up my profile. It’s completely fake. My username, HandyManCan, is super generic and as far from identifiable as I can make it instead of using anything like my own. I just have a photo of my abs and my hand down my low-slung gray sweatpants as my profile picture, no face or anything identifying. If I end up on a video chat, I disguise my voice, and the app has the selfie camera disabled, so as long as I don't purposely show my face, I' m good.

There are a bunch of messages, as usual, and I open a few until I get to one that looks promising for someone who is currently online. He calls himself JackmeHoff and starts strong with a photo a lot like my profile image, but he’s hard, the crown of his cock jutting out of the top of his sweats, the head a ruddy, angry red with a bead of precum dripping out the slit. I hit reply immediately, my cock already growing hard as I lay back in bed.

HandyManCan: You look like you need a hand. Or a tongue to clean you up.

JackmeHoff: I’ve been waiting for you to get online. I’ve almost come twice looking at that photo of yours. I want to see the real thing, outside your sweats. Be a good boy and show me what I need.

Fuck me. I like a man who knows how to take charge. I push down my sweats and palm my dick, hard and straining with need like I always am these days, with nowhere to focus this desire that would be safe outside of an app like Vers. I snap a photo that almost looks comical with my hand fisted at the base of my cock as it reaches up to my abs. Both my fists aren’t enough to cover my fully erect dick, and he’ll see that right away. I send it over and type out a reply.

HandyManCan: Like what you see?

JackmeHoff: Fuck yes. God, I want to swallow you whole. I want to choke on that fat cock. Spit on it, show me how wet you can make it.

A photo comes through from Jack, his sweats are down now also, and he’s fisting his cock like I want to. He’s just as hard, and he’s girthy, if not as long as me, which is more than fine. I know I’m above average, but I don’t expect anyone else to be. Honestly, I think it would be easier to take it that way.

I spit in my palm and coast my hand over the head of my cock, leaving a wet trail that glistens and smooths the pass I make down my shaft as I pump my hips up into my fist. I take another photo and send it through as I type out a response one-handed, allowing my secret thoughts to become words.

HandyManCan: I’m wet for you. Choke on me like a good slut and see if you can make me come.

JackmeHoff: I’d be slobbering all over that monster, deep-throating you, and sucking on that fat crown like my favorite lollipop. Jesus, you’re massive and delicious. I would stay on my knees all day and night for you. Live call?

I bite back a groan at his message as I continue to stroke myself, imagining this faceless man here in my bedroom straddling my thighs, sucking me off. I click the video button and wait for him to accept. The image on the screen when he does makes me suck in a gasp. That cock of his is glistening as he slowly pumps his fist, and I immediately match his cadence and position so it feels like his hand is on me.

“Fuck, you look even better on video than you do in a photo,” I rasp, smoothing my thumb over the sensitive ridge of my crown, my muscles clenching from the sensation as his hips raise into his fist across the screen.

“You’re just as big and mouthwatering,” he replies, his voice soft and scratchy, like he’s barely able to talk through the moment. “Fuck, I want to taste you. I know you’d be musky and salty on my tongue, you have that gym bro build and confidence that insists on it. You probably smell amazing and would linger on my skin for days if I didn't wash you off.”

I groan, thinking of someone wearing my scent around, letting me mark them in such a primal way, wanting to be mine. My hips flex and I squeeze my cock harder, focusing on the top half, my fist skimming over the head with each tug of my hand, building pressure.

“Would you swallow, or do you want me to come on your abs and use it to get you off?” I ask, my voice guttural as I near my climax, watching this imaginary scene play out in my head and giving voice to my filthiest fantasies.

“Both. Jesus, fuck. I want to taste your cum, and I want you to stroke me with it,” he says, an urgency to his tone as he pulls faster on his cock, matching my pace.

“Mmmmm,” I growl, the sound reverberating through my chest as I arch my back and feel my orgasm building at the base of my spine. “I’ll come on your abs, and you can clean me up with your tongue after. But I want you in my mouth. I’ll swallow that load and get every last drop when you come.”

“Fuck, I’m not going to last with that mouth of yours,” Jack says, voice ragged as his hips flex erratically into his fist. Knowing he wants this as badly as I do sends me racing toward my climax.

“I’m right there with you,” I pant, my breath caught in my lungs as my release seizes me, and I cry out. My cock swells as I pump my fist slowly across the head, hot cum shooting onto my stomach and coating my abs just as Jack comes.

His moans are quiet, muffled like he’s turned his head into a pillow, and I feel a momentary pang of sadness that I couldn’t hear his full response, even while riding the high of this mutual orgasm. Our hands slow at different times, and my breathing evens out faster than his does. I watch as his lower stomach rises and falls under the mess of cum that I wish I could taste.

Hot regret washes over me as my sticky release cools on my skin. I want nothing more than to find some sort of connection with my faceless online hookup after such an intimate act.

“Fuck, that was good,” I say, keeping my voice low and letting the sexy scratch come through. I need him to want me even more now that we’ve experienced this together.

“Yeah, I like that mouth of yours. You really know how to get me there. Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Wait, that’s it? But what was I expecting, really? Vers is a faceless app for gay guys to send photos and videos for online hookups. It won't be where I find the love of my life when I can't even show my face.

“Yeah, have a good night,” I say, but Jack has already ended the video chat.