Page 20 of Rocking the Receiver (Austin Troopers)

CHAPTER 20

A VIOLENT NOISE

Elliot

My padding weighs nearly as much as the expectant eyes focused on me in the locker room. It’s heavy yet unbelievably comforting.

Damn, I fucking missed this!

Shoulders squared, I step onto the field again. Countless exams to confirm the diagnosis and healing process for my sprained ankle. Weeks of rehab to make sure I was ready to return stronger than ever. Restless nights because the swelling and the pain didn’t subside as quickly as expected, and I panicked.

That’s all behind me now, so I take a deep breath to soothe my sudden nerves. Exactly like Rupert taught me.

Outside, the crowd roars in anticipation, but inside, I grapple with a whirlwind of emotions. Five games—five long games—I’ve been out, watching my team push through without me. On TV for the first part, then on the bench. Pride and irritation settled in my gut with each of their successes.

Today, I’m past the resentment and anger at myself. Today, I’m back. Today, I’ll prove I’m worth every ounce of faith The Troopers put in me when they drafted me.

My determination has always been a powerful weapon, but my resilience is even stronger. The fact that Rupert kissed me senseless before we parted ways at the hotel earlier boosted my confidence; the idea of booking two rooms angered me at first, but after all we’ve done to not get flagged, it’s safer this way, especially with the copious media people around. Earlier tonight, I crossed paths with Casey West from Football Fandom in the elevator. Granted, he’s overtly supportive of the LGBTQIA+ community, but exposing the Troopers’ rookie and his famous male lover—whose fame has been skyrocketing lately—would be a scoop nonetheless. Staying under the radar at the hospital was enough of a hassle.

All in due time.

Getting outed was never the idea. When we do come out publicly, neither Rupert nor I wish to be LGBTQIA+ spokespeople. We just happen to be two people who love each other and choose not to flaunt our sexual orientation. To each their own, but that’s how we agreed to roll, eventually.

Eventually … The adverb somehow became our new motto, but as far as football is concerned, my return and our win were always sooner rather than later.

“How’s the ankle, LeFire?” Coach Schott, our wide receiver coach, asks as he pats me on the back near the sideline, glancing sideways at Doctor Rosie and Cutter, the assistant athletic trainer.

I’m tempted to suggest a change of moniker, unsure whether my flame will be as bright as before. Or maybe it will be…

No, no, no, strike that, there’s no maybe. I will make an impact. “Good to go, Coach.” My voice is steady with a hint of eagerness… I need to play, so badly, so fiercely, so much that it aches. In the best of ways, that is. “Physical therapy team did wonders. I’m forever in debt to Rosie and the wizard that is Cutter. Excited to be back.”

Coach Oliveira, the head coach, glances down at my ankle, then back at me. “Take it easy at first. We don’t need you pushing too hard right out of the gate. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach.” Inside, I’m buzzing to hit the field running, but I get it: Rosie and Cutter have been hammering the same point at home during rehab. They cautioned that a premature return could lead to extended time on the bench—or worse. Neither option is acceptable if I want to cement my future with the team. I’ve worked too hard for this to fail now.

We hit the ground running, and a thrill rushes through me as we line up for the snap. I catch our quarterback’s eyes across the huddle. Cal’s his usual self: calm, single-minded, in control, which, in turn, boosts my confidence. He looks at me, jutting his head slightly.

“Ready to make a statement, LeFire?” Cal smirks.

“Always.” I adjust my gloves.

The ball snaps, and I explode off the line. I’m a live wire, and it feels fucking great—better than I expected. Taking short intakes of breath, I take a sharp cut and shake off the defender. The ball hits my hands. First down. The crowd cheers, and for a second, I allow myself to enjoy it. It’s not enough, though.

The next few plays go by in a blur, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heart pounds in rhythm with each play call, and I ignore how fast sweat forms beneath my helmet. Instead, I’m fixated on my routes, cutting and accelerating with that well-known mix of speed and precision.

I shut down the little voice in the back of my mind, nagging me to be careful while proving myself. Thankfully, Gunner is never far, his eye eagle on me, not as a babysitter, but as a true ally. This guy is golden. The offense is clicking. I adore this team and the staff.

We keep pushing, moving methodically down the field. When we punch it in for the touchdown, my shoulders relax for the first time since my injury. We’re up 7-0, and I’m back in the game. At last!

As I reach the sideline, Coach Schott shouts, “Looking sharp out there. Stay smart.”

Attentive Cutter joins in, “Don’t overextend.”

I catch my breath, gesturing in approval. “Appreciate it, Coach. Will do.”

The game is electric. The ankle holds up with every cut, every sprint, and I feel like I’m back in my element. We close out the first quarter leading 10-3 after a field goal.

Gunner comes over and bumps my shoulder while the defense is on the field. “You good, LeFire? Looks like you’re moving well out there."

I wipe sweat from my forehead and beam. “Yeah, bro, thanks. Like I told Coach earlier, it feels good to be out here again. Just gotta keep it up.”

“Pretty cool comeback, man. Congratulations!” He offers me his signature all-American smile.

“Too soon for that. We need to dominate this game from here on out.”

“Then we party? Unless you have romantic dinner plans for your big comeback?” he jokes.

He’s teasing about partying. Despite being the youngest on the team, he’s well-aware I don’t stray from my strict football regimen, especially not when I’ve just recovered.

Head in the game, I evade the second question, chuckling. “There’s no place like home, Toto.”

In truth, I can’t wait to snuggle in bed with my man, instead of worrying I might screw up because of a weak ankle. A home game would have been a less stressful return… but then again, playing the Oklahoma Copperheads, our long-time rivals, is my welcome back gift. Even Chris said he wanted me to win against his home team! Also, the irony isn’t lost on me. Being the only ginger on the field is a good omen: Slaying them is my self-appointed mission.

And because I love to bait my former mentor, both on and off the field, I can’t stop myself from adding, “If you must know, no romantic dinner, but my significant other understands my demanding career. We’re in the same boat…” I bolt from the bench without giving Gunner the opportunity to inquire further. We’re due on the field anyway. “Now, let’s win this!” I exclaim, mostly for my benefit.

When he strolls behind me, he whispers between clenched teeth, “Don’t think I missed that piece of info… You owe me details.”

“Later,” I promise as we head into the second quarter, which doesn’t go as smoothly.

The opposing team’s defense adjusts, and suddenly, our drives stall. We struggle to maintain the momentum. The intensity rises, and my pulse quickens. On one play, I break free on a deep route, but Cal’s pass sails over my fingertips. My frustration builds.

“Almost had that one,” I mutter, jogging back to the huddle.

Cal shoots me a quick look. “We’ll get it next time. Stay ready.”

They tie it up at 10-10, and by halftime, we’re down 13-17. Fuck! I shiver from unease, anxiety creeping in; this isn’t how I wanted my comeback to go.

The locker room is quiet, except for the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles being cracked open. Rosie and Cutter check my ankle again, which I’m thankful for, although I don’t particularly enjoy the attention. My head is in the game. The pressure is mounting, my heart is pounding in my chest, and my ankle is throbbing slightly.

Coach Oliveira talks strategy, reminding us to stay focused. But my doubts linger. How uncharacteristic of me… but evidence sucks.

His pep talk doesn’t help. I feel like shit, replaying the missed opportunities in my head. Have I done enough? Can I help turn this around? Since when do I think this way?

Cal and Gunner walk over and sit on either side of me. “You’re doing fine, LeFire. We’ve got this. Just keep your head in the game.”

“Yeah, I know…” My voice betrays my worry. “I just… I need to step it up.”

Cal claps me on the shoulder. “We all do. We’ll get there.”

The third quarter is a grind. We’re fighting for every yard, every first down. Cal and Gunner are in sync, and the rest of the team is amped up. The scoreboard starts shifting in our favor. As the game goes on, we start to find our rhythm again. It’s not just me—everyone’s clicking, making plays, pushing through. This team’s vibe doesn’t compare with my previous sour experience.

At this very moment, the opponents are tough, no doubt, but we’re tougher. I make a catch on third and long, getting hit hard as I go down. My ankle twinges, but I shake it off, getting up quickly. My teammates are in the zone, too. It’s not just about one guy—it’s the whole team working together, sticking together as a united front.

“Nice catch!” Woodhull, one of the linemen, yells as I dash to the huddle.

“Thanks,” I reply, breathless. My pulse is racing, and the sweat is dripping down my face. My concentration doesn’t waver on the next play. We manage to close the gap—24-20 now—but it’s still anyone’s game.

As I take a quick break, Cutter leans in. “Ankle okay?”

“Good enough,” I reply, though my body is screaming for a breather.

He looks at me with a knowing glance. “You heard the coaches earlier, right?” I tilt my head in approval.

Coach Schott catches my eye sideways after a solid drive. “Well done. Keep up the good work… at your own pace.”

“Thank you, Coach. I’ll do my best.”

When I return to the field, Gunner encourages me, “Let’s power through this for a while longer. We got this.”

And we do.

In the final minutes, it’s do-or-die. We’re down by a single point, 26-27, and the clock is ticking. Every play counts.

My legs are heavy, my lungs are burning, and my back is drenched, but my ankle behaves. So, I ignore the pain and fatigue, aiming at finding any edge I can.

On a crucial third down, Cal looks at me. “You ready?”

I nod, determination burning in my chest. “Let’s do it.”

The ball snaps, and I cut hard, breaking free just enough to give Cal a window. The pass is perfect—tight spiral, right into my hands. First down. The sideline erupts, and a surge of relief and adrenaline floods me.

We drive down the field, getting into field goal range. As our kicker lines up, I stand on the sideline, heart pounding. This is it. True to his reputation, he nails it, and we’re up 29-27.

The next few minutes feel like hours.

Only when the final whistle blows do we exhale. We won! My exhaustion melts away, replaced by pure joy. We did it—together.

Gunner jogs over, beaming. “You’re on fire, LeFire!”

“Thanks.” I laugh in relief. The weight of the last few weeks vanishes at once. There’s plenty left to accomplish, but it was a hard-fought win, one that means everything after sitting out the last five games.

As we head back to the locker room, a couple of guys slap me on the back, congratulating me on the win.

“Nice work, man,” Cal says, handing me a towel. “Glad you’re back.”

“Same.” A surge of adrenaline-fueled euphoria courses through my veins. I’m finally back where I belong. Blood rushes through my veins at the thought of celebrating my success with my man, who must be exiting the stadium as we speak. “Feels damn good.”

After we’ve showered and conducted interviews, the journalists disappear. Of course, Gunner shines the spotlight on me by congratulating me once again for my victory in front of the entire team, including the coaches. In a flash, they all engulf me in a group hug, shouting my nickname. Standing here, back with my team, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

As soon as they release me from their warm embrace, they start giving each other shit again, and Gunner asks me, “It’s pretty late, but… since you’re not a party guy, wanna grab a drink with us at the hotel?”

“Sorry, man. I already have plans.” His brow spikes up as he remembers our previous exchange.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s sorry. I had no idea your busy girlfriend was around.”

Unable to hide my grin, I shake my head in amusement. “Well, about that…” I trail off. “If life didn’t get in the way, I probably would have said something sooner.”

At once, their banter stops. Glee is evident in Cal’s voice and posture. “Woodhull, you owe me twenty... You see, some of us had a bet going on about your vow of celibacy… since you never mentioned anyone. Guess Gunner’s got a head start.” Then Cal’s attention goes to him. “You know her?”

I’m sick of lying by omission, so I clue them in. “Listen, I’m pretty sure most of you have heard of Rupert Smith, right?” They confirm, probably wondering where I’m going with this. “He’s the one I have plans with.” My statement is met with silence. Their quizzical looks say it all. “Because he’s my…” I swallow, then smile.

“Boyfriend.”