Page 2 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

ONE

Zeke

Now

My eyes are drawn to the brightly illuminated building in front of us. In the late-evening shadows, the neon signs decorating the exterior make it one of the most visible places on the block. Somehow, though, I’ve never seen it before. Just a couple of streets over is the club my teammates and I usually frequent, its vibe similar in a way to this one. If I’m not mistaken, Rich said we were going to a strip club tonight. I’d assumed we’d end up at Glitter, the one my teammates sometimes visit.

I push my sleeves up to my elbows. It’s a cool spring night, but I know I’ll be warm soon. Any minute now, people will start to recognize me, and the attention always has my temperature rising. “Huh. This place looks cool, Rich. I haven’t seen it before. Is it new?”

My friend casts me an odd look. Though he’d officially retired from the San Francisco Dragons last season, he’s still as big and broad as any defensive tackle, even if the padding on his belly is a little more pronounced now. He’s the standard of attractiveness, with closely cropped blond hair, green eyes, and a strong jaw. I imagine the girls in the club will be all over his lumberjack physique, which dwarfs me despite my slightly above-average height and build.

“First,” he says, clapping my shoulder with a big paw and squeezing, “I’m retired now. Call me Chris.” Right. Rich is a shortened version of his last name, Richardson, and everyone on our teams called him that. He continues. “Second, I figured you, of all people, would be familiar with Mischief.” He gestures toward the club as we shuffle forward in line, but at my still-confused expression, his brows furrow. “You seriously haven’t heard of this place?”

We’re at the bouncer now, so I split my attention between handing him my ID and replying to my friend. “Nope. All my teammates go to Glitter. Have you been? It’s great.” The girls aren’t my thing, but at least the place is always clean and has a good vibe. Decent bartender and even better top-shelf alcohol. What more does a man need?

The bouncer—a beefy man covered in tattoos and with several piercings lining his ears—makes a noise of agreement. “It is.” He studies our IDs in his hands for a second before blinking up at us, and I see the moment the monotonous job haze clears as he realizes who we are. “Holy shit, you’re?—”

Grinning, I wave my fingers at him. “Hey, man.”

“Can I get an autograph?” he blurts.

“Can I get a kiss?” I fire right back. My grin becomes a smirk as I ask the question that has become my response to every autograph or picture request. It’s a great way to keep my social media full of anonymous kissing partners. Even straight guys have been known to plant one on me just for my signature and proof of meeting.

Several years ago, before there were any publicly queer players in the league, I took a man behind a club and kissed him during the off-season. I’d kept my secret well up until that point, where I mistakenly assumed I wouldn’t be recognized or followed between seasons. The photographer—I don’t know if it was paparazzi or someone who sold the images to the highest bidder—caught both mine and the man’s face, and the media coverage exploded. I was hounded everywhere I went, everyone asking about my sexual preferences and partners instead of focusing on football. So, I began posting pictures of me kissing strangers on my own socials until the gossip sites eventually gave up when they couldn’t get the inside scoop before I released it myself. I became Kiss, the NFL quarterback who kisses anyone and everyone, from strangers to reporters to teammates and coaches. Now, I pad my socials by exchanging a photo of a kiss for an autograph.

“Sure!” the bouncer declares excitedly and without reservation, surprising me. I eye him again, this large man who is more muscular than the ex-defensive tackle beside me, and internally scold myself for forgetting allies and bisexuals exist.

Passing my phone to Chris with the camera already recording, I press closer and give the bouncer a substantial smooch right on the lips. He eagerly teases me with his tongue, so I make a show of nipping his double-pierced bottom lip. I can screenshot the best frame of the kiss later to post. I might even make it a GIF.

We separate, and the bouncer passes me an old receipt from his wallet. I always carry a permanent marker for this very reason, so the light grey text on the back of the receipt is easily outshined by my writing in thick black ink.

“What’s your name?” I ask as I write.

“I go by Chicago here,” he responds. “He/him.”

My smirk returns as I cap the marker and pass him the signed receipt. “I like your piercing,” I tell him with a wink, referring to one other than the double rings in his lip.

Chris peers at the receipt as Chicago’s cheeks warm, both at my words spoken and the ones written.

For Chicago, the man with the wicked tongue. Keep kissing

—Ezekiel Kiss Aleks

We slip through the doors and enter a dim, narrow hall that leads us closer to the smooth music bumping from further inside the club.

“He have a tongue piercing?” Chris guesses.

“Snake eyes,” I confirm smugly.

“Nice.”

The approval in his voice makes me pause, and I slow my pace down the hallway, only now noticing the framed posters on the wall are of?—

Oh .

“Chris.” Putting my hand out, I catch him by the chest, and we freeze in the middle of the hall. My teeth worry my lip as I chew on the information I’ve gathered and consider my next words. “Are you trying to tell me something, man?”

We shuffle aside as two guys walk by, heading for the main area. If I recall correctly, they were the only ones behind us outside, so we should have a minute alone together.

Chris sighs and leans against the wall, his shoulder brushing a large frame containing the silhouette of a slim man dangling from a pole. “Do you remember those pictures that got out last season? The ones of my leaving that, um?—”

“The BDSM club, yeah,” I fill in for him when he seems too embarrassed to say it, which is strange, considering he’s the one who told me about voyeurism when I was questioning my preferences and potential kinkiness. Hell, he opened my eyes that night, and I like to believe the knowledge I gained helped me prove to some of the Miami Pirates guys that their polyamorous relationship was obtainable. The three of them are still happily together, last I checked.

Just like what happened to me years ago, Chris had a picture of him leaving a discreet BDSM club last season that went viral. There was so much press coverage the club had to move locations for the privacy of its members.

“Let’s just say they didn’t uncover all of my secrets,” Chris says cryptically.

Of course, everyone in the club is discreet, so none of Chris’ specific preferences were brought to light. One of them, apparently, being an attraction to men.

I hold out my hand to stop him. “You don’t have to say anything else if you don’t want to. How about we go enjoy some strippers now?”

Taking my hand, he squeezes it once before we head for the main area. I take in all the posters on the way, appreciating the beauty of each and every one of the men. They’re all posed sensually, accentuating their strong but supple bodies. At the end, we pause beside a large image filled with cameo shots of dancers and their names. It’s a digital creation, seriously a piece of art, and I’m momentarily in awe of the quality rather than the beautiful men displayed.

“I’m gay,” Chris confesses all in one rushed breath. “And I like this dancer.” He points at the poster.

“You’ve been here before?” I ask as I inspect the man he’s gesturing to, and . . . wow. Not what I expected. The man’s name—or stage name, I assume—is Leo. The digital recreation shows him to be broad and powerful, nearly as muscular as Chicago out front, if only a little shorter. Of all the twenty-some-odd men depicted, he’s one of the few who seem dominating rather than petite and sensual. I whistle lowly. “Damn, man. He’s . . . big.”

Chris chuckles sheepishly, letting go of my hand to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know.” His gaze lingers on the picture.

“Mr. Aleks? Mr. Richardson?”

Glancing in the direction our names are called, we lock eyes with another bouncer standing at a booth at the end of the hall. A sign in front of him says “money down or turn around.” I guess this is where we pay the cover.

“That’s us,” I respond, pulling out my wallet.

“Chicago told us to offer you a VIP booth.” He points vaguely at the earpiece connected to a radio on his hip. “It costs more, but it’s worth it. Our dancers prioritize the VIP tables over the general crowd, and there’s a better view of the center stage.”

Knowing the VIP booths at Glitter are always the go-to for my teammates, I quickly agree and pull out the proper amount of cash. I’d, of course, stocked up before coming out tonight.

Another bouncer shows us to a booth at the front, removing the reserved sign for us to sit. I look around and note several similarities between this club—ingeniously named Mischief—and Glitter, the female strip club I’m familiar with.

“It’s nice here,” I call to Chris over the music, our attention continuously drawn to the man onstage. He’s in tall white heels and a pink mini-shirt, alternating between rounding the pole and gyrating on the floor. “He’s good,” I add appreciatively, a little more quietly.

“They all have the same owner.”

“Huh?”

“Gemini”—the celebrity nightclub a lot of players in the league frequent—“Glitter, Mischief, the BDSM club. All the same owner. He really knows how to market places like this. Pretty soon, he’ll own all of the clubs around here. Practically does already.”

Ah. Now, the similarities make sense. Glitter girls and Mischief men. Cute.

“Where’s your man?” I ask, looking at the dancers perusing the floor. A waitress comes to take our drink orders, and we both choose a light beer.

Chris blushes with a sheepish look. “He usually comes onstage later. I haven’t . . . I haven’t actually ever gotten a dance from him.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles with a weak shrug. “He has regulars, I guess. He’s usually really busy with, like, smaller guys, ya know. Twinks. A lot of the other dancers have approached me, and they’re nice, but . . .”

He trails off, but I’m not letting him cower any longer. “You brought me here for a reason,” I tell him. “Whether for companionship or courage, I don’t care. I’m gonna go above and beyond for you.”

“What do you mean? Kiss, wait?—”

But I’m already flagging down the nearest dancer on the floor. Hips swaying, the svelte man makes his way over, giving me a coy grin. He appears to be in his mid-twenties, with wavy brown hair just long enough to cover his ears. His high cheekbones are accentuated by a long, straight nose and perfectly applied makeup. Once he reaches us, I’m overwhelmed by the sweet scent of vanilla.

“Mm, hello, boys,” he purrs flirtatiously. “I’m Dream—as in, I’m every man’s dream. Which one of you is looking for a dance?” Every bit of his body promises a good time, and just like the jewelry he wears, confidence drips off him. Long, dangling earrings nearly touch the silver choker necklace around the base of his throat. Silver rings with large stones glint across his slender fingers. The sheer shirt he’s wearing has snap buttons only halfway done up, the hem barely covering his short jean shorts.

I flash him my most charming smile. “I’m actually trying to set up my friend here with a dance from Leo. Any chance you can help me with that?”

Dream braces a hand on my shoulder and leans down, giving me a teasing peek down his shirt. “Sure, honey.” His lips graze my ear as he whispers, “But it will cost ya.”

Of course. “How much?”

“Sixty,” he declares, swinging onto my lap and landing with a firm plop. His hips roll teasingly against my thighs. “You good for it, baby?”

I give him a playful smirk, humoring his little game. This is, after all, how he earns his living. “Yes, but are you?”

“Are you calling me a bad boy?” He gasps as if offended, then pouts as his fingers walk up my chest. “That hurts. I promise I’ll be good.”

“You seem a little mischievous to me.”

With a toss of his head, Dream laughs and gives my shoulder a gentle tap. “I see what you did there.” His gaze lands on someone over my shoulder, and he waves them down. A few moments later, one of the bouncers from earlier appears at our booth. “Brax, love. This handsome gentleman and I are in negotiations, but seeing as I am a man of mischief, we need someone to ensure the deal goes smoothly.”

Brax gives the dancer a look that says he doesn’t get paid enough to deal with Dream’s antics, but there’s a hint of fondness in his eyes. “Fine.”

“So, sixty for a dance in here from me to this hunk if I can score his friend a dance from Leo. Private or in here?” he turns to ask me.

One look at Chris’ mortified expression has me saying, “Private for him.”

Dream winks. “I’ll get his rate, though I don’t think cost will matter to you or your friend, will it?” His hand, which had walked itself down to my thigh, taps on the thick impression of my wallet in my pocket.

I tip my head in silent agreement, bemused and somewhat impressed by this feisty little dancer.

“Brax,” Dream singsongs as he sashays away, “don’t let anyone steal my man.” He points at me with an exaggerated wink.

Slipping a twenty to Brax, I apologize. “Sorry you were dragged into this.”

“Don’t worry about it. Dream’s always a little extra. ’Preciate the tip, though.” Then he glances over at Chris. “Leo’s always busy ’cause the smaller patrons like him, but don’t let that fool you. He likes big guys, too. I’ve seen you here before. You should have gotten his attention sooner.”

“He’s shy,” I offer when Chris melts further into his seat.

“You’re a good friend,” Brax determines. He shifts nervously before adding, “And, uh, a good quarterback. The best,” he quickly corrects. “I watch all your games.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Can I, um . . .”

I smile knowingly. “I charge a kiss per autograph.”

Dream returns as Brax and I are making the exchange, and the little guy starts tearing the bouncer a new one for trying to steal his customer. There’s a quick discussion as Brax explains, and though it’s clear Dream doesn’t recognize my name, he looks at me in a new light. One, most likely, encased in a monetary green color.

A new person appears seemingly from out of nowhere, and despite the picture in the hall being a digital recreation, I can tell instantly who this man is. “Where’s my shy guy?” Leo asks, eyes already trained on Chris. Unlike Dream, Leo is free of makeup and jewelry. He’s shirtless in a pair of fireman pants with suspenders. A matching hat is perched on his head. His exposed abs could rival any of my teammates’.

Chris looks petrified.

Leo slams two shots on the table, pushing one toward Chris. “On me.” With shaky hands, Chris gratefully takes his shot, and to my surprise, Leo tips back the other. Then, as if suddenly filled with courage, Chris accepts the dancer’s outstretched hand and allows himself to be pulled from the booth.

“How much?” I ask Leo, wallet in hand.

Leo whispers something in Chris’ ear, and my friend blushes as he leans over to pluck several bills from my wallet. When he retreats, I grab a few more. “Make it two,” I tell him, passing the money to Leo, who winks at me before dragging Chris toward a curtained-off hallway manned by yet another bouncer.

“My turn,” Dream declares happily, tugging until I’m sitting in the section of the booth without a table in the way. Like this, my back is to the stage, so Dream will be all I can see during the next song.

I give him the sixty dollars plus a hefty tip, and Brax takes his leave just as a new song begins to fill the club. It’s one I recognize, a popular song about Friday nights and paradise, and facing the crowd, I’m almost jealous to be missing the dancer onstage who chose such an appealing song.

Glancing around, I can see that every man in attendance is absolutely enthralled by whatever is happening on the stage. I’m curious as hell and try to turn and look, but all I get is a glimpse of long legs and cotton candy pink before Dream captures my chin. He brings our faces close, grinding down on my lap.

“You paid to watch me, baby. Now, watch.” He moves smoothly, somehow standing and unwinding until I’m presented with his ass, which he rolls and shakes in my face, and— Yeah, okay, he has my attention now.

I can smell his vanilla something—perfume, body butter, lotion, I don’t know—and I wait to feel the twitch in my jeans.

But, as has been the issue since Halloween just under two years ago. I find myself wishing for something—no, some one else.