Page 9 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Zeke

Now

“I just can’t get over this poster,” I confess to Chris, slowing in front of the framed digital artwork in the dim entryway of Mischief. Small spotlights are angled at the image to illuminate the dancers portrayed there. Too many to count with my eyes darting from one sparkly heel to another shiny skirt, I roughly guess there are about twenty-some-odd dancers, some of which I recognize from our first visit here. They range anywhere from Leo’s tall, muscular stature to Dream’s delicate, lithe frame. While the artist took some liberties highlighting certain features or—in Dream’s case—whitening smiles, the drawing seems to be a fair and attractive representation of the dancers here.

I eye two of the guys near Dream, who is posed front and center on his knees with his thighs spread, and wonder if Karma or Pixie might keep my attention better. Maybe I’ll go for one of them tonight. Or maybe I’ll just watch them give others dances to see if I want to pay for one myself.

Chris’ impatient tug on my elbow yanks me from my stupor—a good thing, too, because I’d just spotted a dancer slightly tucked away in the back of the frame with messy, cotton-candy-blue-colored hair that had me thinking of Micah. He’s had a similar color before, and I’ve seen what he can do while giving a pretend lap dance—thank you, rowdy football parties! Watching him twerk on my teammate’s lap had been an unexpected, though not unappreciated, turn-on.

My dick twitches in my jeans at the memory, and I’m grateful Chris, inadvertently, hadn’t let me dwell on the fantasy.

“Let’s just see if he’s even here,” Chris grumbles impatiently. “I’ve never come here on a Sunday. I have no idea what his off nights are.”

True. Though the club is open every night of the week, with over twenty dancers on their roster, it makes sense they’d have regular off days.

Recalling the name of the bouncer at the cover booth, I place a friendly knock on the wooden top and shoot him a flirty grin. “Brax. Hey, man.”

My efforts earn me a smile in return. “Mr. Aleks,” he greets. “Back so soon? Our boys are known to be quite addicting.”

“And misery to the wallet, yes,” I add with a lighthearted chuckle. “Listen, do you by chance know if Leo is working tonight?”

Brax shoots us a genuinely sympathetic look. “Sorry, club rules. I can’t tell you which dancers are working unless you pay the cover.”

“Oh. All right.” Brows pinched with confusion, I thumb out the correct amount of cash, plus a tip, and pass it to him, trying to recall if Glitter had the same policy. I’ve never needed to ask at Glitter, so I honestly have no idea.

“It’s for the dancers’ safety,” he explains after securing the cash. “One of the guys had a stalker who’d come in and ask if he was working, then he’d go outside and wait in the parking lot until the dancer left at the end of the night. There was a close call, but luckily, someone in our security team saw them before the guy could do more than grab the dancer’s arm.”

“Holy shit,” I exclaim, shocked, then shiver in disgust. “Ugh, now I feel gross for asking. I swear, we aren’t trying to stalk anyone.”

“I know, but rules are rules.”

“Of course. Thank you for treating us the same as everyone else.”

Nodding, Brax gestures for us to enter the main area of the club. “By the way, Leo is here. You’re welcome to ask him about his schedule. There isn’t a rule against him telling you if he wants you to know.”

“Thanks,” I say when Chris seems too nervous to respond. We move for the VIP booth I’ve paid for when a thought makes me pause and glance back. “Hey, Brax. Is Dream here, too?”

“He is.”

“Right. Okay.”

The bouncer cocks one dark, questioning eyebrow at the defeated tone in my voice.

“Dream is very attractive and talented,” I quickly defend the eager, bossy dancer. “He just . . . doesn’t seem like the type to let other dancers near patrons he’s already claimed.”

“He is . . .” Brax thinks on the word before deciding to go with “Possessive. He doesn’t like to share.”

I recall Dream’s words last time I was here, when he told Brax not to let any other dancers “steal” me. “I can tell.”

“I’d recommend catching another dancer while Dream is busy onstage,” he helpfully suggests.

Thanking him, I join Chris at the VIP table another bouncer has opened for us. This one, like the one we had last week, is a three-quarter circular booth, but unlike the other, there is a small platform with a pole in the middle. A bachelor party had been at this particular table last Friday, a dancer of their choice spinning circles around this very pole. I didn’t pay extra for this, so we must have received either the celebrity or Sunday special upgrade. Either way, we aren’t complaining about the good view or quick service.

With the floor vacant of both Dream and Leo, we order drinks, which arrive promptly, and settle into the booth as we watch the man on center stage dance to a song about whips and chains. He’s a little bigger than Dream, his muscles more pronounced and powerful as he climbs the pole with practiced grace. The leather harness and pants he’s wearing match the vibe of the song, especially when he takes a black flogger and audibly spanks his own ass with it.

“How is he not your type?” I tease Chris with a nudge of my elbow.

My friend just shakes his head, the blush I know is on his face obscured by overgrown scruff and the dim club lights. “In my perfect world,” he mutters so low I have to lean in close to hear, “ he wouldn’t be the one being spanked.”

I hoot at his unusually loose lips and clink my glass to his. “Chris, you kinky fucker. Good for you.”

He blinks, momentarily stunned. “R-really? You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Buddy, I got off watching the guy I like give my teammate a lap dance.” Downing my drink, I slam the empty glass on the table slash small stage in front of us and hiss at the burn of liquor in my chest. “I’m literally the last person who can try to judge your kinks.”

“Oh. Yeah,” he recalls the secret I’d confided in him well over a year ago. “Still, even the people at Bound can be a little presumptive because of my size. They expect me to be the dominant partner, and I . . . I’m just not .”

“Bound?”

“The BDSM club,” he explains. “Hey, wait. You said ‘like.’”

“Huh?”

“You said the guy you ‘like,’ as in, still? Didn’t you two break up?”

I not-so-subtly redirect my attention to the dancer on stage. “This guy is good.”

“Yeah, Fox is a favorite,” Chris states without taking his scrutinizing stare off me, like he can see directly into my thoughts.

Fox. Hm. With the orange hair and dark charcoal-rimmed green eyes, I can totally see it.

Chris’ hand slams down onto the table slash stage in front of me, making me jump. “Ezekiel.”

Sighing in defeat and hanging my head in shame, I tell Chris about dating Micah for only a short period of time before our mutual breakup and then our agreement to continue as friends with benefits. I tell him about the zoo yesterday and the fast-approaching vacation we’re supposed to spend with Tahegin and Hendrix on a cruise ship.

A dancer approaches us, and I distractedly agree to pay him for a dance on our table just as Dream takes the main stage. A sultry, smooth, slowed version of a popular song begins playing. Chris and I pluck our glasses from the table to clear the space for the dancer. Vaguely, I think I recognize him as Karma from the poster up front. I’m pretty sure I’d be a lot more interested in the way he grinds against the table if I wasn’t pouring my heart out about lost love to my friend.

Practically ignoring Karma, already planning a generous tip, I tell Chris everything I love about Micah. His petite body, tan flawless skin, breathtaking smile, and ever-present sparkles. The way he always smells like strawberries. The way he is unapologetically him —painted nails, makeup, and those damn skirts that drive me insane. How he’s always doing good . Like letting a pregnant lady throw up in his purse or finding charities for me to promote. How he’s managed to slowly add decor to my home, so now when I look around the living space, it doesn’t look like a home deco magazine threw up the color beige everywhere. There’s color and happiness, and I think of him every time I look at the pink couch pillows or colorful pastel kitchen knives. I even love his quirks. The way he climbs the closest thing he can find whenever he’s overwhelmed. The ever-color-changing hair that’s somehow always silky soft. The way he’s always on the move and never seems to fucking sleep. How he is the worst driver I’ve ever met, and I have no idea how he has a license. Then, there’s his work. Last Christmas, he gave me custom football cards with my pictures and stats on them. He’s so fucking talented when it comes to graphic art, and he’s even part of the team who makes the NFL animations that are aired during our games. He’s amazing at everything he does.

“For fuck’s sake,” Chris interrupts my gushing who-knows-how-long later. I think Karma might be on his third dance. Or fourth. My wallet is in my hand again, though I don’t remember having taken it out. “You’re absolutely gone for him, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Baby, how could you?” someone cries loud enough to turn all three of our heads to the person standing beside our booth. It’s Dream, dressed in a leopard-print leotard and breakneck heels several inches higher than Karma’s. He gives a dramatic pout, then winks at me. “Sorry I was busy onstage, but I’m free now. Hop down from there, Kar. This one is mine.”

Karma’s eyes go wide in surprise as Dream climbs onto the table and sits on his knees in front of me, thighs spread in the exact pose as the one in the poster out front. Karma has nowhere to go but down, and the doe-eyed look on his delicate-featured face has me wishing I’d paid more attention to him earlier. He’s almost platinum blond, nearly Micah’s natural color when his roots grow out, and those big, tawny eyes make me think of Micah, too. Even his silver-sequined one-shoulder crop top reminds me of one I’ve seen Micah wear. Or maybe Micah is just so shiny I think everything sparkly reminds me of him.

The overwhelming scent of vanilla fills my nose. “Same deal as last time?” Dream asks, planting his palms between his spread knees and leaning forward provocatively. “I’ll get Leo for your friend, and you get me? Although, I will tell you, having the pole here will cost you more.”

I glance at the clearly upset—and not in the fake way Dream is—Karma and can’t help myself. “How much for both of you?” I offer, voice husky as I attempt to match Dream’s sultry gaze with one of my own. Don’t want them to think I don’t value their work, even if I am distracted by someone who isn’t here. Karma’s jaw drops, and I swear a blush blooms across his pale cheeks.

Micah’s cheeks used to be pale when I first met him. He tans now, I think. He’s beautiful either way, but I miss seeing him turn red for me.

On the table, Dream’s eyes narrow at the challenge. “Big-time pro athlete like yourself? I’m sure you can afford it. I’ll go arrange the dance with Leo. Don’t miss me too much.” He hops from the table and disappears into the back.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Karma tells me in a soft tone, arms crossed over his bare belly as if feeling exposed. He smells like pumpkin spice, nearly good enough to eat if strawberries didn’t haunt my taste buds day and night.

“I assure you, it’s no hardship on my end.” To add to my words, I sweep an appreciative eye up and down his body, that top driving me insane as I picture Micah wearing it and nothing else.

When Dream returns, he tells us Leo is next up on the main stage but that he’ll bring Chris to a private room after. Then, he none-too-gently pushes Karma onto our mini-stage to dance while we wait.

“Oh, hey,” Chris calls distractedly to me as we watch the two cute dancers grind together on the pole. “Has anything progressed with the Allied Players group?”

“Progressed?”

“Yeah, you know. You got us all hyped up with the new name and the whole ‘we’ll fight this new bullshit rule’ thing. Is there anything we should be doing?”

Oh, right. I’d pretty much forgotten since it seems obsolete now that Tahegin and Hendrix are on the same team again. At the end of last season, they were on opposite teams at the Super Bowl, literally going head to head as a wide receiver and cornerback matchup. When their relationship went public, some fans insisted they might have thrown the plays in favor of each other. The league voted to enact a new rule for this coming season that players in a relationship may not take the field at the same time, no matter what team they’re on. I saw the outrage from the other queer players in the private group we have on Facebook, and since I needed a new name for it anyway, I changed it to the Allied Players Association and told my friends we’d fight for them. Several other players have joined since, queer or not. It’s like a baby I don’t actually have to care for. It pretty much runs itself.

“Tahegin is back with the Rubies now, so the rule doesn’t even matter anymore,” I tell Chris.

“What about the Miami players?”

“McCay got accepted to med school, so he’s retiring. Baird and Conroy don’t take the field together.” Out of the throuple, Baird is the only defensive player. Conroy is the quarterback, and McCay was a tight end, which means they were on the field together last year. With McCay leaving, the Miami players are all good despite the new rule. “And aren’t you retired?” I fire back at Chris. “It won’t affect you either.”

“Yes, but . . .” He trails off with a sigh. “Never mind. I guess I just thought this would be a chance for queer players to have a voice in the league. This rule might affect someone else one day if we let it go unchecked, is all. Baird could be traded, or another player might be forced to out themselves or remain locked in the closet to avoid consequences.”

“Wouldn’t that be their responsibility, though? I mean, they’d be the ones going into it knowing they were breaking the rules.”

Chris just looks at me, long and thoughtful, the two dancers giving us a personal show all but forgotten. Not even Leo taking the main stage pulls my friend’s gaze away. Finally, he says, “I figured you, of all people, would understand that you can’t help who you love, and the media coverage has oppressed us long enough.” He pauses. “I guess I was wrong.”

Leo begins his center stage dance, and Chris is immediately entranced. I, on the other hand, stare unseeingly through Dream and Karma’s duet around the pole, numbly passing them bills without even checking the amount. But no matter how many times I tuck a twenty under the edge of Dream’s bodysuit or feel Karma’s delicate fingers slipping the money from my palm, I can’t get into it.

I’m idly scanning the rest of the club when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something familiar. Brow furrowing, I study the dancer leading a patron teasingly by the hand through the curtain to the private rooms. Nothing about him stands out as any different from the other dancers here, but there’s . . . something . His profile is darkened due to the dim club lights, his clothing nothing but neon netting draped along his body over the smallest thong, bright yellow in color, to ever exist, and his blond hair is carefully styled, not a piece out of place.

It’s a very familiar hairstyle, actually.

And the way his hips sway? Oh, yes, I’ve seen him dancing enough times to know exactly how that little firecracker moves.

The question is, what the fuck is he doing dancing at Mischief?