Back in the Game

Chapter 1: 215 Pounds of Delicious

Chapter 1: 215 Pounds of Delicious

Turtle Bay Reef, Florida

Palm Field

July 17, 20—

10:09 A.M.

Aaron Felder, the Everglade Eagles’ tight end, shook my hand, grinned from ear to ear, and winked at me. His handshake felt mighty and just about ripped my arm off. The sexy beefcake, with fern-green eyes, drew me against his tan, hairy chest, offered my jersey-covered torso a manly hug, and eventually pushed away from me, leaving me semi-hard in my summertime shorts.

I visually took in the twenty-six-year-old from head to toe as if we were secret lovers again. He stood at six-three, weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and showed off some thick and wavy black hair. He had Tom Brady scruff-covered cheeks and chin, triceps of steel, and a rippled chest covered in onyx-colored hair that always caused me to grow hard in his presence. He stank of a sexy morning perspiration from an early workout, which I longed to inhale. I studied his tapered waist, hairy navel, and low-cut Nike running shorts that were snug over a man-package I knew was hearty in size and quite enjoyable to toy around with.

“Glad to have you back on the team,” he said in his Jersey drawl, which I sort of fell for moons ago. “The guys have missed you, Shane. Those fuckers can’t live without you, even if they won’t admit it. My advice to you is simple. From here on out, don’t get hurt anymore. This team needs you on the field, not at Camp Repair up north. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Camp Repair was really the Allegheny Rehabilitation Center in Pittsburgh along the Monongahela River. Three Pakistani doctors had rebuilt my left ankle and refused to let me play football again. Coach Revin of the Eagles said that I still belonged to the team and deserved a seat on the bench since I had helped his national team win four championships in the last five years. Frankly, there was no room on the field for me. Tony Madre was the new linebacker for the Eagles, and Michael Dashwood earned the position of his backup, and two others. I belonged on the bench. I didn’t care since I still felt a part of the league with my jock buddies.

I’d been in Pittsburgh for the last eight months, still hobbled a bit from my crushed ankle and getting used to the titanium joints in my left leg and foot. I refused to give in to failure. I had never intended to play professional football again, but I did intend to cheer the team on and wanted to learn how to be a side judge. Luther Coffler, one of the league’s side judges, planned to train me during the upcoming season. He wanted to create the best side position he could for me, and I wasn’t about to let the old man of seventy down. Luther and I had three meetings together in the last month, all of which promised a future for me in football, just not on the field with the massive and aggressive players.

“When did you get back?” Aaron asked, still grinning from ear to ear, obviously happy to see me.

“Last night. I flew in from Pittsburgh about eleven, got some sleep, woke this morning, took a shower, and here I am.”

“You have breakfast, my friend?” His right hand moved down to his center and grabbed his c**k. I thought the tight end was going to offer me his d**k for breakfast, but he wasn’t that rude or vulgar. Instead, he added, “Because if you haven’t eaten, we can get something at Moley’s.”

Moley’s was a twenty-four-hour diner on Sea Street in downtown Turtle Bay Reef by the Gulf, which was just a few blocks away. It looked over the saltwater. Sassy Irene, its head fry cook, made some killer pancakes.

“I’m starving,” I said.

“Let me throw a shirt on, and we’ll walk.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I watched him jog across Palm Field to the stainless-steel bleachers in the beaming sun to fetch his shirt, although he really didn’t need to wear one in my opinion. I liked what I saw and wanted to taste him.

* * * *

The walk—or hobbling, in my case—seemed manageable and enjoyed. The day along the Gulf presented ninety steeping degrees with very little humidity and not a cloud in the sky. A light wind blew in from the west, which offered some air and dragged across my forehead and shoulders. To my pleasure, the tight end hadn’t put on his shirt, and I had the remarkable opportunity to study his hairy chest, just as I had numerous times in the past when we were once boyfriends.

We talked more about my ankle, his excitement for the new season to begin, and how pumped he was to see me home again. As our chatter continued without a single break, we walked the few blocks to Moley’s. He mentioned my future as a side judge and clarified his anticipated high hopes for me as a teammate again.

“Luther’s a great teacher,” he boasted. “You’re going to learn from the best. He’s old, wise, and knows his s**t. My advice for you is to show him respect at all times, listen to the man, and execute everything he tells you with precision. If you do that, you won’t have a problem with him. If you don’t, good luck getting your balls back from him when he removes them.”

“Let’s hope I get to keep my balls. It’s the only thing I can rely on since my ankle is f****d up.”

“You’ll get to keep everything you had prior to your injury. Including all the money you’ve made from the league. That s**t isn’t going anywhere.”

Professional national football players were paid pretty steep, and Aaron was very much aware that I banked most of my cash. The fact of the matter comprised of simplicity: I had a pretty penny in assets thanks to a good brokerage based out of New York City. I really didn’t need to work. I didn’t drink or snort my money to smithereens like some professional athletes. Instead, I could retire from football and live a happily-ever-after life. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t get bored and lose my sanity, though. Retiring was out of the equation for me since I always had to stay busy. And that was the reason why I was anticipating my future role as a side judge. Not only was it something to occupy my time, but the position also allowed me to keep a career in professional football and grow in the league.

He patted my back as we closed in on the diner, rolled his palm around one of my shoulders in a rather intimate and caring action, and said, “You’re future is starting today. You have nothing to worry about.”

I hoped Aaron was right. In the past, he’d been unwise and irresponsible. But then again, most men always failed something, even when they didn’t want to. And failure sucked, especially in the world of football and the rugged behaviors of competing jocks.

* * * *

Moley’s was exactly how I remembered it: small in size with a greasy floor and the most chipper waitresses on the planet. Aaron and I sat in a corner in hopes that no one would see us and realize who we were or want our autographs. That was the problem with playing for a national team and winning championships. The public sometimes never left us alone. Not that I really minded, though, since I enjoyed the attention of a being a superstar athlete and shined with the labels adorable, sweet, and someone I wouldn’t mind taking home to meet my mother.

“You look good, Shane Polk,” Aaron said, taking me in for the nth time.

He had always thought my blond curly hair, piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, and thick chest were nice to look at. Plus, he liked my clean-shaven face that resembled a pretty boy’s, my high jaws, Greek-sloped nose, and the tiny comma-shaped scar along my left eye because of a horrible karate kick in high school during my senior year. Sometimes Aaron looked at me a little too much, but I never minded.

“Have you been working out, man?” he asked.

“I’m glad someone noticed.” I sipped my orange juice and placed it back on the narrow table that separated us.

“I couldn’t help but notice. You’re a rock. Everything about you is chiseled. Hell, I should make a trip to Pittsburgh so I look as good as you after eight months.”

“It was a lot of work and rehabilitation. They don’t f**k around in the Burg.”

“I guess they don’t. But let me tell you, it worked for you. You look the healthiest you’ve been. Drop-dead cute. Charming. The best you’ve looked in a very long time.”

“Thanks,” I said, pleased with his compliments and his liking for me, even if I wasn’t his boyfriend and lover anymore.

* * * *

We had stacks of pancakes and a basket filled with a variety of jellies. A rack of glass syrup bottles toast on our two-person table.

Nellie, our waitress, asked in a Minnie Mouse tone, “You guys okay?”

We nodded at the same time and started on our plates of cakes.

Between bites, I asked, “How’s your mother?”

“She’s a survivor. The cervical cancer is gone. She’s in remission. I think she believes she has a second try at life. Her organs are probably fried from all the radiation she has had, but she’s living. I have God to thank for that.”

“Cancer will do that to you. It half-kills you and brings you closer to God. I can respect that, and I’m sure others do, too.”

“Stop by and see her whenever you like, Shane. She’s still in the same condo. The woman will never leave Turtle Bay Reef. She loves it here.”

“And your little brother? How is he doing?”

He let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “Seventeen and dangerous. My father is ready to murder him. He came home from a party drunk the other night. He’s grounded and claiming he’s going to die without his car and cellphone. His world is ending. This morning he told me he was living in the apocalypse.”

“He’s just like you were when you were that age,” I said, digging into more cakes. I enjoyed the hell out of them, fat, sugar, and all.

“Don’t remind me. Sometimes I think he’s ten times worse.”

“Think again, Aaron. I know better, and you do, too. Don’t forget about the many nights we went drinking at seventeen and got into loads of trouble. Your father threatened to drown us in the Gulf.”

He gave me a sweet look. A glint in his eyes sported memories of our similar and parallel youths as wild men in their late teens. His pupils dilated and told stories about two queer seniors looking for jocks to kiss, beer to drink, and whatever other trouble we could get ourselves into as men.

“You’re strolling down memory lane, aren’t you?”

“I was, but just for a second. I sort of like being an adult better. It’s less severe.”

“Sometimes I have to disagree with that. The ankle thing was pretty severe.”

“That it was, my friend,” he said, winking at me. “But now you’re back in Florida and healing, and you have me again. It all can’t be that bad.”

It wasn’t. Never. I was glad to see him again and be at his side, even if we weren’t intimate. I considered Aaron a friend for life, someone with a good heart and soul, and planned on keeping him for a very long time, with or without my f****d up ankle.