Eligible Receiver: A First Time Gay Romance (Bareback University) Read online

  Carter covered his ears with his fists, grimacing.

  They heard already, he wanted to shout. Have you any idea what the lower threshold of hearing is?

  He looked at Mike, who was roaring away with the rest.

  He sighed, shaking his head as the kickoff happened and the game started. He had never learned the rules of football; when other kids were learning that kind of thing, he had been sneaking into his parents' book collection, trying to read their novels. All he could see were guys in two different sets of jerseys, throwing a ball around the field.

  And most of them aren't even that nice to watch.

  They were all tall, all muscular, it was true. Some of them had bodies of the kind that made his palms sweat even now. But despite all that, they all seemed hulking and clumsy to him.

  A bunch of barbarians.

  He watched Mike sitting hunched in his chair, tense and interested, and made an intense effort to focus on the game, watching the ball passed from one player to another, rolling along dark-green lawn.

  He found himself pleasantly surprised: The more he watched, the more interesting it became.

  Whether it was just that the game was so fast-paced, or whether he was drawn along by the tension of the crowd, somehow he found himself absorbed in the sights and sounds, whether or not he knew all the rules.

  Players raced back and forth across the field, while the fans shouted, “Go, go go!” When their team scored a touchdown even he started to enjoy himself.

  He suddenly felt his heart thudding as only a few minutes since their first touchdown, the ball seemed to go in that direction again. They were going to do it! They were going to score another touchdown!

  At that moment, he noticed someone. A player, tall and athletic, caught his eye.

  He's different.

  It wasn't his height or his rippling muscle—most of the players were tall and built—but it was the way he moved.

  Something about the grace of his run made Carter feel warm. He saw him edge round another player, narrowly avoiding a collision, and his heart was in his throat. He felt a strange tingle in his loins, watching the guy roll his shoulders, and he had to admit that the way his kit clung to his tall, muscular body was really sexy.

  Hell, Carter. It's been a while since you thought like this.

  From that moment he watched him, the player was lithe and graceful. He moved with more finesse than the others: never rushed or grasping.

  He seems about as detached as I am.

  Even though he was part of the team, he seemed to slide between their ranks, moving through them with the grace of a seagull over breakers. Carter watched the game transfixed, not once taking his concentration off the mysterious player.

  When the game paused for half-time Carter asked Mike about him.

  “The player who almost scored us a touchdown just now. Who was he?”

  Mike blinked, clearly not sure who Carter meant for a moment. “Uh...you mean the tall guy?”

  “Yes.”

  The man was not very much taller than the other players, but something about the way he carried himself made him stand out.

  “That's Isaiah,” Mike said, as if that explained everything, which it didn't.

  “Oh,” Carter said. He didn't want to show his interest—he would feel silly if Mike knew he was crushing on a football player—but found it hard to keep it from his voice.

  He was, quite frankly, the sexiest guy Carter had ever seen.

  The second half of the match seemed to pass with greater speed. Every moment he was on the field, Carter watched the tall, handsome man: every sprint, every jump.

  Their team, whose numbers included the sexy player, was doing extremely well, and it was no surprise when, at the end of the game, they had won.

  As he stood, cheering with the rest, Carter scanned the players, feeling tensed. He had taken his eye off the man for an instant as he stood and almost lost him.

  “Shall we go down?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah,” Carter said, feeling strangely bereft. Where had he gone? He searched the cheery chaos of players congratulating each other as they left the field, seeking intently.

  Was that him? No. Too tall. That one? No. He has the wrong number on his shirt.

  There!

  He saw him at last. He was a little back from the others, letting the rest of the team have their exuberant embraces while he just watched, slightly on the edge.

  Not part of the team, but part of it. On the edge. A bit like I feel, sometimes.

  At that moment, the man removed the heavy helmet. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, then looked up at the crowd.

  Carter stared.

  High cheekbones, a chiseled nose, sculpted lips. The man was stunning. He had curled dark hair and dark skin, his teeth bright in a sudden grin to a team-mate. Carter could have watched him all the time and, watching, felt his whole body warm.

  Carter shook himself. Come on, Carter. Don't be silly, he told himself firmly. He's certainly not in your league.

  All the same, the sight of him did something strange to Carter, tugging on his heart-strings and his longing in ways no-one had in years. As he walked on with Mike he again felt strangely bereft.

  Somehow, in some forgotten corner of his mind that player, and that face, would remain with him forever.

  “Carter?”

  “Uh? Yes, Mike?”

  “Come on! We'd better hurry...”

  Carter shook his head and drew his jacket around him, feeling suddenly cold despite the press of the crowd. In all the jubilation and smiles, he felt quite cold and empty.

  “I'm right behind you,” he said as Mike looked round a little nervously, making sure they stayed together in the press of people.

  “I know,” Mike said, sighing as they walked together. “I know I'm jumpy. I just don't want us to be late for the surprise.”

  3

  The press of people around the gate was stifling.

  Mike hung onto the railing, bracing himself as they headed down. “This could take a while.”

  Carter nodded. The fans exiting the stadium were almost a mob, shouting, laughing, clapping each other on the back. The noise was deafening.

  Carter shook his head, watching them. At the beginning, he would have felt scornful. Now, he simply felt nothing. He watched them all blankly, as if what they experienced made no sense to him. He was still lost in the strange dreamy world where that player had put him.

  Carter blinked. This is the first time in years I have felt like this about anyone.

  The last time he’d had a crush on a guy had been in his first year at college—an older guy called Blair Morrison. He had also been a football player, and a tall, sculpted man, almost as handsome as this one. Since feeling stupid about Blair, Carter hadn't really allowed himself to feel for anyone.

  I thought I didn't feel like that anymore.

  It was rather nice to find he did, like rediscovering a limb that had numbed.

  “Almost there,” Mike said cheerfully, elbowing his way ahead. He turned around to grin at Carter. “It was great, doing this again, wasn't it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Carter agreed. He had enjoyed the game; more than that, he had remembered part of himself.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for bringing me. It was fun.”

  Mike smiled, raising a brow. “Well, don't thank me yet. We're not finished.”

  “Oh?” Carter frowned at him. “But the game's done.”

  Mike grinned. “Well? I did say there was a surprise.”

  They headed down and turned, heading to a door. Carter hadn't noticed it on the way in.

  Mike paused outside it. “Here we are...Oh, heck. No. Here it is. Whew!”

  He searched his pocket, found an ID card. Carter, feeling bemused, followed along behind. What was he finding ID for? He followed him down a dark passage.

  A moment later, a guard held out a hand. “Reserved access, sir.”
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  Mike grinned. “Hey, Rourke, It's me. Remember?” He showed the card, but the man, Rourke, was not interested. Seemingly an ex-football player himself, he was certainly built enough, he smiled. Squinted at the ID in a parody of checking it, then returned it.

  “Oh, yes. So it is. Well, then. In you go...enjoy yourself.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Mike walked past happily, waving his brother alongside him.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where are we? And why?”

  Mike grinned. “Remember I said I had some new people I was working with?”

  “Yes...”

  “Well, this is a result of that.”

  “Mike,” Carter said impatiently. “Where are we? What's going to happen? I need to know.” He could hear frustration in his voice and didn't want to be cross, but he still felt agitated.

  Mike nodded. “I know you do. Well, the first bit, I don't need to answer. Look there.”

  Carter looked to where Mike's finger pointed to a sign above the door. They were at the club house. The place where the team met after the game.

  “Mike...”

  Carter was starting to feel a little lightheaded. Mike always got them into shit and expected him, Carter, the younger-but-heavily-sensible, to get them out again. What had he gone and done to him now? What were they doing here, walking into an exclusive club-house where they players would be after the match.

  The players.

  “Come on!” Mike said happily. “Get a drink! We're in.”

  Carter stared. They found themselves in a dark room, lit by some tastefully-dim lights, the walls dark and the decor modern but reasonably sparse. All around them, people bustled around. There were girls everywhere, it seemed to Carter. He felt a bit like a cross between being at a dance and what he imagined a premiere would be like.

  Why had Mike brought them here? And how?

  His brother appeared at his elbow. Carter blinked, he hadn't noticed he had gone.

  “Here you go...have one of these.”

  It was beer. Carter sipped it and decided he had to ask Mike what was happening. “What is going on?”

  Mike sighed. “Well, Carter...remember those clients of mine? Well, some of them are NFL players. Which means I get to come here sometimes, on an invitation.”

  “Oh.” Carter noticed how his voice had suddenly gone small.

  That guy is a football player. We are in the club. Oh. He cleared his throat. “Are the players coming in here?”

  The players. Him.

  Mike cleared his throat and was about to say something, but he lost the opportunity. A deafening cheer sounded and a door burst open.

  Carter, standing beside Mike, found himself facing a door.

  Through the door came press photographers, flashes garish. Girls, dressed even more scantily and elegantly than the majority. Coaches.

  And, narrowly behind them, came the players.

  And standing in the center of the group, tall and ebony-carved, grinning and seeming very pleased with life, was the player Carter had watched. He caught Carter's eye briefly, and then looked at Mike. He nodded to him.

  Carter felt as if he would pass out.

  4

  “Isaiah! Hey!”

  Carter watched, feeling slightly ill, as the tall man, the man of his dreams, made his way over toward Mike, who hailed him cheerily.

  “Hey, man.”

  The man's voice was like velvet and, this close, his presence sent a fire through him, making his palms ache and his body tight with longing. Carter bit his lip.

  He wished he was bold enough to say something. At least to ask Mike who the guy is! He was, quite frankly, terrified. What if he said something stupid?

  Making a fool of himself in front of Isaiah would have been awful. He leaned into the shadow of a group of press agents and tried to will himself invisible. As he did so, he kept listening to the conversation between the tall, handsome man and his older brother.

  “How's it goin', man? Good to see you here.” It was the velvet voice. Isaiah smiled, showing the whitest teeth Carter had ever seen.

  “Great! Good to see you here, too.”

  Mike and the big player talked cheerily a moment, seeming like they knew each other.

  “Great game,” Mike said.

  “Not too bad, no.”

  “You really did great stuff with that kick! But you should watch that injury of yours...”

  “Yes, Doctor Mike.” He pulled a contrite face then coughed. “Excuse me a moment, Mike. I need to get a drink. Be right back”

  Carter watched as the big man walked lithely past them, heading to the refreshments table.

  Carter felt warm just watching him move.

  After he had left, he wanted to kick himself. Why had he not said something? That was his chance!

  He turned to his brother.

  “Mike?”

  Mike had turned away and was talking to someone else already, a tall man who he guessed to be the team medic. He shook his head, feeling a little impatient—with himself, more than with Mike—and looked around the room.

  You can't just stand around watching people all day! Go and talk to someone.

  Tall, built men had seemingly filled the room in one go. They talked to serious-looking press representatives or laughed with elegantly-dressed girls. Carter watched, feeling desperately uncomfortable in the setting. He wanted to talk to someone—to talk to him—but he had no idea how to get a conversation going with someone like Isaiah.

  He listened to the laughs and the voices and felt the heat of so many people in such a small space. Somewhere music was playing and the rhythm moved through him headily.

  “Carter!”

  Mike clapped him on the shoulder and Carter jumped, almost spilling beer. Mike smiled.

  “Sorry Carter. I just wanted to introduce you to some guys. This is Lamorn. Meet my bro, Carter.”

  “Hi!” Carter felt his hand enveloped by a vast dark one. He grinned nervously up into a creased, scarred face, which grinned benignly down at him. The man had a chest that could have made two of Carter, and on those vast shoulders his head seemed small. The grin made up for it somewhat; a wide, bright grin, it made Carter feel comfortable.

  “Hi, Carter. Mike. Nice to see you here. The shoulder's good.”

  “Good, good. You need to roll it more. Loosen it up like we said on Monday...”

  Carter felt a little awkward as the tall player talked with Mike, rolling a shoulder experimentally. He and Mike discussed his injury for a while. Carter felt himself ease out of the conversation and look around the room.

  Isaiah. Where is he?

  He wanted desperately to talk to him. He felt as if the tall, handsome man was a magnet, his heart drawn in. He scanned the room again, looking for his face.

  He spotted him on the third glance, standing in a corner with a group around him. He was talking to another player, and two girls. One of the girls—shorter, dressed in a revealing turquoise concoction—was hanging onto his arm.

  He watched them talking and laughing. Isaiah's head was thrown back, his face split with a wide grin. The light played on the velvet-dark skin, making him sheened and handsome.

  Carter surprised himself by feeling a stab of jealousy. He wished he could be there, holding that firm, velvet-dark arm in his hands.

  He watched as Isaiah smiled briefly in the girl's direction, then looked away. An expression that looked decidedly awkward crossed his face when she giggled up at him.

  I think he's shy, too!

  Carter felt like a brick had landed on his head, so firm was the realization. The longer he watched Isaiah, the more he became certain that, while politely attentive, he found the attentions of the two girls more than a little uncomfortable. Isaiah said something and they giggled loudly.

  “Oh, Isaiah! You're so funny.”

  “I think I'll get another drink. Does anyone else want one?”

  Carter bit his own
lip, seeing Isaiah gently extricate himself from the girl's attention, heading off to the table. He wasn't sure if he was just being hopeful, but it seemed to him as if Isaiah was as uncomfortable with them as he felt.

  As he strode across the room, Carter felt himself tense. Come on! Now you can go and say something! The moment the thought occurred to him, it stopped in its tracks. Say what?

  What could he possibly say to an NFL player?

  At that moment, he felt a tap on his arm.

  “Carter?”

  “Mike!”

  He smiled distractedly at his brother, who nodded. “Sorry, man. Got caught up talking about injuries again. What's up?”

  Carter swallowed. He didn't do anything, but his eyes were clearly focused on Isaiah and Mike smiled.

  “Oh. Yes. I forgot. I have a friend I wanted to introduce to you. Now seems a good time.”

  “Friend. Mike. Not...Wait!”

  It was too late. Mike was heading off across the club room, directly to the table. He meant Isaiah, clearly. Just like he'd presumed.

  Carter wiped his wet hands on his jacket. He felt himself perspire again even as he did so.

  What will I do? How do I manage to make myself look less interested? Where can I put this beer glass?

  He looked around desperately, trying to escape, but there was nothing to do for it: they were there already.

  “Carter,” Mike said formally. “This is Isaiah Mitchell. Isaiah, meet my brother Carter.”

  “Hi.”

  Stay cool. Don't stare. Don't stare...

  Carter found himself looking into the handsome face. His eyes, deep brown, were friendly and creased at the edges with his smile. He was looking into Carter's eyes.

  Carter cleared his throat.

  “Hi.”

  His voice still sounded croaky, and he cleared his throat again. Isaiah smiled.

  “Great to meet you,” he said. “Mike's been a real help with my back. Seems like he's from a nice family.”

  Carter felt himself flush red. He coughed.

  Isaiah grinned at him and Carter smiled back.

  Their eyes met.

  Carter felt as if lights lit up inside him, scattering sparkles of brightness and color through him. He looked into those smiling dark eyes, which smiled back at him. Isiah’s eyes were the color of coffee with a dash of milk: deep brown, but with softer lights in them that made them gentle. When he smiled, the corners wrinkled into deep lines, while the rest of his skin was smooth and velvety in a way that made Carter ache to touch him.