Long Pass Chronicles 02 - Canning the Center (3 page)

“T
RIX
.” L
UCRETIA
grabbed his arm.

Trevor Landry, aka Trixie LaRue, paused in his trip back to the old restroom they called a dressing room. “Yes, dear?”

“Look.” She held the curtain aside just an inch.

“I need to get changed.”

“You need to see this more.” Lucretia outweighed Trixie by about eighty pounds, so changing the big queen’s mind took more muscle than Trevor wanted to exert.

“Okay.” He peered through the small gap in the curtain at the people filing out of the first show. “What am I—oh my.” At the back of the crowd stood a—giant. Shoulders the size of some states, legs so long they’d squeeze the love out of a girl. “Wow.”

Lucretia chuckled low and dirty. “I thought you’d like that.”

Trevor slapped her arm. “How would you know what I like, you lecherous queen?” Hell, he made it a point to keep everything secret, even from Lucretia.

“You think I don’t see the men you look at? Always the big ones with a dash of sweetness, and this here looks like one giant candy bunny.”

Had him there. If Trevor had an alley, this guy just drove up it.

Lucretia turned to Trevor. “Want me to go invite him backstage to meet the great Trixie LaRue?”

The thought about choked him. “No way. Trixie does not mess with the patrons. You know that.”

“Exceptions exist to every rule, Miss Thang. Regulations are made to be delightfully broken, and you could be on your knees with a mouthful of chocolate before the next show starts.”

His cock leaped, which hurt like hell since it was strangled between his butt cheeks, held in place by a pair of ironclad bikini panties. The flush heating his face couldn’t be hidden, and Lucretia beamed. “I should go get him before he gets away. I’ve never seen you so interested.”

Trevor locked a hand on her bicep. “No, Lucretia. He’s gorgeous, but I don’t mess around. Period. End of story.”

“Dayum, you’re no fun.” She dropped the curtain and crossed her arms. “Why can’t you let somebody get close for once?”

He gazed at her. Simple answer. Because he wasn’t fun, and anyone who got close would see what a weird piece of not-normal, lying crap he was. “Because I’m allergic to chocolate.” He turned on his four-inch heel and stalked to the piece-of-shit dressing room.

A
HALF
hour later, Jamal had hugged the guys good-bye and headed the Cadillac toward the hotel. Being with Will and Noah made him long for true friends—people who knew his heart, not just his shoulder pads. The guys together reminded him of everything he missed—like his family and being accepted for who he was. Let’s face it, he wasn’t great with change.

Then there was Trixie LaRue. Seeing her gave him this vague want. She didn’t represent anything. Like he’d said to the guys, there was no one else like her. But tonight felt like some giant fucking milestone on the road of life.

He pulled off the freeway at the exit for the hotel. He had a year to learn from Shields before he felt the weight of NFL football squarely on his shoulders. Will and Noah were right. He should talk to Hartford, come clean. That’d make the next year easier, truer. He liked true. However, talking to Arondel didn’t make his top ten favorite things to do. Maybe coach would keep it to himself and not tell the owner?

Sighing, he pulled into the parking structure of the hotel. It wasn’t too late, so there were still plenty of people around. He saw one of the married players walking with his wife into the garage elevator. Even though the camp was in the regular training facility in Los Angeles where most of the players lived, the team packed them together in one hotel for the duration of training in the name of camaraderie and all that shit.

He crawled out of the car and beeped the lock. The guys loved to tell him about the days when training camp had been held on a college campus miles from home, with three-hundred-pound guards sleeping in beds designed for girls. Nobody missed it, but they were still looking forward to getting back to their homes and families. All he had was an apartment with a big-screen TV, a couch, a bed, and not much else. If he tried for a year, he’d never manage to make the place as homey as his parents’, so no big loss for him.

He took the elevator to the lobby and stepped out. Another bank of elevators across the open space would take him to his room on the fifteenth floor.

“Jones.”

Talk about a scary coincidence. Manny Hartford waved at him over the back of one of the hotel lobby easy chairs. Across from him sat Izzy Perez, Jet West, and Ray Shields.
Shit
. Getting to talk to coach was one thing, but this was rarified air. What did they want with rookie Jamal Jones? “Yes, Coach.”

“Talk to you for a minute?”

Try to look relaxed
. He strode over to the impressive group. How do you look like one of the boys when the other “boys” essentially held your balls in their hands? There weren’t any extra chairs, so he stayed standing. “Yes, sir?”

“I wonder if you’d come up to my suite in about five minutes. It’ll give you a second to pee and check your messages.”

“Uh, sure, Coach.”

“Good. Room twenty-three hundred.”

“I’ll be there.” He glanced at Shields, but the guy was staring into his glass of mineral water. With a slap of his hand against the back of the coach’s leather chair, Jamal took off double-time to the elevator. Crap, man, his hands were shaking. Had he blown it with the drag club? Had someone seen him? He might tell the coach he was bi, but he wasn’t coming out in front of the rest of that rock star gathering.

The elevator opened, and he stepped in and hit fifteen.

“Jamal, wait up.” Boogaloo Johnson swiped his giant hand against the closing door and stepped in beside Jamal. The elevator should have groaned. “Wha’did coach want?”

Yeah, Boogaloo would care. As an offensive lineman, the fate of the center was a direct line to his meal ticket. “Don’t know. Wants to talk to me.”

“Think it’s about Shields?”

Jamal shrugged. Jesus, he felt like he was walking on some tightrope with these guys. Ray Shields was a great center, but he’d passed thirty-five and he’d been hurt plenty. Everyone knew he was on his way out and that’s why the Diablos spent their expensive first-round pick on Jamal. Plus, there was the subtext. The agenda. Shields was white. Jamal wasn’t. Center was a key position. Nobody would fucking say that was a win for the homeboys, but apparently that’s how they saw it. Weird. Jamal hadn’t been Black with a capital B for years. Pretty much ever. The doors opened. “See ya.”

Boogaloo stuck a hand against the door, and the thing stopped moving instantly. “Let me know what’s happening, a’ight?”

“Whatever Coach says. If he says keep quiet, I will. Besides, it may have nothing to do with the offense. Maybe he’s just on my ass.”

Boogaloo frowned, which was a scary sight on that huge face. “Maybe. But you ever notice anything weird about Shields? Off?”

“No. But I’m the new kid, remember?”

“Yeah, but that gives you fresh eyes.” The alarm bell on the elevator started screaming. “Tell me what you can.” Boogie released his mechanical hostage, and the door closed behind Jamal.

His five minutes had just shrunk to two. He ran to his room, threw his windbreaker and hat on the bed, pumped out a quick pee, and washed. His Ferdinand the Bull stuffed animal stared at him from the nightstand. His sister Ev had given it to him. He squeezed the good luck belly and took off for the twenty-third floor.

Outside the coach’s suite, he tried to catch his breath. He raised a hand to knock, and the door opened before he connected with the wood. It was Perez. The man grabbed Jamal’s arm. “Good. Thanks for being prompt. Saw you got waylaid by Boogaloo, and I was afraid you’d have trouble getting away.” He guided Jamal into the large living room of the suite.

All the same people who had been gathered in the lobby sat around the big room—but for one. In the grandest, most comfortable chair in the room sat Lex Arondel, the owner. What the fuck was this meeting? Had he really screwed up? Jamal nodded slightly, and the silver head lowered a fraction. The recognition of the king.

Hartford had one of the chairs across from the couch, with Jet in the other. Ray sat on a footstool kind of on the edge of the circle. It seemed odd he was so far from West. The two men were as close as Jamal had been to Will when they’d held the same positions at SCU.

Perez pointed toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Want a soda or some water?”

“I’d take a root beer.”

Izzy laughed. “I don’t think we stocked any of that flavor. Want a Coke?”

Jamal nodded. “Sure.”

Coach leaned forward. “We’ll have to remember about the root beer in the future.” He smiled, but he didn’t look like he was kidding. Maybe Jamal wasn’t in trouble. “Sorry to call you here so late, but when I saw you, I figured we better get this done.”

“Okay.” He looked at West, who wasn’t quite meeting his eyes either.
Double what the fuck?

Coach leaned back, his tall body filling the chair. “Jamal, we want you to play starting center for the new season.”

Ho-ly shit
. No breath. He felt his mouth open, then close. He glanced at Arondel, who gave a tiny grin, then at Coach, who smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Jamal looked at Shields. “You bad hurt, Ray?”

Ray looked up, and tired lines etched across his big, handsome face. “I’m pretty beat up, kid. Everybody knows it. Seems like a good time to go.”

“But—” He looked around, and everyone was staring somewhere else. “I thought you were going to train me this year. Teach me the wisdom of your magic hands before I took on the job full-time.” He smiled, and Ray kind of smiled back.

“Sorry.”

What?
“You mean you’re not going to train me at all?”

“You’re a great center. You don’t need me.”

Jamal looked up at the coach, then at Arondel, then back. “Sorry, but what’s going on?”

Coach glanced at Ray, then back at Jamal. “Ray’s informed us that if he remains with the Diablos, he’s—” He took a breath. “—going to come out as gay.”

Jamal stared at Ray, who stared at the floor.
No
shit
. Ray Shields was gay? He glanced at Arondel. The guy’s head tipped upward, and his eyes stared at the carpet like he smelled something bad. Then those snaky eyes looked at Ray.
Wow
. Talk about hate.

Coach sipped something that didn’t look like soda from a glass. “I know it’s all the rage and everything.” The edge on his voice could cut. “But with the season beginning and one of our best lineups in years, I don’t want to create a shitstorm about something other than what a fucking great team we are. Everyone knows Ray’s been injured a lot. We’re going to pass the word that he was hurt at training camp and you’ll be starting in his place.”

Jamal’s gaze skipped past Arondel and landed on Coach. The words flew out of his mouth. “Ray’s been with the team for fifteen years. How’s he different now?”

Every eye in the room stared at him. Most looked scared. Arondel looked mean.

Ray broke the silence. “Thanks, kid. But this is good for me. I was going to quit next year anyway. I’ll still get paid for my final contract year, but I don’t have to take the hits.” He grinned. “I’ll let you do that.”

Coach cleared his throat. “We appreciate your loyalty, Jamal. But you’re young and new to the team. You don’t know how something like this can get out of hand. Affect everything from team spirit to wins and losses.”

A part of his stomach felt like it was chewing its way out of his gut. He wanted to scream, but he didn’t know what. He’d just been given every football player’s dream—first string on a winning team in the NFL. He loved football. He fucking loved it.

No words would come out of his mouth.

Hartford cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to your agent tomorrow about a larger signing bonus for you since you’re going to get thrown in the deep end. But we have total confidence in you, Jones. Izzy’s been impressed with your training.”

Jet finally looked at him. “And you did a good job today.”

Jamal worked on a smile. “I didn’t know it was a test.”

Ray looked up from his study of his shoes. “Are you kidding? Everything in this business is a test.”

“Y
EAH
,
THANKS
,
Xavier.” Jamal leaned against the headboard. His agent sounded happy. Hell, who wouldn’t be? “They said something about an increase in my signing bonus since I’ll be playing first string this year.”

“Congratulations. It’s great, really great. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, man. I called you first.”

Xavier hesitated. “Everything going well?”

His agent’s voice had that
you know what I mean
sound.

“Pretty much.”

“Should I be worried?” They’d talked about his coming out before he signed the contract and decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. Rocking that boat could be tough on both of them.

“No. I don’t think so. I’m just uneasy about—everything. You know me. I’m crap at change.”

“You finding it hard to, uh, walk that side of the street?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Jamal could practically feel the tension on the other end of the line. Xavier Randelson was a good agent and a damned fine lawyer, but like all agents, he wanted to go where the money was—both for his clients and himself. Making waves and burning bridges wasn’t job one. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“I don’t have to remind you what just happened to Shields. My guess is, it would’ve been uglier if he hadn’t agreed.”

“Yeah. I guessed that too.”

“Still up to you.”

Yeah, right.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Get some sleep. It’s the big time from here on, baby!” Xavier laughed, and Jamal joined in. “Just focus on football.”

“Bye.” He hung up.

Jamal stared at the stuffed Ferdinand lying on his hotel bed. The bull stared back at him.
You
wanted to play football. You’re playing. What’s your beef?