Page 4 of Blitz
Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked out of the arena, leaving me in the lobby like an idiot. An idiot holding a sealed envelope and a hundred questions I didn’t want to ask. My fingers itched to tear it open, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor. What the hell was I supposed to do with this? What if she was right?
She’s not right.Jesus Trick, pull yourself together.
I shoved the envelope into my hoodie pocket as if it were radioactive. Greg was staring, and I snarled. He scampered off to do whatever he was supposed to be doing, like not letting a random stranger in here.
This day was officially fucked.
TWO
Tom
Training camp.
Two words that held great promise for a team. New beginnings. Fresh dreams realized. Camaraderie. Bonding. Preparing for the agony and ecstasy of a new season just over the horizon. Hungry rookies hoping to secure a spot on the roster. Seasoned vets working to keep their positions locked down. And then, there was the grizzled old man praying his fucking knees held out for one last chance to lock lips with the Vince Lombardi Trophy.
That was me. Thirty-three, but still a grizzled old man dreaming of one last tango with that gorgeous silver prize before sailing off into the sunset. Yeah, the dream was nice. The reality of the Pumas getting all those accolades? Time would tell. We’d managed to claw our way into a playoff position in the NFC East last year only to be knocked out by those cocky shits from New York.
If I laid real still in bed, like now, and closed my eyes, I could still see that fucker in the red and blue streaking past me to pick up a crucial first down leading to a touchdown that won that game for New York. Many a person—person meaning fans andsports journalists—had said it was time for old Tom Fulkowski to hang up his cleats. Emphasis on theoldpart.
To the rest of the world, thirty-three is still young. In football? Not so much. Most pro football players retire from the sport between thirty-four and thirty-six. Some stay longer, mostly quarterbacks who aren’t subjected to the punishment that linesmen … are…unless they are in my sights, then down they go. Sorry not sorry.
Contact sport is not kind to the body. Ask my knees, my shoulder, and my noggin. We won’t talk about the concussion two years ago, or the one five years before that, or the two I’d gotten playing for Ohio State way back. Nope. We weren’t going to think about that shit because it would depress me and, hey, it was opening day of training camp for the Philadelphia Pumas! Rah-Rah-Shit-My-Knee-Aches. I rolled to the side of my big, empty bed to see what appeared to be fog outside my window but was actually thick, hot, gross summer air. Oh joy.
Yay. Nothing added to the merriment of speed drills; agility, strength and endurance tests; and the always deeply loved medical and psychometric tests like ten thousand percent humidity. The feel of a soaking wet cup cradling your drenched, saggy balls was always enjoyable.
Blah. I needed to shake off this mindset. A new day had arrived, and with it, new adventures to… uhm, new adventures to adventure into.
“Okay, Tommy, rise and shine. Let’s show those youngsters how the old guy charges the quarterback.”
No one replied other than Winnie, my black cocker spaniel, who, upon hearing my voice, leaped from her bed on the floor to mine. She bathed my face with kisses as I smiled.
“And then one more year and I’ll be out and proud.” I told her.
No one in my professional career other than Tyrese knew about my sexuality, and our starting quarterback-slash-my-best friend would keep my secret. Only one more year. Then, I could come out, date men freely, and maybe find someone to settle down with. I had this big ass mansion, cars, money, and a charming smile, according to everyone that met me. I was kind, easygoing, and cheerful. Also, not to brag, but I had a pretty nice body for a man my age, and my dick was nice. Sure, all men thought that, but the few elite escorts I had hired on occasion had complimented my dick. Were they just saying that to boost my ego? Get a bigger tip? Maybe. But my dickwaspretty nice.
“Winifred, why am I lying here complimenting my own penis?” I asked the dog while she snuffled my face.
She yipped, and that got me going. The dog streaked from the bed and out of the bedroom door making a beeline to the back door. I sat up slowly, threw my big feet to the floor, and gave my bones a stretch. One in my neck popped so loudly I winced. “Shit, is that supposed to do that?”
No one answered. Heaving a sigh, I rose, found my robe, and made my way through my four bedroom, seven bath, eight thousand square foot home in Cherry Hill. It had everything—from the grand arched portico to a five-car detached garage to an in-ground pool and tennis court, and a gaming room. White oak entryway, skylights, coffered ceilings downstairs, a chef’s kitchen for my private chef, Jonny Mash, and a full two acres of fenced-in privacy. It was a gorgeous place. And it was equally lonesome.
“Just one more year, Tom. Then, we’re hitting that soulmate search hard,” I told myself as I passed my personal gym and padded down the stairs. Winnie was doing a pee dance at the back door when I finally got there. Why did I have such a damn big place when it was just me and my dog? “Okay, just cross your legs for another minute.”
I jogged through the laundry room, tidy as a pin because my housekeeper, Mona, would not have it any other way, and tapped the disarm button on the security panel before I unlocked the doggie door. Winnie bolted out of the little panel. I stepped outside in my robe to breathe in the glory of August in Philly deeply into my lungs. Man, it was sticky. Only six a.m. and the humidity was atrocious. I couldn’t wait to get to the Hillerman Care Complex in South Philly and start running drills. The sports complex where the Pumas held camp was state-of-the art. The dorms were posh, the gyms and medical facilities top-notch, and the practice fields perfectly manicured. But there was no escaping the dog days when you were out in the blazing sun.
The air was thick and moist. I play-gagged, then went back inside to whip up a protein shake to start the day. Jonny was on leave due to me being at the Hill—what we called the training complex—for the next five weeks. Mona would come in to dust during that time, but otherwise, the house was empty, which was nothing new. As I dumped my powder into some cold skim milk and tossed in some bananas, I flipped the blender on and let my mind wander. It danced back to that touchy hockey player at the energy drink shoot the other day. BoltFuel had not warned me that the dude I was doing these promos with would be so hot. Nor had my agent. A heads-up would have been nice, but then again, no one other than Tyrese knew I was into jocks with attitudes. No twinks for me. I liked a guy I could wrestle around with and not worry about hurting. Trick looked solid. As though he could take being tossed onto the bed and covered by a defensive end intent on licking that bubble butt of his. I’d not just stop at his ass either. I’d work my way up his lean but hard body, paying particular attention to his dick as it wept and?—
“Hey, you awake?” Tyrese bellowed from the foyer.
I hurried to shove at my semi and get it hidden—I hoped—in the folds of my robe. Ty had the code for the front gate, the doors, and even had a spare key. I hurried to turn off my well-blended shake as he entered the kitchen. Ty was the epitome of everything masculine. Tall, strong, possessing great leadership skills. He was a beautiful Black man on the cusp of immortality in football. Future Hall of Famer for sure, he simply needed the Pumas to help get him that fat gold Super Bowl ring for his finger. And he would, I was sure of that. Before he hit thirty. Whether I would be here to see that happen for my best friend, I didn’t know, but I sure as hell hoped so. “Why are you still in your grandpa robe?”
I glanced down at the soft, thin flannel robe that had been washed so often the plaid design was barely there. Mona threatened to throw it out weekly but, so far, it had survived the purge. Thankfully, I was behind the island, so my hard-on was out of sight.
“I’m having a shake.” I told him, because that was how we did things. I held up the pitcher. “Shake. Which was part of the noise you heard and followed to find me.”
He rolled his dark brown eyes, then went to the glass cupboard to get himself a tumbler. I poured him half the shake. We toasted each other, then downed the vanilla-banana delight. Ty made a face. He was not a fan of the banana.
“You are going to start oozing banana from your pores,” he warned as Winnie came charging in to do a pet-me dance on Ty’s slick gold Italian sneakers. “Is that some of that taste-test shit from BoltFuel?”
