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BODY OIL AND HEAVING BOSOMS
Elliot
“Whose bright fucking idea was it to build an open-air stadium in the fucking Bay Area? This wind is goddamn criminal.”
If Coach Mancini is trying to make me feel better about the forty-five mile per hour gusts of wind cutting through Santa Clara and whipping the air here at Twin Peaks Stadium, he’s doing a really shitty job of it. I wish he’d take his muttering and mumbling about the weather away from me so I can swing a few practice kicks and focus on getting my head on straight, because from where I’m standing, the fate of this game is resting on my shoulders.
The Redwoods offense is on the field, lining up for a third down halfway to the end zone. There’sseventeen seconds left on the play clock, and the score is tied 21-21. Philadelphia’s defense has been brutal this entire game, making it nearly impossible for our guys to get off any long passes. If we were closer to the end zone, I would have no doubt that Breaker Lawson and the offensive line could pull off their signature quarterback sneak and secure the win. But we’re not closer to the end zone, and as I watch the ball go flying out of Lawson’s hands, down the field and right past the fingertips of tight end Antoine Pak at the five-yard-line, I know that this game is now mine to lose.
Some sports analysts might argue that the outcome of any football game that happens before Thanksgiving doesn’t really matter, but I disagree. Every game matters, and in a year where my team is set on not only making it to The Big Game, but taking the whole thing home, it matters even more.
Whistles blow, teammates and opponents run on and off the field, and I don’t need to hear Coach’s play call to know that he’s sending in the field goal unit. I jog out to the field, ignoring the roar of the crowd in the stands and the whistle of the wind in the air. I can practically hear the pontificating of commentators on TV right now, all repeating the same things. At sixty-six yards, this long field goal attempt would be a record breaker—both for me asan individual and for the Redwoods as a franchise. The distance alone makes it a long shot. The wind makes it nearly impossible. This game is going into overtime, no doubt in their minds.
None of that matters. All that matters is me, the football, and getting it through the big yellow uprights.
The wind is blowing to the right, so when the ball is snapped and placed by the holder, I lean with the flow of air, sending the ball on a heavy-left trajectory with the hopes that it will land somewhere in the middle of the uprights. My cleat connects with the ball, and my body hums with energy as I send all the power I have out through my foot and watch as physics takes over. My mental calculations on the distance were correct, and it looks like the ball is going to make it to the uprights before falling short. The problem is the wind. Even with my angled kick, the ball goes soaring to the right, catching the air and getting swept away.
Seconds pass like hours as I watch the ball fly down the field, edging so close to the right arm of the uprights I think it might ricochet and come flying back in my face. The ball doinks off the metal bar, the sound so loud I can hear it over the roaring wind and crowds, and my stomach drops out of my ass.
Fuck. I missed it. Fuck, we’re going to overtime. Fuck, we’re going to lose this game, and it’s all my fucking fault.
I drop my face into my hands—or at least, I try to, my helmet gets in the way—but then the crowds in the stands go wild. Screaming, thunderous applause, and what feels like an earthquake but might just be the fans all stomping their feet at the same time overtakes the stadium, and I look up to see the refs in the end zone with their hands in the air.
The kick was…good?
Holy shit…the ball went in?!
My eyes snap up to one of the giant screens, and even though my teammates have swarmed the field and are in the process of lifting me over their heads in celebration, it isn’t until I see the replay that reality settles in. The balldidtravel all sixty-six yards and soar to the right. Itdidricochet off the arm of the uprights. But unlike what I thought, it didn’t bounce in the wrong direction. By some act of god, the ball bounced left and went straight through, and I put three points on the board with five seconds left to play.
The fans and my teammates shout my name, and I swear, my dick gets a little hard. That indescribable, overwhelming rush of adrenaline and accomplishment rushes through me like a tidal wave.
This feeling—I won’t say it’s better than sex, butit’s better than ninety-nine percent of all things I’ve experienced in my life.
I just won us the fucking game.
And now, it’s time to celebrate.
The moodin the locker room after a win is electric. The air is charged with sweat, excitement, and the kind of raw, masculine energy that comes from forty-something half-naked men celebrating an achievement together.
Some people might think that this scenario would be a gay dude’s wet dream, similar to straight men and the allure of a women’s locker room, but not me. For one, I see my teammates as my brothers. You can only share so many hotel rooms with stomach-scratching, burping, farting dudes and their smelly, jock-strap filled gym bags before all potential sexiness goes out the window.
Breaker Lawson has been dating our center, Lennon Griffith, for the past two seasons, and I truly don’t know how they do it.
Also, football players—and really athletes in general—aresonot my type. Imagine being a dentist and your entire dating pool is just other dentists. Even if you throw in the occasional oral surgeon ordental assistant, eventually you’d get really fucking bored of dealing with teeth all the time.
That’s not to say I haven’t dipped my toes in the professional athlete pool before, it's just not always my preference, and it's certainly never another football player.
Give me a skinny emo guy in tight jeans and a fishnet top who sucks dick like it's his job any day of the week.
“You coming out tonight, Baker?” Lennon asks, slapping me on the shoulder as he straddles the bench in nothing but a towel. We’ve been locker-mates since he joined the Redwoods a few seasons back, so I’m no stranger to being face-to-face with his rounded belly—or his junk—like this.
Even if he wasn’t madly in love with Breaker, the sight would do nothing for me. Like I said, not into football players. Not even the unconventionally shaped ones.
I’m about to tell him that yes, I am coming out—because I scored the game-winning field goal and therefore I deserve to get laid tonight—when Coach Mancini comes barreling into the locker room with the team owner, James Adler, hot on his heels.
James also serves as the Redwoods’ General Manager, so unlike most of the other owners in the league, he’s very involved in the activities of ourteam. He’s not some looming presence watching from his perch up in the box that’s only looking at dollar signs. I’d describe him more as a lovable, goofball older brother that you can shoot the shit with, but who could also kick your ass (or fire you) if you fuck up.
