“They’re trying to ice the fucking kicker,” I roar, pissed as hell as my line disassembles to wait out the rest of the thirty-second time out.
Seems like we’re not the only ones trying to manipulate the few seconds left on the play clock.
Icing the kicker is a perfectly legal but ruthless move. Everyone knows that kicking the football for a field goal or extra point attempt is 10% skill, 5% luck, and 85% mental fortitude. Five seconds ago, I was in the zone. Five seconds ago, I was focused. Five seconds ago, I kicked a perfect, straight through field goal. But it doesn’t matter, because Chicago made sure it didn’t count.
“Don’t even think about it, Baker,” Lennon says, patting my shoulder as the thirty seconds winds down. “Forget the last kick. It never happened. It’s just you and the ball, you fucking got this dude.”
I nod, letting his encouragement go in one ear and out the other. I don’t need it. I know I’ve got this. I’m Elliot Fucking Baker, and I’m not going to let some deep-dish pizza eating fucks ruin this night for me with an underhanded call.
My guys line back up, and a whistle blows. There’s only three seconds left on the clock, but Lennon doesn’t rush to make the snap. Even if the clock hits zero, whatever happens between now and the time the refs call the kick counts.
I take a deep breath and find my spot in the middle of the uprights. I can’t make out the faces in the crowd from back here, but I imagine Alex watching me, and I focus on making him proud.
The ball is snapped, lined up, and my foot connects. The sound in the stadium is eerily silent. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes open, but I have to watch. Either way, I need to see where the ball goes.
And thank fuck that I do, because even with roar of Chicago fans booing in the crowd and the sight of my teammates rushing the field and lifting me up over their heads, I don’t think I would’ve believed that I made a perfect kick,again.
The game is over, and we win by two measly points.
Our entire sideline is on the field and the media is starting in as well, coming at us with cameras and microphones ready to get their sound bites. I know they’re going to come straight for me, but I’m not ready to talk just yet.
“Put me down!” I yell to Lennon, who has mehoisted up over his shoulder. I have to smack his helmet to get his attention, but he gets the message and sets me back on my feet. I rip my helmet off and toss it to the side, then sprint towards the end zone. A rogue cameraman catches my movement and follows me, but I’ve got a one track mind. I run through the end zone, past the uprights, and straight towards the stands, where fans are cheering and screaming and spilling their beers everywhere.
None of that matters to me, though. There’s only one fan I want to celebrate with.
I spot Alex right in front, screaming his head off while Mom shakes his shoulders. Hoisting myself up on the wall, I use all my strength to hold on with one hand and grab my man by the back of his neck with the other. With the exception of Alex’s on-air love confession after the Hockey Cares game last month, we’ve kept our relationship mostly private. But right now, it doesn’t matter that there are a thousand cameras pointed at us or that tomorrow, the game highlights will be forgotten and this will be the moment played over and over again on the news. I pull Alex close and capture his lips with mine, pouring every ounce of love, adoration, and gratefulness I feel for him into this kiss. He grabs my waist, and with a bit of maneuvering, helps me all the way over the wall. Once I’m on my feet in the stands, Ihoist Alex up and he wraps his thighs around my waist. He cries and tells me how proud he is of me between kisses, and I cry and tell him how much I love him in return. I bring him and Mom down to the field to celebrate, and someone dumps a bottle of champagne over my head.
It’s chaotic and messy and exhilarating, and the win means so much more knowing that, had I lost, Alex would still be just as proud and love me just as hard anyway.
The next morning, Alex and I are front page news, just as I expected. The San Francisco Gazette runs a full page photo of me scaling the wall and kissing my man.
I frame it, and when I’m officially moved into Alex’s place, Scarlett purrs at our feet as we hang the paper in our living room. And every time I pass it, the headline sends the Alex-loving butterflies fluttering in my stomach like it’s the very first night all over again.
Icing The Kicker: A Love Story
EPILOGUE
THAT SWEET SPOT
Alex
One thing nobody tells you about adulthood is that it is actually really difficult to think straight or sit still when you’ve got a medium size plug in your ass that shifts every time you move.
It’s mid-June, that sweet-spot in the calendar when my hockey season has ended and football training camp hasn’t yet begun. Elliot and I are celebrating our window of freedom with a getaway in Banff, where the weather is mild, the nature is beautiful and, most importantly, we have some uninterrupted “us” time. I should be enjoying the incredible mountain views from the floor to ceiling windows in this gastropub while lamenting the fact that we couldn’t bring Scarlett along with us on our trip.Instead, I’m staring at the delicious-looking poutine that I’m not willing to risk it all for and trying my damndest not to get hard in my jeans. The former is proving to be an extremely difficult task, since my dick insists on perking up every time Elliot brings the straw in his strawberry lemonade spritz to his lips.
“Are you cold or something, Goat?” Elliot asks, and I nearly jump out of my skin when his palm comes down on my bouncing thigh. “Jeez, Alex. What is up with you?”
“Nothing!” I say, wincing at the squeaky, high-pitched tone of my voice. A bead of perspiration trickles down the back of my neck, and I can feel the beginnings of a sweat mustache forming on my upper lip.
“Don’t lie to me, baby. You’re shaking all over and you haven’t touched the poutine. You have talked about nothing but the wonders of gravy, fried potatoes, and cheese for weeks. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, babe. I’m just excited about the competition,” I lie, pointing to one of the many TV screens playing an amateur surfing competition in Hawaii. “Mabel Quinn is about to surf, and you know I love her. I mean, the girl’s got an Olympic skier for a mother, an Olympic surfer for a father, and she grows up to be an Olympic snowboarder who surfs for fun in her offseason. Those genes go crazy.”
“Eh, Ryder Finch has the exact same pedigree, and he’s got bi-guy energy, so I still have a chance. Let me know when it’s his turn to surf, I want to see him with his shirt off. All that snowboarding gear he usually wears is criminal.” Elliot chuckles into his lemonade when I back hand him in the chest. “I’m kidding, Goat. You know you’re the only guy I’m interested in seeing shirtless.”
“Yeah, I’d better be,” I grumble under my breath. I scooch my chair closer so I can rest my head on his shoulder, but when everything moves, the plug inside me brushes against my prostate and I gasp, my dick thumping against my zipper and dripping into my briefs.
“Fuck, Alex, what is going on with you?”
