Page 74 of Studs Up
“Fuck you,” he said. “Just for that, I’m going to score a goal.”
He scored two, and his celebration was running to the camera with his finger to his lips.
I texted with a screenshot of him.
You’re an asshole.
He replied an hour later.
I’m an asshole with two goals.
I think Nolan Reed had a magical dick because my season turned around. The more we talked, the closer we got, the more I needed him, and the better my season got. The banter and the chipping at each other made my game so good that I was in the running for the Golden Boot. Conversations about me on pundit shows shifted from ‘Will he be the player we think he is?’ to ‘Finally, he’s figured it out.’
It just kept getting better even though the texts became regular.
Your getting so good.
‘You’re’ dipshit. I almost texted them back. But I didn’t. They were taking notice again, and I didn’t like it. Each buzz of my phone filled me with overwhelming joy or waves of bile in my stomach. There was no in between.
Scoring more goals got me more interviews, and my agent was practically knocking on my door to get me to do some endorsements. I wasn’t all that interested. I did not want to be put out there any more than I already was. I made more than enough money and didn’t spend it like the others did, so there was a nice retirement building in my accounts.
Nolan, in turn, was having a phenomenal season. If he ever got someone to replace Marcel, he would be unstoppable, and that was scary.
I loved watching him play. His critical mind was on full display as he defended his goal. It gave me the warm fuzzies. There were no warm fuzzies when we played against him. That was all ego, business, and competitiveness.
…
He called at ten thirty.
“Um, this is weird,” I answered. “I’m the one that calls you.”
“You have a game tomorrow. Thought we’d get an early start, and you could get a full night.”
I dropped down on my couch with my mouth open.
“Nolan Reed, are you being nice?” I tried to hide my shock and how much those words meant.
“No, don’t you ever fucking suggest that again.”
I smiled and leaned back on my couch. I was going to clean up and pretend to get ready for bed. But I’d rather do this instead.
“Good game tonight,” I said.
“We lost, didn’t you watch.”
“I did,” I said. In fact, the game was replayed on mute. “You had a good game. The rest of your back line forgot how to play soccer.”
He rumbled bitterly. The loss meant a win tomorrow would put us three points ahead.
“Don’t be bitter. You’ll look good in second place.”
“Fuck you.”
Yes, please. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I was masturbating every night to the memory of his cock inside me.
It was only halfway through the season, but it was all but guaranteed there would be a repeat of last year. There would be another rivalry match just before an international break. This time in Seattle.
“Is it getting better?” He asked quietly.
