Chapter 2

“Glad to have you back on the team,” he said in his Jersey drawl, which I sort of fell for moons ago. “The guys have missed you, Shane. Those fuckers can’t live without you, even if they won’t admit it. My advice to you is simple. From here on out, don’t get hurt anymore. This team needs you on the field, not at Camp Repair up north. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Camp Repair was really the Allegheny Rehabilitation Center in Pittsburgh along the Monongahela River. Three Pakistani doctors had rebuilt my left ankle and refused to let me play football again. Coach Revin of the Eagles said that I still belonged to the team and deserved a seat on the bench since I had helped his national team win four championships in the last five years. Frankly, there was no room on the field for me. Tony Madre was the new linebacker for the Eagles, and Michael Dashwood earned the position of his backup, and two others. I belonged on the bench. I didn’t care since I still felt a part of the league with my jock buddies.

I’d been in Pittsburgh for the last eight months, still hobbled a bit from my crushed ankle and getting used to the titanium joints in my left leg and foot. I refused to give in to failure. I had never intended to play professional football again, but I did intend to cheer the team on and wanted to learn how to be a side judge. Luther Coffler, one of the league’s side judges, planned to train me during the upcoming season. He wanted to create the best side position he could for me, and I wasn’t about to let the old man of seventy down. Luther and I had three meetings together in the last month, all of which promised a future for me in football, just not on the field with the massive and aggressive players.

“When did you get back?” Aaron asked, still grinning from ear to ear, obviously happy to see me.

“Last night. I flew in from Pittsburgh about eleven, got some sleep, woke this morning, took a shower, and here I am.”

“You have breakfast, my friend?” His right hand moved down to his center and grabbed his cock. I thought the tight end was going to offer me his dick for breakfast, but he wasn’t that rude or vulgar. Instead, he added, “Because if you haven’t eaten, we can get something at Moley’s.”

Moley’s was a twenty-four-hour diner on Sea Street in downtown Turtle Bay Reef by the Gulf, which was just a few blocks away. It looked over the saltwater. Sassy Irene, its head fry cook, made some killer pancakes.

“I’m starving,” I said.

“Let me throw a shirt on, and we’ll walk.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I watched him jog across Palm Field to the stainless-steel bleachers in the beaming sun to fetch his shirt, although he really didn’t need to wear one in my opinion. I liked what I saw and wanted to taste him.

* * * *

The walk—or hobbling, in my case—seemed manageable and enjoyed. The day along the Gulf presented ninety steeping degrees with very little humidity and not a cloud in the sky. A light wind blew in from the west, which offered some air and dragged across my forehead and shoulders. To my pleasure, the tight end hadn’t put on his shirt, and I had the remarkable opportunity to study his hairy chest, just as I had numerous times in the past when we were once boyfriends.

We talked more about my ankle, his excitement for the new season to begin, and how pumped he was to see me home again. As our chatter continued without a single break, we walked the few blocks to Moley’s. He mentioned my future as a side judge and clarified his anticipated high hopes for me as a teammate again.

“Luther’s a great teacher,” he boasted. “You’re going to learn from the best. He’s old, wise, and knows his shit. My advice for you is to show him respect at all times, listen to the man, and execute everything he tells you with precision. If you do that, you won’t have a problem with him. If you don’t, good luck getting your balls back from him when he removes them.”

“Let’s hope I get to keep my balls. It’s the only thing I can rely on since my ankle is fucked up.”

“You’ll get to keep everything you had prior to your injury. Including all the money you’ve made from the league. That shit isn’t going anywhere.”

Professional national football players were paid pretty steep, and Aaron was very much aware that I banked most of my cash. The fact of the matter comprised of simplicity: I had a pretty penny in assets thanks to a good brokerage based out of New York City. I really didn’t need to work. I didn’t drink or snort my money to smithereens like some professional athletes. Instead, I could retire from football and live a happily-ever-after life. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t get bored and lose my sanity, though. Retiring was out of the equation for me since I always had to stay busy. And that was the reason why I was anticipating my future role as a side judge. Not only was it something to occupy my time, but the position also allowed me to keep a career in professional football and grow in the league.