Long Pass Chronicles 02 - Canning the Center

To my honey. Thank you for naming the book, for providing so much football knowledge and inspiration, and for being my hero.

Chapter 1

“T
HREE
FIFTY
-
ONE
.
Three fifty-one. On two. Hut. Hut.”

The backup quarterback’s voice triggered Jamal Jones’s action. Jamal turned the ball and rifled it directly into the guy’s hands in slingshot position. The ball slid like butter, baby.

The offensive line coach’s whistle stopped the play, and Jamal trotted to the bench, grabbed a water, and poured it down his throat, sucking the liquid into his mouth and inhaling the smell of sweat, leather, and synthetic grass deep into his lungs. Training camp for the Los Angeles Diablos might not be everything he’d expected, but man, talk about your dreams come true.

“Jones.”

He turned toward Izzy Perez, the offensive line coach. “Yes, sir.”

Perez smiled. “They want you down there.” He pointed toward the other end of the field where the first-string offensive squad was scrimmaging.

Jamal swallowed. “Uh, sure. Yes, sir.” Tossing the water bottle, he took off at a trot up the field, tingles of excitement running up his arms. Maybe Ray Shields was going to give him some hands-on training. Finally he’d get to learn from the best center in the NFL. Weird that the Diablos had drafted Jamal in the first round to play second-string center and train with Shields so he could take over for the big blond next year—but Shields had hardly talked to Jamal in the nearly two weeks they’d both been at camp.

Jamal ran up to where the head coach sat on the bench watching the practice. “Wanted to see me, sir?”

Manny Hartford reminded him more of a basketball coach, slim and slick. A political animal. So different from Jamal’s coach at SCU. Still, he liked the guy okay.

Hartford nodded. “Yes. Go in for Shields.”

“In, sir?”

“Yeah. At center. The position you play, right?” He gave Jamal a tight smile.

Well, shit, talk about ass sex with no lube. They hadn’t given him any training with the first string and now they were throwing him in the deep end. He pulled his shoulder blades together.
Okay, fuck. Show ’em why you were a first-round draft pick.

Jamal trotted out to midfield. Ray Shields jogged toward him, and Jamal smiled inside his helmet, but the big man ran past like he wasn’t there.
No attaboys from that department
.

Jamal looked at the assembled line.
Don’t fuck it up
. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he approached the men waiting for him on the field. The guards, especially Brian “Boogaloo” Johnson, almost made him feel small. At about three fifty, Boogaloo outweighed Jamal by fifty pounds.
Glad he’s on my side
.

Jamal nodded.
Be cool
. “Gentlemen.”

One of the tackles, Adolphus Winston, stuck out a hand and gave Jamal a low five.
Nice to be welcomed by somebody.

The legendary quarterback, Jet West, stood with his hip cocked. Did that face say
Show me something
?

Jamal nodded and took his place in the line. He dropped into stance, ball in hand. The defensive line took position against them. Jamal scoped the defense. “OG twenty-four, T thirty-one.” Winston’s head snapped up at Jamal’s audible for a reposition on him and the guard since centers rarely did audibles, but he moved along with Matoa.

West generally liked shotgun position for the snap, but he stuck his hands under Jamal’s butt. “Flash thirty. Flash thirty.” Adrenaline rising, Jamal ticked the running back position off in his mind.

West called, “F-stop two.” Fullback pass. “Hut. Hut.” Jamal snapped on two, his hands acting on instinct. No time to look. He felt West run backward. Jamal took three steps toward him to fill the hole and braced like a rhino for two linebackers coming at him. With a grunt, he locked a shoulder under one giant guy and pushed him toward the other one. Some luck and some skill caught the man off-balance, and his attackers wound up in a linebacker pile as Jamal opened a path for the fullback to run through for first down.

Whistle.
Wow
. Blood pumped like joy juice. Hard-on city. They reformed the line and started another play, with no breather. This time West slid back into shotgun, Jamal snapped directly into that soft right hand, took a step, and—
oof
—got sacked by three hundred pounds of linebacker.
Shit!
His shoulder hit the ground like he’d jumped off a two-story building, and he memorized the smell of the synthetic turf.
Jesus, these guys sure hit harder than college, even just in practice. Imagine what a game will be like.
No wonder Shields needed to retire; the guy was no spring chicken. Still, excitement tingled up Jamal’s spine, and every hair stood on end. He’d waited for this chance his whole life and he was up for it.

Hartford waved. “That’s it for today. Hit the showers.”

A hand like a vise clamped his shoulder. “Good going, my man.”

He looked over at Boogaloo Johnson. The guard was about an inch shorter than Jamal’s six feet seven, but that solid muscle covered by fat strained his jersey. “Thanks.”

Johnson fell in beside him as they walked toward the locker room. Johnson and Jones. Sounded liked a course in fake IDs. But this Johnson wielded power that exceeded his weight. Boogaloo was good at his job. Jamal had heard a couple guys say that Boogie, as they called him, scored as a favorite of the team owner, Arondel, which was weird since the owner made the Tea Party look left wing while Boogie still had some ghetto showing.

Johnson patted him again. “Good to see new blood on the line.”

“Happy to be there, even if it’s just for today.”

“Yeah, well, you can be full-time anytime, if they ax me, brother.”

“Thanks.”
Strange
.

Inside the huge locker room, Johnson gave him a shoulder punch and walked over to his group of gigantic homeboys. Being rich, famous, black, and over three hundred pounds seemed to be the requirements of the club. Three of them wrapped huge towels around themselves that still barely covered their asses and headed toward the therapy tubs.

Jamal peeled off his practice uniform and grabbed a towel for the shower. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his jeans hanging on the hook. He pulled it out, smiled, and clicked. “Hey, man. I’m standing in the middle of the locker room bare-assed.”

Will Ashford, Jamal’s best friend, chuckled. “That must be a sight. You notice any of the guys scoping you out?”

Jamal glanced around at the players rapping in the middle of the big room, many still in their jocks. He half smiled. “Never, man. This is the NFL.”

“Hmm. There are rumors that NFL stands for No-tell Fag League.”

“For sure nobody’s telling.”

“Even you, buddy?”

Jamal frowned. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Noah wants to talk to you about that.”

Noah, Will’s boyfriend, had been out and proud since he was born. Jamal glanced around again. “It’s a tough situation.”

“So let’s talk, okay? Noah and I want to take you out to celebrate your contract and getting your dream.”

Jamal turned toward the locker. “That would be great. I haven’t seen anybody who wasn’t connected to the team for almost two weeks—since they moved us into the training hotel.” He lowered his voice. “Going a little stir.”

“So I know it’s short notice, but any chance you could come tonight?”

Hell, his only alternative was sitting on the bed watching movies with three other guys too big to fit in a hotel room. “Sure, I’d love to. I can’t stay out late, though.”

“Aw, poor baby. No problem. I’ll text you an address.” His voice sounded excited.

“What are we going to do?”

Will called out, “Noah, Jamal wants to know what we’re going to do.”

The voice in the background yelled, “It’s a surprise!”

Will laughed. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, see you at eight. Eat first.”

He hung up. He loved talking to his friends, but it split him in half, like having a foot in two really different worlds. It gave him a spacey feeling. He wrapped the towel tight and headed for the showers.

As he walked into the wet tiled area, Jet West came toward him. The man was great looking. The face that launched a thousand magazine covers. As they passed, West nodded. “Good job, rook.”

“Thanks.” No use pretending that wasn’t a thrill.

The steamy heat from the showers surrounded him as he waited outside the stalls for one to free up. Men walked around him bare-assed, cocks dangling, some of the equipment hard to find in the fat and some of it as big as the men who sported it.

Roone Curry, the rookie second-string running back, walked over wearing only his jock. The straps surrounded his tight buttocks like a caress, and his runner’s body came closer to Jamal’s style than most of these giants. Not pretty enough, thank God.
Do not be staring at his cock
. He forced his eyes up and looked into Roone’s.

Roone nodded. “Want to get a beer, Jones?”

“Uh, thanks, Roone. Some friends are taking me out. Kind of a celebration.”

“We’ll do it another time.”

Jamal nodded and watched that tight, bare ass flex away from him as his own equipment started to harden.
Damn
. One of the showers freed up, and he jumped into it. He flipped on the hot water and stepped under. The shoulder he’d fallen on throbbed, but not as much as his deprived dick. Two weeks since he’d had his cock in anyone, female or male, and he was feeling the strain. Sure, he’d been around bare male bodies since he was a kid, and he’d always managed it, but he’d been able to have sex when he needed it. Right now, he needed it.

He reached down and grabbed his rod, which at nine inches scared the hell out of some women, to say nothing of the heart attack it gave a lot of men. He stroked while he let the hot water run on his shoulder. Waiting until later was wise, but damn, that felt good. He squeezed harder and picked up the pace.

Maybe he should find a woman. There were always football groupies at the clubs and women who liked what he had. Truth, though he said he enjoyed men and women equally, he preferred men. Pretty, twinky, slender, graceful, beautiful men. He leaned against the wall, his hands both doing good work. He liked pretty guys who had a streak of spunk, beautiful lips, didn’t mind that his cock was the size of a walrus, and might like to give as well as receive—yes! His balls squeezed and the cum shot out of his cock, hot as the water flowing over him.
Oh man, good
.

He took two deep breaths. The noise of the players leaving the locker room crept in over the sounds of the water. Right. He’d find that kind of guy when he had the guts to tell Lex Arondel and Manny Hartford he liked to fuck men. When he got balls big enough to come out as a bisexual pro football player. In other words, he’d have that perfect man right after pigs launched their own airline.

J
AMAL
FOLLOWED
the GPS on the black Cadillac his family had surprised him with when he got drafted by the NFL. It was used, but still shiny, and big enough to hold him comfortably. He turned onto the side street in Van Nuys. The area was a little seedy.
Did he get the address right?
Ahead on the left, a lighted sign said the Cellar. Okay, that must be it. Nothing else around here looked open, much less fun. Of course, The Cellar didn’t scream excitement. Hell, he didn’t care. He just wanted to see Will and Noah.