Sweat Read online

  Ryan comes hard, pressing into Daniel as he pumps hot cream deep inside him, shaking with the force of it, panting, his heart leaping out of his throat, white-hot stars exploding in the dizzy blackness behind his eyes.

  Ryan gasps for breath, clutching at Daniel's back, his shoulders, his arms, his hands. Their fingers entwine, arms outstretched as Daniel sinks down onto his stomach, and Ryan lowers himself carefully onto Daniel's back, his heart hammering wildly. Under him, Daniel clutches at the sheet, a soft groan signalling his desperation for release. Ryan slides his hand around, and closes his fingers around Daniel's cock, stroking hard and insistent, battling the effects of those damned drugs. Daniel moans into the pillow, reaching for the feeling, losing it, his cock going soft in Ryan's hand, then finding it again with a stifled moan, hardening again, pushing against Ryan's fingers, until suddenly Daniel is coming into Ryan's hand with a low groan, his whole body shuddering beneath Ryan, as Daniel's release is finally achieved. Ryan kisses Daniel's neck and nuzzles his hair. “Oh, baby, baby, fuck...” Ryan murmurs, still panting.

  "Love you,” Daniel whispers, simply. And Ryan knows that it's true.

  * * * *

  Ryan wakes. The green numbers on the bedside clock say five a.m. The faint glow of dawn filters through the blinds. Daniel is in his arms. He picks up Daniel's hand, and kisses the fingertips. Ryan finds the third finger of Daniel's left hand, and kisses the silver ring that matches his own. Daniel murmurs incoherently, and nuzzles his cheek against Ryan's chest. Ryan runs his fingers through Daniel's fair hair, an inch of dark roots betraying the bottle blond, and breathes in his subtle musky scent. How life can change, in only twenty-four hours. Later this morning, Ryan will go to work, visit Jade Bradley, and thank him. Then he'll find Patrick, and tell him that he's sorry. And he'll tell him that he knows now, where he belongs: right here at home, in the arms of his one and only love.

  Athletic Shorts by Anfernee Williamson

  It took more than a few moments for Carl's senses to return to him, dizzying seconds he spent fighting for his breath. When he was about himself enough to realize, he could feel more than just Juan's weight pressing down on him. The athletic young man was entirely on top of him, all hard, sweaty flesh. The seconds lingered as his breathing steadied, and he stared up at him, drinking in as much of those handsome features as life giving air.

  "That's what you get, papa..."

  As sudden as it happened, Juan was back up off him. Carl let his gaze linger on those long, athletic limbs. Smooth, deep brown skin only made the sweat on him look right, in an all too sexual way. Like he had been working too long and hard in the open sun. His short buzz cut, and perfectly kept, pencil thin goatee spoke of a pride in himself, while his smoky tone of voice punctuated it with overconfidence. His sleeveless black t-shirt and long basketball shorts were mussed with dirt from the game.

  Carl saw the football, all too far away from where they had crashed. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Juan had stopped another perfect pass.

  "You cool, Carl?"

  This time it was Jackson speaking, putting a huge hand down to help scoop him from the ground. Carl took it with a gloved hand, righting himself against his giant friend. There was concern in Jackson's chocolate eyes, a deep shade matched only by the color of his sweaty, bared chest. Carl shook his head, feeling a few errant dreadlocks shake free from where he had tied them back.

  "That was some hit, Carl,” Jackson remarked. Carl saw the cocky grin Juan was wearing as he tossed the missed ball back toward the team. “Best not be takin’ too many more of those."

  "That kid's starting to piss me off..."

  Jackson chuckled, a warm sound that filled and shook his big upper body. “Distraction's never good for the game."

  "He's not distracting me,” Carl shot back, a little too hard. “I said he's pissing me off."

  "Coo'. Get angry. Next time he comes at you, maybe you'll run straight over him."

  Carl let the subject drop, wandering back to the line. They played often enough, but the seven that made up their team were getting on in years. Most had family, most in their thirties. The other side were all street young and street wise, and played a dirty game. Carl pulled up the long end of his white football top, wiping at his face. The breeze he felt against his body was scant. The sun was high, cutting down through the broken shell of the apartment block they were playing in. The ground was hard packed dirt, overgrown and yellowed grass if you came down farther away from the center.

  Franklin was calling the next play as they huddled. Jackson was right of course. Carl was distracted. And Juan was right to keep calling him play after play, taking him down one peg at a time. This was nowhere near his best play. Sweat was dripping off him, making deep stains in the tired grey shorts he was wearing. A few more hits like that from Juan and he wouldn't be much use on the field. He stared over at the other team, all swaggering young punks in all too flashy gear. Laughing and joking. Juan was staring back at him with that same guarded, cocky grin. That same fucking suggestive look. Carl tried to harden his game face.

  "That ok with you, Carl?” Franklin asked. Carl glanced back to see the other six of the team staring at him, tired faces shiny with sweat.

  "Huh?"

  "Hail Mary. Fourth down. Look sharp on the wide side.” Franklin was the youngest of them, and actually coached little league. And he was still in his late twenties.

  "Sure."

  Jackson shot him a grin that spoke more than the big man could ever say, shaking his head slow. They all put in a hand, and shouted on three, moving on formation. Jackson was so close that Carl could smell him as he headed to the line.

  "Just keep your head straight an’ on the game, man. Nothin’ to it."

  "Soon as I done kicking that kid's ass, you're next."

  Jackson laughed, as he took place, “Bring it! Fuckin’ bring it."

  Carl paced out to his place on the left of the formation. He pulled the ends of his sweats up on his knees as he crouched slightly, starting to feel the burn in his calves. Juan was moving at a slow jog in motion across about five yards forward. The brilliant blue shock of his boxers was as pure as the cloudless sky above, exposed where he had accidentally mussed his t-shirt. His basketball shorts sank low on his thick ass. Carl tried to put his mind back to getting past him. He reminded himself he was faster than the kid even on his bad days.

  Was it Jackson who had found this team, or had they approached him, Carl wondered.

  The play started with an explosion of movement, and Carl cut sharp to the side of the field. He felt the dirt kick up in dust under his shoes, and saw Juan falter just long enough at the start of play for him to shoot ahead. Carl felt grass, and the break of air against him as he ran, caressing his face and touching his skin. There was nothing but a few old barrels and a lot of clear ground between him and the busted concrete wall at the end of the building.

  Carl could hear Juan, the kid's breath sounding all too close to his right ear. He heard the pounding of feet matching his own and he reminded himself not to stray too far into longer grass. Carl thought he could almost smell the sweat, and feel the heat beating off Juan's body, but the guy couldn't possibly be that close. It just made Carl think of what those long legs must look like, pumping hard. Those well poised triceps, filled with youthful power.

  Carl glanced back to catch the pass, seeing the athletic motion that was Juan's body. He let himself smile, catching the brief second's imprint on his sight of Juan's face, strained in effort. Well above, the ball was falling his way in a gentle arc. The fractional moments came like a dream, as Carl reached. The rest bought him crashing back into reality.

  His body slammed left, almost the moment he felt the ball nest into his grasp. The titanic crash against the other side of his body set pain lancing through his shoulder, and he briefly wondered how ground could feel that hard. The rest was all harsh, hard impact and biting dirt, clawing along his body. It reminded him of the few times Jackson had ta
ckled him. It felt like a mountain had come down on him.

  "You can't beat me, papa. Thought it was a father's job to school their son? Looks like I'm doing all the schooling here, papa."

  Juan had hit him, but he was already up off him, smiling down. Carl was blinded by the sunlight streaming down from behind him, or was his vision blurred from the impact? Juan's smoky voice was so cool and calm and controlled, yet it made him boil worse than any cocky taunt. Carl cursed under his breath when he realized his hands were empty. Jackson was beating a slow but steady path toward him, looking awed.

  "Will you look what the fuck that brotha did to that can, ya'll?!"

  Jackson was whooping, but it was a kind of loud respect. Carl finally noticed the metal barrel he'd hit coming down. It had fared far worse than him, buckled over in the middle. Some distance away he saw the football he'd somehow missed catching, and Juan's cocky grin as he gathered with the rest of his team to celebrate another messed up play.

  Carl rubbed at his shoulder, staring at Juan. He was getting all manly and close with his team of thugs, who were already calling taunts on the turnover of play. Carl stared at Juan's thick ass, the way his basketball shorts hugged it, thinking how he wanted to bend the guy over and fuck some sense into him, get rid of some of this anger and frustration. It only made Carl more frustrated that he was letting some kid get to him and fuck up his game.

  "You fucked up that can, Carl,” Jackson said, holding the buckled metal like a trophy before tossing it aside.

  "I'm calling out,” replied Carl, getting himself up to his feet. He made a point of holding at his shoulder. Jackson suddenly looked more serious, concerned.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah, just think I'm out for the game."

  "What's up?” Franklin asked. “You cool to keep playing?"

  "Nah, Carl's out,” replied Jackson. Carl kept rubbing slowly at his shoulder, letting his friend do the talking for him. He snatched a quick glance back over at the other team. Was Juan actually looking at him?

  "You know we don't have Sage, man,” Franklin remarked, frowning. “We don't have a full team without Carl.” He let the implications lay there.

  "So let them take the game, Frank. They close enough anyway. We'll call a rematch on ‘em some other time. If my man's calling injury, then it's no small thing."

  Carl nodded vacantly in agreement with Jackson, seeing Franklin's quick look of assessment. Further up the field, the other team were already setting up for the change of possession, waiting on them. Carl made a point of not looking at Juan. Part of him wanted to see if he was looking back this way on purpose.

  "Cool, Carl.” Franklin replied. He slapped Carl lightly on his other shoulder. Carl felt a little guilty at the glum look on the quarterback's face. He could see Franklin thought they still had a fighting chance. Jackson shouted after him as he headed back to break the news to the teams.

  "Come on over later for drinks!"

  Carl headed back to the street, picking carefully through the partly toppled wall that framed one side of the abandoned building. He heard Jackson's heavy footfalls catching up, and the taunting laughter behind them as the thugs obviously found out about the forfeit. Jackson was beside him by the time he was walking the pavement, looking down at him with concern.

  "Didn't think you'd get hurt that easy,” he remarked. “I seen you take heavier knocks and come through it, man. You gettin’ old on me?"

  That stung. Carl tried not to show it. “I think I am."

  "What? Gettin’ old? Bullshit, Carl. You only thirty. Try throwin’ all this weight around at thirty-five, with six kids."

  "You're a tank, though. It's different."

  "Yeah, but I know your stamina, Carl,” Jackson replied. Carl didn't miss the sly look from his big friend, expecting it when he looked back at him. “Sure, you ain't got my size, but you a wiry, mean fuck."

  Carl let it drop, still dwelling on it all as they stepped back out onto the main streets of Irving. They weren't far from Halstead Park, and his place was a pleasant walk through it on a day like this. Even on a weekend, it was still fairly busy, and the gentle afternoon weather helped coax people out of their dusty tenements to the cafes and cramped boutiques that circled the park.

  Jackson was tugging his afterthought of a hoodie out of the back of his game pants. The pants were Chargers colors, and left nothing to the imagination. Not that Jackson gave a fuck. Carl was a little remorseful as Jackson slipped the pale hoodie on, even though it barely covered much of his colossal frame in its long since sleeveless state. Carl smiled a little as his friend left it unzipped in front. He couldn't help but like the way sweat looked on his hard flesh, slowly drying in the soft breeze that took the streets.

  Jackson noticed the looks, obvious as he said in a quiet tone, “This ain't about you gettin’ banged up on the field though, is it? You ain't hurt that bad."

  Carl didn't surrender an answer to that, despite the hard look he was getting from his friend. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweats. They crossed the road toward the park, where Carl could already see the chess quarter filled with hustlers and well meaning watchers. Jackson obviously wasn't letting him get off that lightly, as he stayed close at his side. The pavement was dappled with fallen leaves.

  "Way I figure it, Carl, someone gettin’ a bit of a hard on on the field."

  It was bad enough getting reminded of how badly he did with his game. “I just can't keep up with those younger guys is all, Jackson,” Carl shot back. “That game really ran me ragged. Guess I just had it taken out of me when I hit the ground on that last play."

  "Cool. Okay."

  "You think I'm losing my game?” asked Carl. “You can be straight."

  "Serious?” Jackson's looks were dead straight with him. Carl noticed how Jackson was heading off the path that took them the long way around the park, not so crowded. “What's all this about? I known you since you were a kid runnin’ all them games on the street. This isn't like you."

  "That kid Juan was fucking with my game.” Carl spoke again, sharply, as soon as he saw Jackson's quick, sly grin. “I'm not talking about that. Man, he was running circles around me. Calling me papa and all that."

  "So that's what this about? He made you feel like a grandpa or some shit?"

  "I guess."

  "Juan is one damn skilled kid, Carl,” Jackson remarked. He grinned wide and generous, putting a big hand on Carl's shoulder. Carl liked how it felt, reassuring and familiar. “But I seen you run circles around kids his age before. Sure, he just outta his teens and still doped off life and hormones and all that, but I seen you school kids his age before. All that shit he's runnin’ is just natural talent though. We still got the age and experience."

  Carl regarded Jackson carefully. There was no reason for him to lie, and the conviction in his tone took him deep. He knew Jackson was right. Maybe he was just having an off game. Carl felt himself respond a little as he thought back at all the ways Juan had him on the field though. A frame like that was built for power and speed. He briefly wondered if Juan was in any of the local leagues.

  Jackson's lingering hand on his shoulder drew him back into the physical. It was just too long since he had him some good sex, Carl reasoned. Outwardly, Jackson's friendly, constant touch wasn't much more than perhaps a slightly attentive friend, but Carl knew the implications and the history behind them. It made him think of things other than Juan. He'd just forget the kid, he decided. That was one thing he was going to keep from his friend for a while.

  "Get you back home, put some ice on that shoulder,” Jackson said. “Then just chill the rest of the afternoon. Maybe catch some game on TV."

  "Yeah, that sounds good,” replied Carl, already getting a feel for it in his head. He still felt that edge in his mood. He lamented a little when Jackson's hand drifted off his shoulder, and lingered down his back. All of the places he wanted it to go stayed in his mind long after the contact was gone.

  "Don't worry,
bro,” Jackson remarked, as they started to come out the other side of the park. “You ain't losin’ your game. Don't worry about gettin’ old either. Ain't even near that time that you should be worried about shit like that. Don't let Juan shake you."

  Carl nodded, feeling the shadow of the tenements take them as they crossed the road, dodging cars. His own was a little more bearable than some in Irving. This close to Halstead Park, they still had some semblance of dignity to them. He'd almost lived in Jackson's long enough to know there were worse places. He played street football in the remains of the worst. There was a slight chill in the air entering the still, dim entrance way. They both took the stairwell eight flights up out of personal choice. Carl noticed Jackson didn't make a race of it like they usually did. It was strange thinking about his age when some of the things they did made them seem like barely teenagers at heart.

  Carl unlocked the door to his own little private part of the world. Jackson was close behind, closing the door, and heading past him into what passed for the kitchen. What little made up the living area was cramped, made worse by a volume of personal things better suited to an apartment twice the size. He'd collected enough books to line one wall, and football posters plastered the one opposite, telegraphing down toward the front of the room that looked out on the park via squat windows. The athletes of various states of dress watched on, but given their profession, no one ever questioned Carl's taste in them.

  "Go and sit down somewhere,” Jackson called from the kitchen. “I'll get you a pack for your shoulder."

  "Cool."

  Carl considered briefly taking a shower, the sweat drying on him and making him feel clammy. He lingered near the threadbare couch, before tugging at his dreadlocks with still gloved hands. They fell loose about his shoulders, framing his face. He lost the tie somewhere as he pushed open the door to the bedroom, barely large enough for the double bed he'd somehow managed to get up here. He still buzzed in the privacy, felt his manhood lingering a little more heavy between his thighs. The effects of the game were still hard to shake off.