Hail Mary

Liam

After weeks of working with him, I find out Horan isn't going to start in Saturday's game. I knew it was a long shot going into it. Coach Garvey pretty much confirmed that when I talked to him. But it still pisses me off that I wasn't able to make enough of a difference. I know Horan worked hard. Hell, he put in more time and effort than almost everybody who actually is starting. All the guys who helped him agree. "I can talk to the coach. Might still be time to change things around." Horan and I have gone back to our respective lockers. The guys usually between us are in the showers, so I've got a direct line to talk to him for once. "We don't need a Rudy moment where you lay your jersey on Coach's desk, man." I grin, shaking my head. That's the first thing that popped into my head, too. "Yeah, well. Let me know if you change your mind." He unhooks his pads and lets them drop on the bench. "It's just one game. There'll be other chances to start." I look over at him and forget whatever I was going to say. He's got his shirt off now, and his pants too. It looks like they pulled down his boxers a little when he took them off, and now they're hanging off his hips, dipping below the sharp V of his pelvis. I can see a patchy trail of hair running from his navel to the waistband of his boxers, and for some reason my gaze is stuck on it. I follow it down, realize what I'm looking at, and turn my head away quickly. What the fuck was that? There are tons of naked guys in here, every day, all around me. Half of them have no modesty whatsoever, and walk from the showers to the lockers with their dicks hanging out. But suddenly seeing my friend partially dressed makes my whole body flush, and I don't know if it's from embarrassment or something else. "We'll keep working at it. I'll make a new schedule to fit around the game." Horan  just grins, shaking his head. "You and your fucking schedules, man." He closes his locker, and when I glance over at him again, there's a towel wrapped around his hips. It's not hanging as low as his boxers were, thank fuck. But I still have to pull my attention away. "Gonna hit the showers. Meet you at the Den later?" "Yeah," I choke out. As he walks away, I try not to think about the fact that he's going to drop that towel soon. We win the first game of the season. We pretty much stomped the shit out of Kentucky, even though that's not exactly hard to do these days. But a win is a win, and all through the next week, everybody's riding high. Including me. The thrill of the season finally hits me, and it gives me something to really focus on. Something I can grab hold of that isn't as confusing as everything else in my life. Horan was at the game, warming the bench just in case Matthews had to walk off. I'm pretty sure Matthews was taunting him half the game, but at least he got his job done this time. I wish it was him running the ball into the goal, or catching it right on the sidelines, but he's been pretty cool about it. Cooler than me, at least. I worked with him three more times since then, trying to figure out what exactly Coach Garvey wants to see out of him in order let him start. That's not counting all the time we've spent at the gym, at the Den, or at the library. So far he's kept his promise, and even though I don't really have a lot of homework yet, he's helped me feel like I'm actually retaining something from the hours of lecture I have to sit through every school day. We were supposed to work together today, but the other guys are flaking out on me. There's a dorm party tonight, and all three of them want to be there to pick up chicks who'd love nothing more than to be seen on a football player's arm. I should probably go with them, honestly. I spend so much time with Horan these days that people are probably starting to talk. But nobody knows he's gay, and it's not like we're blowing each other or something. I'm helping him with football shit and he's helping me with classical lit. What could be more straight than that? Frat parties have never been my thing, anyway, so I'm not about to change now. Besides, I found some clips I want to show Horan, and I tell him to meet me at Kensington Park. The sun is just starting to set when I get there. Coach has started running two-a-days now, and between a two-hour practice in the morning, a full day of classes, and a two-hour practice in the afternoon, I'm beat. But I want to see Horan in a jersey, and there's only one way to make that happen. I sit on the bench with my laptop, sweating it out in the Florida heat. 7 PM, just about fall, and it's fucking 90 ° out here. At least, it feels that way. Four and a half years and I'm still not used to it. I hear Horan walk up and turn my head to face him. He's got his hands in his jean pockets and earbuds in his ears. He must've taken the bus to get here. "Long time no see," he says. He looks as tired as I feel, and yet he still manages to smile. I'm pretty sure I've been scowling since three o'clock. "Take a seat. I've got something to show you." "Is it porn? Because I don't think the two moms over there will appreciate it," he says, nodding toward the playground. "Plus, I never told you what I'm into." It's a joke. His shit-eating grin gives it away. But for some reason it makes me feel... Strange. Not uncomfortable, I guess. Just a little weirded out by the fact that I'm now wondering what kind of porn he does like. "It's just football clips. Sorry to disappoint." He shrugs, then sits down beside me. "Just as good." That at least makes me laugh, and some of the tension fades away when I roll my shoulders. I still find myself clearing my throat, though, and feeling like the biggest idiot alive. Turning the laptop so he can see it, I cue up the footage I downloaded earlier. "Watch what he does right as he's about to get tackled." The footage is of a running back who plays for the Jets, but it's definitely something we can use. He watches the clip with me, all the way up to the tackle and the call to end the play. "You see that?" "He sped up right before he was brought down." I nod. "You ever listen to the defensive coaches? They're teaching players to tackle through the guy, not to be a solid wall." "So if I've got some momentum going, I should keep it up?" "Anybody going in for the tackle might not be ready for it. At best you'll get a few more yards before you're dropped, and at worst you'll be at less risk for injury. It's a way for you to control what happens." Horan nods. "Could always use more control out there. Might be able to shake this finally and just play like a normal fucking guy." "Stop being so hard on yourself. If anybody else knew what you've gone through to get here, they wouldn't believe it." A slow smile spreads across his lips. "Pot, meet kettle." "Do as I say, not as I do," I say with a smirk. "Come on, get off your ass. We're going to give it a shot." "The other guys already here?" I stand up and stretch, trying to remember what I was taught in peewee football when we used to try out multiple positions to see which one would stick. For about two weeks, I was on defense. That was before they found out how far I could throw. "They're at some party." "Oh. Cool." If I didn't know any better, I'd say he sounds a little nervous. That thought is confirmed when I glance up at him. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and I grin. "Relax. I'll go easy on you." I stuff my laptop into my bag and leave it on the bench before walking out onto the grass. Horan follows, and I hold up a hand to stop him. "Start here, and run toward me when I give the signal." "You want me to do it in slow motion, like the movies?" I roll my eyes, and don't bother to answer him. If I encourage him to be a smartass, he'll just keep it up. No matter how nice it is to have somebody who isn't constantly up my ass about doing every little thing perfectly. I get about twenty yards away from him to start with, then lift my hand up in the air to signal. I let him start and get halfway before I even go into motion. Best to take it easy this first time. When we make contact, Horan hits me pretty fucking hard. He's leading with his shoulder like he does when he's protecting the ball, and I'm down low to get a grip around his waist and tackle him to the ground. It doesn't exactly happen that way, though. I have to struggle to keep hold of him, and he almost shrugs me off. He gets at least five extra yards before I can bring him down, and his momentum ensures he can get up easily. "That was a pretty weak tackle, man," he jokes. He offers me a hand up, and I take it. "No shit. Been a long time since I did this. Set up and we'll go again." We do it a few more times, and I eventually remember what I was told years ago. Each time, I start a little quicker, and run at him with a bit more force. By the third tackle, he can't really shrug me off, and I bring us both to the ground easily. But he's still able to get back to his feet, and that's what counts. "How'd that feel?" "Like I'm going to have bruises on top of bruises tomorrow," he says, rubbing his side. "But I can see what you mean. Feels less like I'm being tackled from out of nowhere, and more like something I can control." I nod. "That's the idea." He makes a good point, though. I probably should've brought pads to this outing. Coach will have my ass if either of us get injured out here. "Last one. Really push it this time." He nods, setting up in the same spot as before. The grass has a little divot where his shoes have dug into the ground. I take my place a little farther back, and give myself more time to get up to speed. I try to cushion the blow when we meet, to avoid putting either of us at risk, but Horan takes my instruction to heart. He fucking steamrolls me. I don't know if I just didn't have enough balance, or if I wasn't throwing enough weight into it, but he runs over me easily. He could've kept going, but I think taking me down takes him by surprise, and instead of shaking me off and moving past me, his leg seems to get stuck between mine, and we both fall to the ground. At first I think I've made him sprain something. Hell, I'm not sure I haven't. But when he starts to laugh, I realize he's just fine. I also realize that he's on top of me. Pressed against me, body to body. One of his legs is between mine, and his weight rests atop me. I've been sacked and tackled. Had linemen flatten me to the ground and refuse to get up before. But this is different. I can feel every hard contour of Horan's body. The way his well-defined pecs move as he breathes in and out. The sleek lines of his pelvis. The weight and warmth of his thighs. And I even feel his breath, hot against my shoulder as he laughs. There's a part of me that wants to throw him off, and a part that wants to examine every sensation. I'm used to the way a woman's soft body cradles mind, and this is a lot different. Hard. Firm. There's nothing soft about Niall Horan. But for some reason, my own body is starting to heat up. When he stops laughing and looks down at me, my breath catches in my throat. Something passes behind his eyes—an unspoken heat—and my gaze fixates on his lips. A hint of stubble frames them, but they look soft. Sculpted just like the rest of his face. He shifts a little, and I'm not sure if it's deliberate or accidental, but his thigh brushed against my crotch, and I can feel my dick twitch in my jeans. Breath rushes from my lungs, and I can't move. I can't think. I can't do anything but lay there, helpless as my body betrays me. Jesus Christ. My dick is waking up while there's another guy on top of me. It has to be some sort of weird physical stimulation, right? Because if it isn't... Then I have a lot more to figure out about my life.