© Copyright 2018 by Van Cole All rights reserved.

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  End Zone

  Gay First Time Sports Romance

  By: Van Cole

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Come Stalk Me!

  Foreword

  Connor Montana is a well-established player for the Packers, and just settling into his fame. He’s nobody’s star player, but he’s never a disaster either; he’s a solid mountain of a player that can be relied on as others take necessary risks around him. With very little reason to be shoved into the spotlight, he’s never really gotten accustomed to dealing with the press.

  In stark contrast, meet Diego Delgado. The Packers’ newest acquisition, Diego has been proving himself all season as a force to be reckoned with – which is really helping to kill the backlash he’s had from being an openly gay player. A beacon for LGBT representation in the sport, Diego barely stops being followed, photographed and interviewed.

  When celebrations get out of hand and see Connor and Diego accidentally married to one another, it’s a surprise for several reasons… not least because Connor is ‘straight’, and everybody had long since assumed that Diego was actually dating fellow out gay Packers teammate Toby Mendez. Things get exponentially more complicated when the marriage is leaked to the media, changing Connor’s lifestyle from quiet fame into constant, inescapable attention.

  Can Connor learn to cope with the unwavering media attention, or will it affect his game? Who leaked the marriage to the press? Most importantly, why did Connor and Diego marry in the first place – and can any hint of that drunken devotion be saved…?

  End Zone

  Chapter One

  Connor

  I stood there, the crowd roaring around me, and waited for the whistle to blow.

  So long as none of us screwed up now, this game would be ours. My teammates had played incredibly well today, broadcasting to the entire sport that our intensive new training practices had absolutely paid off. Now, as we approached the end of the season, we could begin to believe that the title might be ours. Of course, you have to tell that to the press from the beginning. We’d all already made statements to that effect. This is going to be our year. We’ve got this. But none of us had really believed it until this last few seconds, waiting for the final minute of the game.

  I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Diego Delgado preparing himself for one last run. Before we started playing this season, his inclusion on the team was a source of some controversy. An out gay man, his presence had offended some of our less progressive fans.

  ‘Assholes’ is probably the technical term.

  At this point in the championship, however, more or less all of his critics had been silenced. A fiercely competitive athlete with incredible stamina and unmatched quick thinking, he had been a key component in turning our luck around both in training and on the field. Personally, I had never doubted his talent, but now I was proud to stand across from him as we waited for the final whistle. When he turned his head to grin at Toby Mendez, I liked to think all those assholes watching in the crowd felt a mix of anger and sheepishness.

  After all, Diego wasn’t the first gay man to play for our team. Toby had gotten there first. Just like Diego, he had been quick to earn his place. As perhaps one of the few people in the world who could understand that hatred which Diego went through, the two had gotten close very quickly. The media had begun to suspect they were dating.

  As for me? I figured it was none of my business. But I liked both Delgado and Mendez, and I had seen them together at press events and in private. If it was true, I sure as hell wouldn’t be surprised.

  A few seconds later, the whistle blew. The roar of the crowd picked up, proving that there was a sound level above ‘deafening’ – but none of us had any focus left to devote to that. We were all-in, fully devoted to the cause of preventing the Patriots from clawing this game back from the jaws of defeat. I caught only snippets of the world around me – the impact of the hard ground against my feet as I ran, and the force of an opponent that brought me to the floor.

  But I smiled as I went down. This had all been a part of the plan. As one of the bigger players on our team, the Patriots seemed to be exerting a lot of effort on keeping me out of commission. A distraction. A mistake. As they were taking me to the ground, believing that they were preventing Rogers from making his pass, they were instead playing themselves. The ball moved to Hannity – then to Delgado. As I struggled to my feet, I ran towards the action once again, but even as I did so I knew that there was no need. The clock was running out, and the ball was in our possession.

  Delgado didn’t even need to make that final score. We were still ahead when the buzzer sounded, and the ball sailed past the post seconds later. The pitch erupted around us, as it had in all our other winning games this season. We were unstoppable.

  I reached Delgado before anybody else. His face was a picture of excitement, as I’m sure mine was too. He pulled off his helmet, revealing the handsome jawline and glowing tan beneath. No doubt this would be the picture that accompanied all the articles later – this grinning, healthy imitation of a Greek god, his face a visual representation of the entire team’s success and elation.

  He pulled me in for an embrace, and as our other teammates reached us I felt his strong arm thumping against my back – pounded his shoulder myself in return. Beneath all that body armor, those broad shoulders had just carried us on to another victory.

  Back in the changing rooms, however, it seemed that our manager had seen a very different story to the one we were all experiencing.

  “Now, I know we’re all full of beans right now,” said Artie Bullion, voice rough with sarcasm, “but I’ve gotta say something before you all make a mess of your uniform pants. That last play,” he said, pointing at Diego, “should have landed in time.”

  “C’mon, man,” said Toby, bumping Diego’s shoulder with his own in a gesture of support. “We didn’t need it. The main thing was to keep the ball out of their hands, to make sure-”

  “I’ll be the judge,” said Artie, cutting him off. “I said I’ll be the judge of what we need, and what we need is a touchdown that actually counts for the scoreboard. Not a weak pass a few seconds too late.”

  Diego’s smile hadn’t faded, even as the rest of us began to succumb to the lower tone of the lecture. That was something I had always liked about him. No matter what criticism availed him – be it homophobic or professional – he still kept well-contained within himself, unaffected by other people’s negativity. It was a trait I was hoping to adopt in myself sometime or another. “Yeah, it sucked,” he agreed, his tone even. “I was hoping that it would land. I should have held more focus on scoring.”

  “Screw that,” said Harvey, another teammate of ours, shaking his head. “He had to evade. Play safe. Artie, you know damn well if he’d played it risky, you’d be giving him the opposite lecture right now.”

  “We didn’t need that last touchdown,” said Toby, who clearly agreed; his impression of Artie, guessing what he might say, was near-flawless. “You put the whole game at risk for glory.”

  “That’s enough,” said Artie. The harshness in his voice killed any further rising disagreement – including my own. “You don’t second-guess me, and you don’t talk back. You take notes, and you do as I tell you next time. Now, go and shower up. There’s gonna be press waiting, and you’re not gonna put a damn toe out of line.”

  We filed away, our group excitement killed off by his mood. I couldn’t help but feel that there was something dark and unpleasant in coach’s attack on Diego. Our other teammates seemed to feel it too. Even in their silence, I could feel their energy. They were bristling at the unfairness of it. Or maybe I was projecting. Either way, I pulled up next to Diego after we left the showers, clearing my throat quietly.

  “Hey,” I said. “I don’t want to start anything, but… I thought you did well today. I don’t know what stick is up his ass, but… just figured you should know that.”

  “Well, thanks.” Diego’s handsome face turned upwards into a warm smile. He was a media darling, so I knew the smile could probably be fake, but I didn’t think so. It had a sincerity to it that had me hook, line and sinker. The guy had charisma coming out of every pore in his skin. It was the kind of magnetism that I had never had. I had always been grateful for that. The press more or less left me alone, preferring to write about and connect with athletes that had bigger personalities. Who had something to say. Diego was clearly one of those people. I admired it, though—and even if I didn’t feel jealous of it, part of me wished that I could draw him in the same way that he drew me in. It was a skill I had never had. “I don’t know what’s up with him either. Not for sure. I could hazard a guess.”

  He gave me a wry look.

  “Yeah,� �� I admitted, after a pause. I kept my voice low, not wanting anybody to overhear. “I thought the same thing. I just… kind of hope it isn’t true.”

  “They’re everywhere,” he said, voice a little grim. “Homophobes. The world is moving in the right direction, but sometimes sport feels like it’s stuck in the 80s. I’m glad to be playing on a team where the others don’t watch me like a hawk in the dressing rooms.”

  “You had that before?”

  I knew homophobia existed in sports. It was obviously still an issue—but I didn’t know it was that blatant. I blinked, watching him not gravely.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You’d be surprised how bad it can get. I’ve been shut out of media events. Sent home from charity photo-shoots because I ‘don’t appeal’ to the demographic they’re trying to sell their calendar to. I mean… this is just some shirtless calendar to raise money for cancer.” He shrugged one shoulder. Clearly, this was an old wound. He wasn’t actively sore about it any longer, but there was discomfort there. “At least he lets me play.”

  “Well, he’d be an idiot if he didn’t.”

  We shared a smile, falling silent as we headed out in front of the cameras. These post-game conversations were a chore for me. It felt unnatural to comment on everything we’d just done on the field. Didn’t it speak for itself? But two feet in front of me, Diego was in his element. That broad, superhero smile of his was pearly-white and shining out at the cameras.

  Didn’t look as sincere as the one he’d shown to me.

  I got away with making only a few cursory comments, and spent the rest of the junket watching Diego. I had never really paid this much attention to him before, but hearing his story about the pervasiveness of homophobia in sport had kept my eyes trained in his direction. Just minutes ago, he had endured a very rude—and very public—shutdown from our coach, and he suspected that it was purely because of his sexuality. It wasn’t a foolish guess. And yet here he was, perfectly presentable and buoyant.

  How well would I handle rejection and judgment like that, I wondered? Definitely not with as much poise or grace. The man was a modern wonder. The longer I thought about it, the more proud I was to have him on my team, and not just because he was such an accomplished athlete.

  I caught him as we were heading back to our cars. The press had finally disappeared, and the energy of the day was beginning to run out. All any of us wanted to do now was relax, and yet here I was about to ask Diego for something entirely different. I felt strange about it, too. I felt like hearing him say ‘no’ would really mean something, even though it couldn’t possibly. I was just a teammate suggesting a post-game drink. Sure, I wanted to befriend the man a little better, but… nothing more significant than that.

  Right?

  “Hey,” I called out, just before he reached his car. He seemed surprised to see me approaching him, and pulled his hand away from the car door to wait for me. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”

  “Only home now,” he confirmed. “What’s up?”

  “Well,” I said, more awkward than I had been in years. There was no point in feeling this way. I just had to get the invitation out there. Why was it so hard? “I was just… thinking about what you told me earlier. I think it sucks that people treat you like that. I just wondered if you wanted to grab a few beers tonight—talk about something a little more cheerful. Wind down from the game. You know.”

  It felt like I was talking a lot, so I forced myself to shut up. I waited in agony for his reply. His eyes traced over me as though he was looking for something. If that was the case, he didn’t tell me what he’d been looking for. Instead, his smile just grew a fraction—his brow furrowed slightly, nice and warm.

  “Sure,” he said, nodding. “I’ll get changed and meet you out somewhere in… say, an hour or so?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great,” he said, pulling his car door open at last now. “I’ll text. See you in a short while?”

  Driving away, I could feel my pulse picking up. It felt like I’d just done something scary, though I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why I should feel that way. I decided it was just the emotion of winning the game that had my adrenaline up and pulsing through me, plus the frustration of coach’s behavior after the game. It was nothing more than that.

  After all, there was nothing else it could be.

  Right?

  Chapter Two

  Diego

  Connor Montana had always been an interesting figure to me. He was undoubtedly a handsome guy, and very reliable as a teammate. You could predict where he was going to be on the field, and you could be sure he’d arrive on time for training. I appreciated that in a colleague—but equally, he was kind of a mystery to me. I couldn’t understand why the media weren’t more interested in him. He had that enigmatic, romantic vibe to him. He didn’t share his entire life on Instagram.

  Wasn’t that the kind of person people would want to know more about?

  Still, he seemed to exist kind of under the radar. He kept to himself, and he worked hard, and I really appreciated that. I liked it. I respected it.

  And I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t easy on the eyes.

  All these things considered, and the fact that Connor mostly kept himself to himself, I was surprised when he invited me out for drinks after the game. There was something kind of unusual in his tone when he asked me, as though he was nervous. Was he trying to make up for coach’s homophobia? Did he feel guilty? If so, it was misplaced. Clearly, he had nothing to do with that asshole’s viewpoint. He’d already communicated his support.

  No—I felt like there was something else entirely behind his anxiousness when he asked. Maybe that was wishful thinking. After all, there was really only one other thing that it could be. Only one other thing that stuck out as an option.

  I mean. He wasn’t openly gay. But I’d never seen him with a woman, either.

  I had this debate in mind as I got ready at home. Would it be wrong of me to flirt with him, and try to tease out the truth? Should I just leave him to come to his own conclusions? Or maybe he was the kind of ‘straight’ boy who needed a little encouragement to come out of his shell and explore his sexuality in a way he should have done years ago. I’d seen it plenty of times before.

  I wasn’t sure. I’d have to assess the situation more when I got there. It was still entirely possible that he was just trying to be friendly. That would be nice, too. I’d made good friends with Toby Mendez already. It would’ve been difficult not to, as news organizations pushed us together and encouraged us to hang out… or more. Honestly, it had been a long time since I’d felt anything romantic for anybody else.

  There was just so much pressure as an athlete that potential partners could never seem to understand. In the end, to them, it was always just a game. On top of that, they weren’t prepared for the barrage of media attention they received for dating me.

  I couldn’t blame them for that, of course. Few people would be able to handle that.

  Maybe even Connor wouldn’t. But that was just a hypothetical anyway.

  I made my way to the bar we’d agreed on over text, hair freshly styled. I caught sight of myself in the car window as I took my Uber downtown. It was stupid to try and look my best tonight. In all likelihood, Connor really wasn’t thinking of me as anything but a friend, and I was setting myself up for disappointment. Still, I liked to think I looked good enough to turn a straight boy, if that was a possible thing.

  The car pulled up outside the bar, and I climbed out to an empty street. Shame that there was every chance it’d be crammed with photographers by the time I left. I felt bad for the people around me just trying to go about their daily lives sometimes. I caused the kind of choke-hold and foot traffic that made people late for work, and made people feel crowd-claustrophobic. It didn’t feel good.

  Still, I had managed to evade being spotted on my way into the bar. As chance would have it, Connor was already waiting. His close-cut blond hair looked much tidier than it had after practice, swept back neatly away from his angular and handsome face. He had a nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice, with a charming crease in the middle of it, and dark green eyes straight out of a storybook.

 

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