Chapter 5 #2
If only it hadn’t been Marlon’s fault we were 2-0 down.
I might have been able to bear it, otherwise, but knowing how heavy the score must be on his shoulders made everything a million times worse.
If I felt like crying, then what was it like for him?
And also, no. I’m being unfair. It was not Marlon’s fault.
Sure, the Italians scored via his side of the field—twice—but that’s because they figured out he was a 21-year-old kid was getting left alone by his more seasoned colleagues and they could bulldoze past him.
It was his first bloody Champions League quarter-final. They should have helped him, not left him out to dry.
With a deep sigh, I walk over to the railing and look out over the city, dark with rain and bright with lights.
I am, literally, on top of the world. Yet the thought of Marlon and his misery churns in my stomach and I can’t quite conjure up the joy I should be feeling.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe it’s raining on my parade, ha, ha.
My foot bumps into something soft and I look down.
A bundle of clothes is piled up next to me.
A bundle of clothes that look conspicuously like Westfield FC team gear.
I squat down and now I can make out a pale face hidden underneath the hoody, usually blond hair dark with rain, plastered to his forehead.
My hearts jumps involuntarily. “You’re catching your death out here in the cold,” I say and want to punch myself immediately after. Did I not just mentally scoff at coach for saying something like that?
Marlon shrugs and looks away. He’s sat on the tiled floor, leaning against the glass panel of the railing, soaked from top to bottom.
Misery personified. I try not to look at his chest, where he’s left his jacket open and his shirt is clinging to his skin because now is not the moment, Freddie, get a grip.
“How long have you been out here?” I crouch down next to him and push some of his wet hair out of his face so I can look him in the eyes.
He snorts and pulls his head away. “Who cares.”
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, I probably shouldn’t be here. There’s probably nobody on the team less capable of figuring out a situation like that. I smile cautiously, though he’s not looking at me anyway. “I care.”
“Whatever.” Bitterness laces Marlon’s voice and it hurts. “Fuck off.”
Right, okay. This isn’t going great, but also, I can be a stubborn bastard if I want to, so we’ll see who’ll win this.
I settle down next to him and shiver as cold water continues to pound my skin.
“No.” After all, it’s not the first time someone has told me fuck off.
If I had listened to them, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Marlons sighs and stays quiet. I want to go back inside and warm up but I also really don’t want to leave Marlon here. So I wait.
After another minute of silence, I can’t stand it anymore. “Okay, look,” I say. “You fucked up today.”
Marlon blows a raspberry. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“No, oh my god, shut up. What I’m trying to say is, so what? You got caught out a couple times, sure. But the rest of us left you hanging. We all know you’re still figuring it out. It was a shit performance by everyone, but we got through it. And now we’re in the semis.”
“Yep, and no thanks to me.”
I kind of wish the bitterness would crawl back into his voice, because this utter dejection is one thousand times worse. I’ve never seen my friend like this. Never heard this kind of sadness.
I am out of my depth here. No idea what I can do. I stare at Marlon’s face, the hopelessness in his eyes, the corners of his mouth pointing downward, and with no conscious thought or decision I lean forward and kiss his nose, where a big raindrop has been slowly rolling down.
Marlon shoves me away. “God, fuck off, honestly. I don’t need your pity.”
It’s not pity, but he’s so deep in his sorrow, he wouldn’t believe me, no matter what I say. So I do what I do best and say something stupid. “Do you need my cock?”
It’s silent between us for a moment and then Marlon huffs. “You’re unbelievable, mate, you know that?”
So … that’s not a no. I scramble to get up and hold my hand out to him. “Come on, you’ve drowned yourself enough. Both in self-pity and literally.” I squint up at the sky and a raindrop lands right in my eye. Yup, I’m done with this. “Let me cheer you up.”
Marlon looks up at me, not saying a word. Eventually, he sighs and lets me pull him to his feet. “Sure, yeah. Why not. Can’t get any worse. And maybe you’ll shut up for five minutes.”
Wow. We love a vote of confidence. This is super encouraging. But I’m not going to complain because he’s said yes—even though in the most insulting way possible—to having sex again and I’m not going to destroy that by thinking too much. When has thinking ever helped with anything?
And then, thank god, the elevator pings and the doors open. Let’s get out of here and on to more fun stuff.
I escort Marlon to his room, not because he needs it, but because I need it.
Holding him close to me helps soothe my nerves.
Feeling his strength reassures me this is a phase that will pass.
A few colleagues pass us by but nobody questions anything.
We all know what a shit game Marlon had, and that we’re close.
Our dripping clothes probably tell the rest of the story and so we’re unbothered.
By others, I mean. I am, in fact, pretty bothered.
It’s weird, because getting horny while Marlon is so down does not sit right and the guilt almost outweighs the lust.
Almost.
Because I’m twenty-one and there’s a gorgeous man in my arms and I’m confident enough to think I can make him forget about all that happened tonight.
A small part of me rings loud alarm bells at what I’m about to do. Somewhere in my brain, a tiny voice keeps shouting what a terrible idea this is. How long it took me to get over our last time. It probably won’t be any easier now.
But I don’t care. I know I’m probably hurting myself but there’s no way I would pass up an opportunity to get close to Marlon again. I can’t resist him.
And so, when the door closes behind us, I lose no time and push him against the hard wooden surface. Press myself against him. Kiss him.
God, that mouth.
All the memories I’ve tried so hard to ignore for the past four months come flooding back. Like an avalanche of mental porn. I moan into the kiss.
It’s different from last time, though. Marlon is different. I don’t know if it’s his terrible mood or the time that has passed or something else, but gone is the shy, self-conscious guy from December. This Marlon is fierce, almost combative, like the kiss is a fight and he wants to win it.
Not what I expected at all—I thought I’d have to cheer him up, be gentle, careful, take care of him.
And while that would have been amazing and the thought alone makes my heart flutter—this is…
incredible. Hotter than any kiss has a right to be.
A small part of me wonders why kissing other people has never felt like this.
I’m glad he’s angry. Anger is so much better than the sorrow from earlier. Anger is productive. And it can lead to very hot sex.
Our bodies stick together, wet clothes stuck between us, and Marlon is shaking. I’m freezing, too. “We need,” I gasp into the kiss eventually, “to get,” another kiss because I can’t get enough, “out of these clothes.”
Marlon pushes me away like we’re in a fight and I stumble briefly. Fuck this is hot. I love the dark look on Marlon’s face, so unlike his usual calm self. “Are you worried I’ll get sick? Or are you this desperate to see me naked?”
I laugh, surprised, then crowd him back against the door. “Shut up.” This is new, and it’s awesome. Marlon seems so much more secure in himself. What he does, what he wants. I kiss him again, hungrily, and wedge my thigh between his legs.
Marlon moans into my mouth, chasing the friction of my touch, then tugs at the hem of my shirt.
Unlike him, I’m still in formal wear, white shirt, black suit trousers.
It clings to me and provides no warmth at all.
“Go on then,” Marlon hisses at me when he can’t pull the shirt out of the trousers, and I take a step back.
I must look like Bambi on the ice as I scramble to get the fabric off me, fumbling with the shirt buttons, but at last I manage to pull it off me, standing in front of Marlon with only socks and briefs on.
He eyes me up and down. “Muscle still not sticking to you, huh?” I’d be offended if I couldn’t see the lust so clearly in his eyes as he drinks me in.
“Bet it’s enough to hold you down on the bed,” I retort. My cock pulses at the thought.
Marlon barks a laugh, then nods. He’s a lot more elegant than me in removing his own clothes, though to be fair, he doesn’t have any buttons to deal with. And yeah, yeah, fine, he’s a lot more muscular than me. Whatever.
I pretend not to stare at him as he removes his boxer briefs and stands in front of me, fully naked, his cock half erect.
The bulk is necessary to intimidate and ultimately stop opponents on the field, but the muscles aren’t what turn me on.
I’m usually into more androgynous types—in both women and men—but Marlon defies that.
It’s because he’s him. He looks like a baddie and is actually a softie and I can’t get enough of him.
“So.” Marlon eventually breaks the silence and struts toward me; there’s no other word for it.
Fuck me, he’s sexy. “You promised a distraction from my misery?” He trails a finger down my chest, all the way to my belly button.
“How about you keep that promise?” He leans in, softly bites my lower lip, then walks past me toward the bed.