Chapter Four #2
Just thought it'd be good to hang out. Maybe another yoga session if my shoulder's up for it. I hesitated, then sent another message. No pressure if you're swamped with your own stuff.
Nah, I could use a break from the canvas. Give me an hour to clean up?
Yeah. That works.
I set the phone down, surprised by the anticipation building in my chest. This was supposed to be simple: physical release, therapeutic stretching, nothing complicated.
But somewhere between yesterday's session and tonight, something had shifted.
I actually wanted to see him, not just use him to feel better.
The realization should have worried me more than it did.
I headed into the bathroom to prep for Dusty's visit. I showered again, cleaned myself out, and then put on the shoulder brace, trying to ignore the way my hands shook as I adjusted the straps. The pain was manageable, but barely. I reached for the pill bottle, then stopped.
I'd already taken three today. That was more than usual. But fuck it, I was on vacation. And if I was going to spend the evening with Dusty, I wanted to be present for it, not distracted by pain.
The knock came at eight sharp. Dusty stood in my doorway wearing loose linen pants and a faded t-shirt, a small bag slung over his shoulder. Even in the soft hallway lighting, he looked good, all lean muscle and easy confidence.
“Ready for some real healing?” he asked, stepping into my suite.
“Depends on your definition of healing.”
He set his bag down and pulled out a small wooden box, opening it to reveal a perfectly rolled joint. “Thought we could start with this. Weed's amazing for pain. Helps your muscles relax without shutting everything down.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You're prescribing weed now?”
“Just offering another option, man.” His tone was easy, but his blue eyes were serious. “Pain pills work, but they're not the only way through this.”
Fair point. I'd been going through my Percocet faster than I should, and I knew it. “Alright. Let's give it a shot.”
We settled on the couch, and he lit the joint, taking a long drag before passing it to me.
The smoke was smooth, earthy, and within minutes the tension in my shoulders started to ease.
Not the numb disconnect of the pills, but a gentle loosening, like someone had turned down the volume on my nervous system.
“How's that feel?” Dusty asked.
“Different. Good different.”
“Yeah?” He smiled, taking another hit. “That's the thing with weed. Works with your body instead of against it. You still feel stuff, it just doesn't hurt as bad.”
We passed the joint back and forth, the conversation flowing easier than it should have between a yoga instructor and his client.
He told me about growing up in Big Bend, about his brothers and their adventure business.
I told him about Arizona State, about the pressure of being a Heisman finalist, about the way football had shaped every choice I'd made since I was twelve.
“You miss it?” he asked.
“Every day. But I don't miss what it cost me.” I leaned back against the cushions, my body relaxed in a way it hadn't been in weeks. “My marriage, my privacy, my shoulder. All sacrifices for the game.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm here, smoking weed with a hot yoga instructor and trying to figure out what comes next.”
His laugh was warm. “Could be worse ways to spend your time.”
“Could be better too.”
The words hung between us, loaded with meaning. He set the joint in the ashtray and turned to face me, his hand coming to rest on my thigh.
“You want better?”
“Yeah. I do.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that tasted like smoke and promise.
My good hand came up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened, heat building between us, and something in my chest unlocked.
Not just desire, though there was plenty of that. Something deeper, more dangerous.
Connection.
“Bedroom?” he asked against my mouth.
“Yeah.”
We stumbled toward the bed, shedding clothes along the way. His hands were everywhere—my chest, my hips, my ass—but always careful around my injured shoulder. The care in his touch made my throat tight.
When had someone last touched me like I mattered?
He pushed me down onto the bed, following me down with his body. The weight of him was good, grounding. I arched up into him, needing more contact, more friction, more of whatever this was.
“Easy,” he murmured against my neck. “We've got time.”
But I didn't want easy. I wanted to feel something other than pain and loss and the fear that I'd never be whole again. I pulled him closer, kissing him hard enough to bruise, my good hand gripping his hip.
He understood. He always seemed to understand. His mouth moved down my body, kissing and licking and nipping at sensitive skin. When he reached my cock, he looked up at me with those blue eyes, asking permission without words.
“Please,” I said, the word coming out rough.
He took me into his mouth, hot and wet and slow.
It wasn't rushed or performative. It was worship.
His tongue swirled, the suction was intense, and my good hand fisted in his long blond hair, not to guide him, but just to hold on.
He hummed, a low thrum of appreciation that vibrated straight to my core.
The sound, the feeling of him taking me so completely, was undoing me.
“Dusty,” I gasped, my hips starting to buck.
He pulled off, his lips slick and his blue eyes dark with want. “You taste like us,” he sighed. “Like the weed and you and me.” He looked down at my cock, glistening from his mouth. “So good.”
Then he was back on me, taking me deeper this time, his throat working as he swallowed me down. The sight of it, the raw intimacy of it, was more potent than any pill. This was real. This was a feeling I couldn't numb. The pleasure coiled in my gut, hot and tight, a dam about to break.
“I'm—oh fuck,” I choked out, a warning and a plea.
His pace quickened, his hand stroking the base of my shaft in time with the movement of his head. I was losing control, lost in the heat and the friction and the overwhelming sensation of being wanted this completely.
My orgasm hit me like a lightning strike. A cry was ripped from my throat as I came, my body convulsing. I emptied myself into his mouth, my hand grasping at his hair as he took all of it, every drop, not stopping until I was finished.
He stayed there for a moment, then rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He came back from the bathroom with a warm towel and cleaned me off, his touch just as careful and reverent as before.
Afterward, he pulled me against his side on the couch. I fit against him like I belonged there, my head on his shoulder, his arm around my waist.
“Can I ask you something now?” Dusty said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“How many pills did you take today?”
The question cut through the post-orgasmic haze like a blade. “The usual amount.”
“Cord.”
“Fine. Three.” The lie came out before I could stop it, shaving one off the real number. “But I was active. Swimming, walking around… the doctor said as needed.”
“The doctor said four to six hours as needed. When did you take the last one?”
Heat rose in my face. “Before you got here. My shoulder was acting up.”
“That was maybe an hour ago. When was the one before that?”
“I don't know. Afternoon sometime.”
Dusty's expression grew serious. “Can I see the bottle?”
I wanted to refuse, but something in his voice made me get up and retrieve it from the bathroom. He read the label carefully, then counted the two remaining pills.
“How long have you had this prescription?”
“A week, maybe?”
“Cord, you should have at least ten pills left if you've been taking them as prescribed.”
I felt my defenses rise. “Look, I'm dealing with a lot of pain right now—”
“I know, man. But this isn't helping.” He set the bottle on the coffee table between us. “What matters is you're building up a tolerance. Taking them closer together, making up reasons for extra doses.”
“It's not like that.”
“Isn't it?”
The question hung in the air like an accusation. Part of me wanted to argue, to explain that I wasn't some addict looking for a high. I was an injured athlete managing legitimate pain. But another part of me, the part that had been watching my own behavior, knew he wasn't entirely wrong.
“So what are you suggesting?” I asked.
“Other stuff that actually helps. Meditation, yoga, massage. Things that work with your body's healing instead of just covering it up.”
“And if those don't work?”
“Then we figure something else out. But Cord...” He leaned forward, his expression serious. “What you're doing now? It's not sustainable, man. Those pills aren't fixing anything. They're just making it easier to ignore the real problem.”
“Which is?”
“You're grieving, man. Your career, your marriage, who you thought you were. That's heavy stuff. You gotta process it, not numb it out.”
I wanted to argue with him, but the marijuana and the emotional exhaustion from our session had left me too drained for a fight. Instead, I found myself nodding.
“Okay,” I said. “We'll try it your way.”
“Cool.” He stood, gathering his things. “See you tomorrow. And hey. Try to get through tonight without another pill. If the pain gets bad, just call me.”
After he left, I sat alone on my couch, staring at the pill bottle. Four pills today. When had that become normal? When had I started justifying extra doses and measuring time between pills like some kind of optimization strategy?
I thought about what Dusty had said, about grieving, about processing instead of numbing.
The idea of feeling everything I'd been avoiding made my chest tight with anxiety.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe the panic I'd been carrying around was partly withdrawal, partly genuine emotion I'd been too afraid to face.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ruben: Pittsburg wants to talk back-up QB job if Broncos cut you. Also ESPN wants interview about comeback timeline. Can you call tomorrow?
I stared at the message for a long time, then set the phone aside.
If the pain gets too bad, call me instead.
My fingers itched to make that call, to see if he wanted to just come over and sleep next to me, let me return the favor with an early morning blow job.
But neither of us needed that right now.
Dusty was getting ready to leave this place for a new opportunity, and I needed to figure out my next step so I could give Ruben a call.
Relationships are just another form of pain I don't need right now, I told myself.
This, what was happening with Dusty and me was therapy and friendship, nothing more.
Because caring meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant the possibility of loss.
I'd already lost my career, my marriage, my sense of who I was supposed to be.
I couldn't afford to lose anything else.