Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Micah
Earlier
I tug at the jersey I'm wearing, the fabric annoying me to no end. Fucking polyester.
It's honestly one of the worst fabrics in existence. Why can't they just make everything in cotton? Or satin? Or silk? Anything but this atrociously itchy mess.
"Stop tugging at it. You're only making it worse," Danny says beside me as we make our way to the seats Monty chose. "And maybe take a look around. You fit right in. You can't show up in business wear to a football game."
I scoff as I sidestep a shirtless man covered in blue paint. He's chugging beer at the insistence of a growing crowd of spectators.
While part of me is amused by the sight, another part is decidedly bothered by his nakedness and choice of makeshift attire. Does he not understand how disturbing his appearance is to someone who knows nothing about football game etiquette?
Maybe this is why Monty insists on me coming.
He's always harping on about my ineptitude for the sport. Granted, I've been busy building up my business since graduating. Although… he's supported me despite his lack of interest in event planning.
Ugh. I'm a horrible brother.
I resolve then and there to give this my best shot. Monty doesn't deserve a sibling who couldn't give two shits less about his job. Especially not when he's pretty talented at it.
Or so Danny says.
He's been giving me a rundown of the basics I needed to know before today's game. He didn't want me looking completely lost all four quarters.
Ha! Look at me recalling details.
We finally make our way to the row we're supposed to be in. It's only then I truly realize how much my brother must have wanted me here. We're seated in the first available row, directly behind one of the benches. There's no one down there right now, but from all the blue and white, I can tell this is the home side of the stadium.
"Holy shit! We're so close! Your brother is the best. Come on!" Danny drags me down the aisle past other people until we reach the last two empty seats. I excuse both of us along the way since my friend is too excited to have manners.
Silly Danny.
"Whew," I say as I drop into the seat. My eyes widen as I take in the size of everything before me. The green grass goes on and on in both directions. The number of fans in the stands is staggering, with waves of blue and white blending together. The screens on each end of the field play ads and clips of the players as music blasts from unseen speakers.
It's utter chaos.
And I'm kind of liking it.
Just a little bit though. It's not something I'd want to do all the time.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Danny pokes me on the shoulder. "Can't believe you've never been. You're in for a fun experience."
I shake my head as a soft voice asks from his other side, "You're a virgin?!"
Danny leans back, giving me a full view of the person beside him. Dark brown hair, pale skin, and wide eyes greet us back.
"I… I didn't mean that."
"I'm not sure I know what to say," I admit. "Do you mean it in the sense that this is my first game? If so, then yes, I am. Although I didn't think people use that term for stuff like this."
A young man with deep brown skin leans around the blushing guy. "Ever since his brother-in-law kept telling him he was ‘popping his cherry' by doing something new, the phrases and stuff get mixed up in his head. Please forgive him. I'm Raymond."
"No worries." I wave at him. "I'm Micah. This is my friend Danny."
Danny nods, his gaze wide. "You're Finn Bellport!"
The blushing guy turns pale. "How… how did you know that?"
"Maybe because your husband is a local celebrity that's all over the tv? And didn't he propose on tv during the Super Bowl?" Raymond squeezes his friend in a tight hug. "Breathe," he whispers.
I can only tell he does so because I read his lips. It's far too loud to know otherwise.
Finn closes his eyes, then reopens them to give me a shaky smile. "Sorry about that. I've got some anxiety. It catches me off guard sometimes."
"I'm not bothered at all. Hell, I'd be bothered too if some guy just knew my name out of the blue."
Danny's shoulders drop. He's been uncharacteristically quiet since calling out Finn's identity.
"Sorry about that. I'm a huge football fan and you're — well, you're you. I can't believe I'm beside you about to watch your husband play. It's like Christmas came early!"
We all laugh at the cheery statement. While we've still got to make it through Thanksgiving, it's obvious this group prefers the holiday that follows.
"I can't wait for Christmas!" Finn bounces in his seat. "It's always so special for us because it's really when Da- Bellamy and I took off."
My ears perk up at the slip of his words. Could he have been about to say…?
No. Surely, not.
"Same here! Aries and I always joke about how the men on his team fall in love during the holidays. They have bets going on who it will be this year," Raymond adds.
I give Danny a quizzical look. He grins and tells me, "Everyone who keeps up with the team knows there is an unspoken coincidence revolving around Christmas for the guys. It's two for two right now, hence the betting."
He turns to the other two.
"Are outsiders allowed to bet? I'd love to throw something into the pot if the buy-in isn't too big."
Finn giggles as Raymond shrugs. "No clue. I overheard Monty talking about it to Bell after practice."
An uproar from the crowd draws our attention away. The screens light up with image after image of the team as "All I Do is Win" by DJ Khaled blares over the speakers.
It's all fanfare, I tell myself. Don't get sucked into the hype.
The thought lasts all of two seconds until the screen pans to a group of players in full gear standing at the edge of an entryway. Maybe a tunnel or something? I can't really tell.
"Get ready," Danny says, his fists pumping in the air. "Let's goooooooo!"
Fans scream louder than I thought possible as the men begin to run. Wow.
I might get the appeal now.
No, wait.
Yeah, I get it.
Larger-than-life figures emerge from wherever they were tucked away, their bodies coiled and eager for the game ahead. They run, jump, and lift their helmets as if they're Spartans heading into battle. Some have face paint on, while others have guards in their mouth that make them look like unruly monsters in need of being tamed.
I'm captivated by the entire production.
As they make their way to the benches in front of us, I can't help but let myself evaluate each player one by one. I take in their size, the confidence of their stance, and their jersey numbers. Cataloguing them is a temporary thing. There's no chance I'll remember names. Some simple word association will help me though.
Halfway through the group, I come across one person who stands out from the rest. It's not because he's decidedly all that different from the others. More like something about him draws my attention in a way I can't explain.
While watching him, I take note of his number 88 and the level of confidence oozing from his body. This man has zero doubt in his abilities today. He holds himself as if he's already won.
I'm deeply attracted to it, oddly enough.
As I watch, he sidles up to a man in headphones. They discuss something back and forth, the man obviously pleased by whatever it is due to the size of his smile.
It bothers me more than it should how he grins at the other man. I don't want anyone that close to him. They should move apart. Create space.
The possessiveness rises up out of nowhere. It takes me a long minute to process the emotions and to dispel them.
What is wrong with me? I never care about people like this. Especially not people who I don't know and will likely never get to know.
You could if you wanted to.
I force myself to look away from the object of my obsession to find the reason I'm here today. When I eventually find Monty, his eyes are already on me. Well, in my direction anyway. I smile and wave at him to break whatever trance he's under.
The movement stirs him to reply. He laughs, waving back and pointing at me, then touching his thumb and pointer finger in the universal sign asking if I'm ok.
Shrugging, I make my eyes big and point around me. His response is to shake his head before turning to someone who likely called his name. I can't tell since music is still blaring in the stadium.
After a number of pre-game rituals that include the pledge, someone singing, and introductions, we finally get the playing portion underway. One coin flip later, the Bulldogs get to start off the game. The next few minutes completely blow my mind.
Danny's descriptions did not do much to relay the intensity of the sport. I don't recall high school and college football being like this for Monty. Then again, I didn't really go to those games either. I'd visit practice if he needed something, though I never stuck around.
At my shock, Danny nods. "Yeah, they can be intense. Good news is that they train for this stuff. We'd be injured if we tried to play at that level, but this is literally their job. Don't fret."
Easy for him to say. He's used to the carnage.
It's only when the ball lands in Monty's arms and he starts running that some of my trepidation eases. I watch his figure cut down the field with ease. He's nearly a blur of motion before chaos erupts.
"Touchdown, Bulldogs!!!"
The crowd roars its happiness, making the stands shake from the force. I watch my brother jump and laugh with his teammates as they celebrate the victory.
After putting points on the board, things shift. The other team gets the ball, and I'm nervous for completely different reasons.
"Who is number 88? What's his position?" I ask Danny as we wait for the referees to settle a call over some yellow flag being thrown. I didn't see anyone else having flags, so maybe it's just a thing for them. It's all still too new to understand.
Danny turns a curious look my way. "That's Jett Fawkes. He's a defensive tackle."
"Defensive tackle?"
"Yep. It's his job to protect our goal. He's trying to get past the offensive line of the other team to take down whoever has the ball. Or sometimes, who they think will have the ball."
I hum, my brain working to process the information in real time.
"So he gets hurt a lot?"
For some reason, the notion makes me feel queasy. I don't want Jett to get hurt. It's the absolute last thing I want.
Finn takes the chance to join in the conversation. "Actually, Jett's probably least likely to get hurt. He's a literal genius. Dad-Bellamy says he's always able to predict what will happen before anyone else. His brain is magic."
There it is again.
This time he made it to Dad before catching himself.
I take in Finn's appearance once more while he turns back to face the game. He's a slight guy, likely several years younger than me. His clothes are simple enough to blend in, though I notice a few things that could be construed in other ways like the colorful socks sticking out under his pants and the small bear tucked inside his jacket. At first glance, you'd think nothing of it, or maybe wouldn't see it at all.
But together with the slip of the tongue he keeps tossing out, I can piece the fragments into a picture.
Bellamy Bellport is Finn's Daddy.
They're kinky.
Which means Raymond is probably kinky too. There's not a rule to it, but he's also got some flair that screams boy/little to someone who knows the lifestyle.
And I sure as hell know it. I've spent the last eight years wishing I had time to get back to the club scene to find someone to dote on. My heart aches for a boy of my own, yet I haven't allowed myself to go there.
It's a mix of issues, really. Some of it is actually because I work too much. Being self-employed means I don't take the proper amount of time off.
Then there's the fact that I'm a small, lean guy. People see me in the kink world and assume I'm the boy/little when that's so far off the mark.
I'm a Daddy through and through.
You don't have to be a certain size or look a certain way to fit into the mold, yet I still feel judged anytime someone learns more about what I enjoy — not that many have gained that intel. I keep my kink connections far away from work and family.
In fact, the last time I went out was nearly… damn. It was over five years ago.
Far too long for me to be locking myself away in my work cave.
I'm so lost in my thoughts; I don't notice the moment the other team fumbles the ball and gives us possession. Thankfully, the large screen down the field replays the moment for me.
Lo and behold, it's Jett Fawkes who makes the magic happen. I watch his large body move roughly past the blockade in front of him before he knocks out the man holding the ball. After one of his teammates grabs the ball, he's back upright and moving as if the impressive play didn't even take the wind out of him.
Who are you, Jett Fawkes? And why do you interest me so much?