Goin’ Down In Four Horse Crossing
© 2017
by
Jonathan Longhorn
Copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.
Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.
Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie being watched by characters in several of my stories in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, ‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.
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Chapter 1
Long, powerful fingers snaked through sun-kissed bronze hair—alternately scrubbing vigorously and then gently massaging. Occasionally, the fingers stopped their duties and moved to windshield-wipe at errant streams of shampoo heading for his eyes before returning to scalp scrubbing and massaging.
These tender moves seemed in stark contrast to the fact that these were the same fingers that rocketed a baseball at over 100 miles (161 km) per hour into a catcher’s mitt. The same power that hurled bombs 70 yards (64 meters) into the outstretched hands or the “bread basket” of any one of his impressive members in the receiver corps; a corps that was always there, waiting hungrily to catch ‘n carry the ball into the end zone.
Score!
He was that good.
Actually, even he had to admit that he was magnificent out on the field.
He wished he didn’t hate it so much. The quarterback slot, anyway. He really hated being the quarterback. He so preferred pitching or center field or third base. Football? He’d never really thought much about it because he was so passionate about baseball—but—if he ‘had’ to think about it, he’d rather take a wide receiver or tight end slot. But, after Aaron Drummond’s family disappeared practically overnight, nobody else had stepped up.
Until Coach Brookshire had come into the picture. He had been driving down the road alongside their farm before the start of last season. Brookshire saw him out in one of the fields, throwing baseballs. Nine tires were strung 3-on-3-on-3 and hung from a set of poles. From inside the cab of his truck—A/C blowing full-force—the new coach could almost hear the lightning crack from the kid’s powerful arm … he could almost hear the baseball screeching through the air … he could almost hear the ‘whoosh’ as the ball sailed through the given tire’s center core … hear the ‘thud’ and ‘clomp’ of the ball hitting neatly stacked bales of hay beyond the tires and then falling to the ground below.
Brookshire slammed on the brakes, leaving a swirling storm of dust and gravel as the truck lurched to a stop. He sat there in his pickup for several ‘throws’—his eyes never wavering, his mind calculating … visions of a State Trophy forming in his mind’s eye.
“Holy fuck.”
The kid was stripped down to boots and jeans—his chest and shoulders, abs and arms glistening as rivers of sweat poured down—a cowboy hat rested on the front driver side wheel well of a tractor that had seen better days. The cowboy hat now momentarily sent to the dugout for the baseball cap that clung to the kid’s head, and all topped off with a pair of Aviators.
The balls continued to rocket through the tire targets.
Lightning bolt. Swoosh. Thunk.
Lightning bolt. Swoosh. Thunk.
Lightning bolt….
The man studied the teenager like he would study a racehorse, a prized bull, a $250,000 sports car. Every movement. Every muscle. Every wind-up. Every follow-thru. Every delivery.
Oh fuck yeah! Who the hell are you?
Brookshire had to know. No question. No doubt. He gunned the engine and yanked at the steering wheel. The truck careened forward and shot into the open field.
The sweat dripping young gun turned and studied the source of a sudden commotion that was shattering the usual silence that permeated the area this far from any of the small towns—not even that old tractor was sputtering, popping and pinging at the moment. Which said a lot. That tractor made so many noises of its own accord that more than one observer had commented that it might be demon possessed.
As the truck jostled and roared and lurched through the field, the kid lifted the baseball cap and forearm’d the sweat from his forehead and then jerked his head back as he replaced the cap. He couldn’t help but shake his head at the sight of the yet to be ID’d driver bouncing and swaying in the cab of the truck as it continued on its path toward him.
The kid shook his head as he considered that just one truck tire slipping into one of the furrows at the wrong moment at that rate of speed and the truck would be rolling over rather than careening recklessly through the dirt.
“Moron.”
Thankfully, they had just harvested that particular field because the next thing he knew, a 4x4 extended cab pickup was sailing through the dirt and remnants of the harvested crops toward him. The truck slid to a stop, sending fresh tilled dirt flying—one particularly talented clod sailing right at the kid and landing a foot from him … bouncing and rolling until it shattered against the toe of his left boot.
Thump.
Snort.
He could just see the headlines in the Bent Horn County Gazette now….
Maniac driver decapitates teen farmboy with flying dirt clod….
The door sailed open. The driver jumped out and stood still for a moment until the dust cloud drifted away and then turned to reach into the bed of the truck. He came away with a canvas bag. He clutched the bag in his arms and began his march toward the kid like a bull charging a matador.
The man stopped five feet short and studied the kid closely. Holy fuck he was built like a granite god! Holy fuck he was cute as fuck. No, handsome as fuck. He had left ‘cute’ a few years back and had gone straight to drop dead gorgeous. He shifted his focus to the tires, the hay bales, the dozens of baseballs that littered the ground. He shifted his attention back to the kid.
“Please tell me you can throw a football like that,” the man had pled.
“Um…. Who…?”
The canvas bag was upended and a dozen footballs spilled out at his feet. Then the man was peeling out of his shirt and preparing to run a random pattern.
The teenager’s eyes roamed over the man’s body—a strong-jawed, Romanesque face of unquestioned handsomeness was topped by jet black hair and sparkling green eyes; he had broad shoulders and a chest with the lightest dusting of hair that were joined by incredibly cut abs and a ‘V’ that dipped down into the back of his waistband. The dude had a butt that looked like it was sculpted from the highest density slabs of granite on the planet.
He swallowed hard. His throat bobbed like a buoy in the rising waves of an upcoming storm. He swallowed again as the man turned to face him full on. Dime-sized rock hard nipples, those abs, a trail that dripped into the front of that waistband, and—a bulge. An enormous bulge.
In that moment, there was no way that he could explain why he was so into checking out this man’s body, or—for that matter, the resultant reactions taking place in his own body. But, for the life of him, he could not stop drinking in the sight before him. This total stranger was beautiful and he could not get enough of studying him. His hungered gaze was suddenly interrupted by the man’s velvet smooth voice.
“Show me.”
“Um … who…?”
“Chase Brookshire,” the man said as he extended a hand. Taken. Shaken.
“Brandon. Brandon Gilchriest.”
“I’m the new head coach over at the old high school. You go to Coyote Run, right? Okay, show me what you’ve got, Brandon … Brandon Gilchriest.”
“But, I don’t play foo….”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the coach had said, flashing a blinding smile that seemed to compete with the brilliance of the sun. “Throw the balls, Stud.”
That smile. Holy shit that smile. It seemed to be attached to invisible vice grips that took possession of the teen’s balls and produced a huge knot in his gut.
What the hell?
Brandon grabbed a water bottle from the ice chest he had sitting beside the old tractor and swigged. He swigged again. And, again. He swallowed dust and possibly a few remnants of the last plowed crops. Fuck. He was captivated by this man. Entranced. Why? He had no idea on Earth. But right now? He’d do anything for this Chase Brookshire. He swallowed again as he reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
“Yes, Sir.”
Twenty yards. Forty yards. Fifty yards. Seventy….
“Good! Great! That’s my man!” the man shouted from across the field. “Now pull out the guns and show me what you’ve really got!”
Brandon smirked and tossed a quick nod. Okay. The man asked for it.
A nod from the man, and—it began.
He stepped back to show him eighty yards wasn’t out of the question, to be honest. He paused. He focused on his target. That face. That hair. That body. Holy shit, that body. He licked his lips as he studied every muscle group … every ripple and bulge … everywhere.
Chase Brookshire?
His eyes narrowed and he pumped his right knee. Immediately the man took off. He pumped the ball once. He pumped it twice.
“Chase Brookshire?”
The man kept running. The mental link ‘locked’.
The guy wanted to see the guns? He wanted him to pull out the cannon? Okay. He’d give him the cannon. His arm cocked and exploded; the bomb was hurtling through the air in a perfect, arcing spiral. The man had to kick it into overdrive to try to haul it in.
“Holy fuck,” he said with a sudden glow of admiration and awe. “Chase Brookshire? They hired Chase ‘Chaz’ Brookshire?”
The ball sailed 80 yards with the same result. It feathered into the man’s outstretched hands.
“Holy shit,” he said again. “I’ve been throwing balls at Chaz Brookshire? Three-time Heisman?”
One more before the guy had recovered. He looked up and saw a bomb hurtling toward him. He dove for it. He caught it and pulled it in just before he nosedive’d into the dirt with a ‘Hunghhkk’ and groan. He got back to his feet—his sweat soaked body now caked with dirt … a leaf from whatever crop had last resided in this field was stuck in his hair … another clung to his sweaty back.
“Again, stud.”
Another perfect spiral arced its way.
Yeah, just like the others. Again. Again. And, again. The bombs settled perfectly into Brookshire’s hands. Dead into the bread basket. Like the others.
Every pattern.
Every ball.
Every time.
Chase Brookshire tucked the last ball into his side and trotted toward the young man. His eyes took him in. Devoured him. Every inch. Every muscle. Every everything.
“You are the new starting QB,” Brookshire gasped out after 40 minutes of runs and patterns and bombs. He rested his hands on his knees as he gulped for air to fill his burning lungs. “Practice starts next week. Team meeting on Tuesday after last bell. I expect you to be there,” he’d said flashing that knee-melting smile. “Got it?”
Blink.
“But….”
The man’s head tilted. He swiped at that hair-clinging leaf. He palmed sweat and dirt from his face.
“But … what?”
“I play baseball and I wrestle. I don’t play foo….”
The man harrumphed and delivered a dazzling smile that would have brought a rabid hyena to its knees.
“You do now.”
“But….”
“I’m coming into this school and this football team with the warning I have no quarterback. They tell me the starter moved out and nobody has taken the slot.”
The kid eyed the sweat streaming down the coach’s body … those hands … those biceps … that chest … those shoulders … those eyes. Nodding absently, he felt his head swim. Fuck! He had just been throwing to Chaz Brookshire? Chaz ‘fucking’ Brookshire!
“But….”
“Don’t say no. Not yet anyway. Come to tryouts and just see how it feels.”
“But….”
And, so….
Brandon Gilchriest stood in the breezeway between Building 1 and the Athletic Center. He looked to his left, toward Building 2. He looked right, toward the student parking area—his truck … escape…. He looked at the dented and chipped metal door that led into the locker area for the athletic squads. He sighed as he fingered through his hair.
He stood outside the locker room door for ten minutes rehearsing his ‘Thanks but no thanks’ speech. He paced and paced, and—paced. He reached for the handle. His hand pulled back like he had just grabbed a hot coal from a BBQ pit. He spun around and walked away. He stopped. He sighed. He cursed under his breath. He sighed again for good measure. He turned back. Another sigh. Geez, he had sighed enough in the last few minutes to inflate a hot air balloon.
He rolled his shoulders—much like he did when he was loosening up for battle on the wrestling mats. He ‘hoped’ that he wasn’t preparing for battle over this decision. He was fairly certain that Chaz Brookshire could kick his ass with both hands tied behind his back. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to find out.
He inhaled deeply.
He focused.
He resolved.
He inhaled deeply.
“Shoulda transferred to Quad County. Then Charley Stockton would be the starting QB and I could be my nobody self….”
Yeah. Quad County High School. The brand new glitzy steel and glass seemingly other worldly mega school. It had skylights. It had escalators. It had three cafeterias. It had plants inside atriums.
Yeah. He should have transferred.
Finally ready, he opened the door and swagged a saunter into the locker room. His intent was clear. Tell the coach ‘no’. Thank him for considering him for the QB slot but his interests lay elsewhere. Shake his hand. Offer a faint yet definitive nod. Turn on his heel. Get the hell out of Dodge.
Yes. Good plan. Good plan. Stick to the plan.
However…. He was suddenly stopped in his tracks by the sight of Chaz Brookshire, in bulge and butt hugging coach’s shorts and a muscle hugging sleeveless tee, as he marched over to shake his hand, and offer a grin nearly as big as the state of Texas.
“You’re late.”
Blink.
I am? But, I’m not even on the….
All thoughts of saying ‘no’, vanished as he fell into those sparkling green eyes.
So, there he was. Inside, already being chewed out by his new coach. His new coach? Fuck, what was he doing?
He had shocked the returning teammates and those that were there to try out for the first time. They had all known each other all their lives. Everyone knew that his heart was in baseball and not football. Nearly all of them had to pick up their jaws from the concrete floor of the locker room.
He had shown up.
He had tried out.
He had nailed every throw.
The entire team looked at their new coach and threatened his life—his friggin’ balls—if he didn’t give the slot to him. Then and there. On the spot.
Those threats and glances didn’t just come from the team. Brandon’s best friend, Sutton Longwood finally recovered enough, after a few heartbeats and missed breaths, to toss a football into his hands and breathe an audible sigh of relief—it had looked as though he would be stuck with the ‘by default’ duty of starting quarterback simply because of his height and acceptable stats. Now, he could go back to his chosen position and not have to fret about it night after night, day after day, practice after practice.
God—Brandon hoped that someone would come forward and try out for quarterback before this year’s season started. Soon? Now? Yeah—now would be good. Someone who coveted the position. Someone with the ravenous hunger and the raging fires of passion for baseball that burned through him but was so lacking in ‘this’ sport. Someone that would offer what this team needed … what the team deserved. The leadership to keep them in line but push them and make them reach just … that … much … farther. Someone good. No. Scratch that. They needed—deserved—better than good. They needed someone awesome. Someone ‘pro’ worthy. Someone like … well … him. Except, not him. Someone else. Someone … so … not … him.
There was the goal line week after week but then, well, there was that Championship trophy down the road—at the end of the season. A trophy they were all hungry for but needed that passion to get there. The team needed that kind of a quarterback. The kind of a quarterback that burned with a passion that only a quarterback with those same deep-seated hungers of his own could fuel. A quarterback that had the fires of hell in his heart and soul—for football; his hell fires were in wrestling and most of all, baseball.
He knew that he was the prince of this school. He knew he held the crown and occupied the throne. He knew he was worshiped, looked up to, adored … more. But in that lofty place of leadership, he also knew that he wasn’t the man for this position. Not long-term. He was good and he fought and strained and worked out and became one of the best quarterbacks in the state—hell, in the nation—but he hated every second of it. He loved winning. He loved his teammates. He just didn’t ‘love’ football. Not enough, at least, to happily or confidently occupy that starting quarterback slot.
He’d very willingly step out of the pocket and take one of the other positions to help out the team—any position, really—or, step out of it altogether and go back to ‘just’ baseball and wrestling. To help out the team, or this coach that he was beginning to worship in ways he didn’t even recognize as of yet.
And, hey—if he stepped out of the starting quarterback slot and he didn’t snag one of the other positons on the team? No sweat. He’d be there every game, every snap, every win or loss … for the team. For the guys. For the glory of it … from high up in the stands.
But.
Yeah, there was always a ‘but’.
He couldn’t say ‘no’ to Coach Brookshire.
He couldn’t say ‘no’ to his teammates.
He couldn’t say ‘no’ to Sutton.
Okay. Double yeah. He couldn’t say ‘no’ to himself.
So.
Here he was….
Hot water pummeled down over Brandon’s aching body.
His fingers raked through his hair and skimmed his perfectly muscled body again and again. Those same hands and fingers that had won him a slot that he didn’t want, in a sport he really wasn’t interested in, now scrubbed away dirt, sweat, grime, and who knew what else from his thick mop of loose curls and his scalp. A full head of shampoo bubbled and frothed even as ribbons of water snaked their way down the body of a god. And, that was what he was, here anyway. A god. A god on, and—off the fields or the mats.
He gave them his all, and more. He threw out just enough brash cockiness to make him fit into the expectations of others to fill that mold, though never fully pulling it off. The cocky arrogance that he delivered came across as more ‘adorable’ than ‘menacing’.
In truth?
He hated being pressed into someone else’s mold, anyway—who he should be, what he should be…. Inwardly. Deep. Deep down inside, he was ‘so’ not like that. His true, genuine, ‘real’ friends knew that. They knew the ‘real’ guy beneath the uniform, the pure studsmanship, the All-State pitcher … the nationally ranked quarterback. Both positions. He was a double threat now and he’d be a killer in the pros one day. The pros knew it, too; they were already watching him.
They were ‘all’ watching … him.
And, yet—not even his closest friends—his very ‘best’ friend—knew him deeply enough to ‘know’ him. Funny that. He was becoming less sure that even he knew himself these days. There was something. Something. He just wasn’t sure what that ‘something’ was.
What would any of them—his teammates, classmates, Coach Brookshire, the other coaches, fans, the jersey tuggers, the reporters, the throngs of scouts—think, or ‘do’, or say if they found out?
The fears.
The insecurities.
The anxieties.
The hungers.
The desires.
The all-consuming need for … something ‘else’ … something ‘more’….
What would they think of him then?
Sometimes? The mere thought of their possible reactions would make even Lancelot quake and sweat oceans in his sparkling suit of armor.
And still through it all there were the eyes.
Eyes on him.
END of Chapter 1
To be continued . . .
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