**I received an ARC copy of this book in exchange for a fair review** Check out my review of Fourth and Long by Michele Rakes and get a peek at the excerpt! Once you hit the end of that (and before you're running off to buy the book) make sure you enter Michele's contest. There's also a list of all the blogs on her tour, so make sure you don't miss your chances to enter there, too!!
Are you ready for some football?!!! Okay, I'm sure that isn't an original thought for readers of this Fourth and Long, but I'm a big fan of my state team, and I always enjoyed going to high school and a recent trip to see a college team reminded me of how much I enjoyed the live show. So when I get a chance for a behind-the-scenes look... YAY!
How realistic the portrayal is? I can't say, as I'm not a football player. But I do think that Michele's sharing of the various reactions of coaches, players, and the public is probably pretty on par for what an athlete experiences when they dare to be different. There is a TON of drama in this story, but it doesn't feel unrealistic.
I liked the main and peripheral characters. While most of the characters are all football players or staff, I didn't have that hard of a time keeping the secondary characters separate. She gave them all personality or appearance quirks that let me know they were guys with a lot in common but not too much to feel cookie cutter. The kid scenes were absolutely touching, but I have to say the secondary character who stole the show for me was Miss Beulah. There's one scene we don't get to 'see' but we see her confidence going in and out of the it, and just because of that, I was capable of visualizing the entire event unfolding in my mind--and that's a mark of a wonderful storyteller.
Overall, the story had a several threads weaving the characters together. There's the lusting, the fear, the miscommunication, the make-ups, the dust-ups... seriously, there's a ton going on for both the two main characters, Irus and Jacks. If you like a fast pace and a plot constantly moving due to several different plot issues, they'll love this book. I did feel some of the scene changes were a bit abrupt, and I will admit to being disappointed at the end because there were some major questions left unanswered.
Michele Micheal Rakes lives in a small town in the shadow of a big
mountain. She works as a surgical technologist assisting in the removal of
tonsils and testicles. She has three grown children, two psychotic Egyptian
Mau’s, a husband with hair down to his ass, two Harley’s, and a ferret named
Teeny Tiny Ferret Feet (husband insists her name Little Feet, we all know he’s
wrong).
Links to reach Michele Rakes:
@MicheleRakes
Excerpt:
The sun shines brilliantly for a spring day
in the Pacific Northwest. The warmth is surprising but welcome. The natural
grass sparkles as bright and beautiful as a well-manicured golf course. The
field’s just waiting to be torn up by a bunch of football-playing foster kids.
I’m a little nervous. Not sure what to expect since I’ve never done one of
these events. Coach Daily said I’d have a lot of fun, and the kids are great.
So here I am.
“Irus, my man! How you been?” A portly black man named Walter advances on me,
his cultured Southern accent out of place in the northwestern environment.
“Not too bad,” I say.
“Tough watchin’ those Pirates steal that championship, eh?” Smooth. Dig where it hurts, Walt.
Yeah, we all know Walter Park. He’s been around football for a lot of years. No
one takes offense at his blunt remarks. The man tells it like it is and
sometimes brutally. Today he’s being kind. Sort
of.
“Well, you know how it is, shit continues to happen,” I say. “We’ll get ’em
next season.”
Walter is a big former defensive lineman. When I say he’s big, I mean he’s gotten
larger than when he was playing. I make the mistake of offering to shake the
man’s hand. Two sweaty slabs of meat engulf my lone hand. He pumps wildly and
leaves me feeling like I’ve got rhino cum all over my palm. When he’s not
looking, I swipe my hands down the side of my sweatpants.
“Well, we got some great kids for you to work with, Irus. A great bunch of
boys.”
“That’s cool.”
“I’m gonna hook you up with one of the organizers of the event. He’s a wide
receiver. Give a defense/offense kind of perspective. Just teach the kids some
fundamentals. How to hold the ball, a little pass and catch, nothing too
in-depth. Mostly, we need you guys to be role models. Help inspire these kids.
Lift them up. Some come from sketchy backgrounds.”
Walter gives me a look, like I’d understand, but my home was never sketchy. The
neighborhood maybe, but not the home. A rock-solid foundation. Not traditional,
though. Two parents who still love and cheer me on but had nothing to do with
the raising of me. My Auntie Linda and Uncle Clyde raised me. He’s a high
school football coach, and she’s an English teacher. The summers were spent
with my Auntie Beulah in the city. She got me out of the dusty suburbs and
introduced me to a whole new way of thinking. Beulah’s the reason I don’t judge
people. Well, I try not to judge people. I certainly don’t blame my parents for
giving me up. They gave me to Linda and Clyde, who wanted kids but couldn’t
have any of their own. Auntie Linda said it was God making everything right.
I’m fortunate to be surrounded by a loving family.
“I’m just waiting for your receiver to show up. Then I’ll take you to your
kids.” Walter peers around, looking for someone.
I follow his glance, not sure who I should be on the lookout for, when I see
Jackson McCoy. Lord, why do
you always have to test me here?
Damn, McCoy looks fine.
Blond hair reflects the sunlight. The strands lift lightly in the breeze. He’s
laughing, joking around with some people from the charity organization. He’s
always laughing. I see him on the sidelines all the time. A smile. A laugh.
Even when they’re down on points. My gaze wanders to his ass, snug in faded,
torn blue jeans. Tattoos peek out of short sleeves and muscles stretch the thin
fabric of his T-shirt. Butterflies hatch in my stomach. No, this isn’t good.
Not here in front of all these kids. Jesus,
he makes me antsy. When I’m antsy, I get angry and stubborn. Auntie
Linda says so all the time.
Jackson McCoy turns my way. Big aviator glasses hide his eyes, but bruises form
halos behind them, and his nose looks broke. He looks like he’s been playing
against the defensive line and someone’s earholed him. With a nod to the guy
next to him, he makes his way over to me and Walter.
“Hey, Walt,” he calls.
“Jackson, my boy, glad to have you back. You know Irus Beaumont? It’s his first
time here. I was hoping you’d help him out with the kids. You know their trust
issues.”
“Hey, Iris, how you doing?” My reflection plays in his mirrored aviators.
“It’s I-rus. Rus. Man, do you have a problem?”
A shining grin breaks his face. I feel awash in it, and it pisses me off.
“Come on, boys. Let’s work together all nice like, okay?” Walter gives me a
stern look like it’s all my fault this guy continues to antagonize me. He
double-checks me, waiting for a response, before he feels comfortable turning
away. I get the feeling he’s in a hurry.
“Sure, Walter. I’ll play nice.” The words nearly stick in my throat.
“Good, good. All right now, boys, I gotta run and hook up some more players. Jackson,
you know your group. Show Irus here the ropes. Bye, y’all.”
Walter takes off at a good clip for a fat man, his dark skin sweating in the
sunlight, absorbing all the heat. Jackson begins to walk in the opposite
direction, and I rush to catch up, getting a nice shot of his ass once more. I
resist the urge to smack his ass. Instead, I drop a bit of a shoulder into him
to check him up. Just like I do on the field. He takes the impact and rolls
with it, not taken off his feet.
It was just a baby hit. Just saying hello. His lack of reaction irks me a
little.
“What’d he mean by trust issues? You know these kids?” I ask.
“Don’t you? I sent you a packet with their backgrounds. Didn’t you get it?”
Shit, that’s what that was,
damn. “It said Jackson McCoy on the envelope, so I stuffed it down
the garbage disposal.”
“I hope it plugged up your sink.” Again he hits me with his sparkling smile.
“So you gonna tell me about these kids before we meet them?”
“I’ve met them. I work with these guys a lot. Most of them come from broken
homes. Some of them have parents in prison.” He looks at me. “Moms and dads.
Some are in foster care, and others are stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
“A rock and a hard place? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jackson stops walking. There’s a group of boys, white, black, and mixed race,
who see us coming. There’s recognition on their faces. They all seem to know
Jackson, who gives them a small wave, letting them know he’s coming, but it’ll
be just a moment.
He turns on me, his voice low and tight. “It means these kids love their
parents no matter how hard they hit. They’re not gonna say anything against
them.”
“Abuse? Why doesn’t someone step up?”
“We are, Iris. Right now.”
Jackson spins away, and I get a waft of his scent. God, he smells good. This shit isn’t
helping. Golden Boy shines so bright in the sunshine. I can’t ignore him. The
way his ass moves beneath his jeans. Small and tight. The rigid line of his
back. The thin T-shirt revealing the wings of his shoulder blades. I’d love to
run my tongue down his spine. Taste the sweat collecting in the furrows of his
muscles.
Fuck. I hate that he has this effect on me.
The urge to make the bastard miserable today overtakes my better judgment. I’m
gonna have to get under his skin. Mess his shit up good. Rattle his cage a bit.
Can’t seem to fluster him on the field. Maybe outside the game I can rankle
him. Make him feel as discombobulated as he does me.
Good Lord, if he wasn’t so
fine.
A few little kids run up, wrapping tiny arms around Jackson’s legs, and for a
moment, I wonder why these kids take to him so well. Jackson drops to his
knees, getting grass stains on his faded jeans, and starts talking to them on
their level. Seems like he remembers every kid’s name. Asks them questions
about school and family members. They talk to him or shrug their shoulders.
An older boy stands off to the side, smoking a cigarette, and he’s clearly the
subject of discussion from one or two of the boys. The kid’s a pretty big boy.
A redhead with pasty, freckled skin and squinty eyes.
“I’ll take care of it, guys. First I want to introduce you to Iris Beaumont.”
I wave a little. “Irus. Just call me Rus.”
“I know you! I told my momma I want dreads just like yours and to hit as hard
as you.” The boy must be about ten or twelve, skinny and dark just like I was,
and long-legged.
“Oh, yeah? You run fast?”
“Sure do.”
“Think you can take McCoy out if he goes after the ball?”
The boy looks at Jackson and grins. “Oh, yep.”
Jackson laughs. “All right, Kyler, you get to be on Iris’s side. You go play
corner. Get on your island.” Jackson lowers his glasses a bit and winks at me.
A thrill surges through my body, but I keep my angry mask in place. Gotta have
my game face on whenever he’s around.
Jackson divvies up the rest of the children, some of them jumping around to be
on his side because they seem to trust him more than me. I realize he’s already
established himself with these kids.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Gotta get Jared on board with you. He doesn’t
like new men.”
I get the footballs out and let the boys horse around for a while as I watch
Jackson out of the corner of my eye. He approaches Jared, who’s almost as tall
as him, and points to the cigarette. The kid hands it over, thinking Jackson
wants a hit, but Jackson snaps it in half. Jared lashes out, knocking the
aviators off Jackson’s face, but that’s about it. Jackson outmaneuvers the kid
easily. I rush over, but just stand there staring at Jackson’s face along with
the kid.
The kid kneels down and picks up Jackson’s glasses. “I’m sorry, Jacks. Who hit
you?” His face is still stern, petulant, and angry. His squinty eyes shift to
me. Color burns hot in his cheeks.
“Jared, I’ve talked about you hitting first and asking questions later. What’ve
I told you?”
“Only on the field.”
I chuckle. I’m thinking D-line for this kid. I can see him taking out a
quarterback. Jackson must be thinking the same thing.
“This guy right here is a defensive player. I’d like you to work with him
today,” Jacks says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. The heat of his palm
sizzles through me. I fight to not shift under his grasp.
“No. I asked you a question. I’ll work with him if you answer me.”
“Jared—” Jackson starts, drops his hand from my shoulder, and leaves me
desperate for his touch.
“How many times you make me talk when I don’t want to? About my mom? My dad?
He’s outta prison you know? Comes to take me for visitation. Leaves me to watch
his other kids, and you want me to talk about how it makes me feel? You won’t
even answer one of my questions? Fuck you, Jacks.”
“Hey now,” I say.
Jackson sighs. “You’re right. You know I’m always here, kid. I’ll always be
here.” He glances at me and continues, “Truth is, I got in a fight with the
D-line of my team.”
A fight? With the whole
D-line?
“Why?” Jared demands.
“Sometimes, people don’t like folks who are different. You gotta admit, I’m
different.”
Different? How? Like gay,
different? Isn’t that what Els said? Shit. I’ve heard a few ambiguous remarks
myself… Fuck, jumping to wishful conclusions here. Now my fantasies are gonna
shift into overdrive. The ghost feeling of his warm hand on my shoulder tingles
with renewed electricity. The sensation goes straight to my gut. Focus, Irus! This isn’t
the time to go all mushy over a pretty blond wideout. No football players. Never.
“Different how?” Jared asks.
“Well, I’m small. I’m always cracking wise—”
“And that’s irritating as hell. At least he gets your name right, Jared,” I
interject for some levity.
The kid sort of laughs. “I’m different.”
“Naw, you’re just a redheaded stepchild. They make good offensive linemen,”
Jackson says.
“Oh, no, you don’t. This kid’s D-line for sure. He almost sacked your ass.”
Now Jared does laugh. Jackson looks from him to me and back. “Fine, go get ’em,
kid.”
Jared shuffles off to join my other D-liners. After I watch him go, I turn back
to Jackson. “Fighting with the D-line? You think that’s smart?”
“I fight with you, don’t I? I think it’s rather fun, making you all flustered.”
He looks me up and down with an unmistakable heat in his gaze, slips on his
shades, and walks away.
I’m fucked.
* * * *
The day warms up nicely. We have the kids gathered along the sidelines. Some are
sitting still, while others are like vibrating mechanical monkeys unable to
keep all their parts in one place for too long.
Jackson grins at me, clearly entertained by their shenanigans. “We need to get
these guys on the field soon.”
“What’re they all
ADD?”
Jackson chuckles. “No, they’re just excited. It’s hard to sit still and listen
to me explain the game, but some of these little guys are new.”
The kids are jumping around, making tons of noise. Jackson settles them down as
a tall figure strides across the field. It’s Big Terry Branson, McCoy’s
quarterback.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
Jackson turns to look and shrugs. “Don’t know. Last time I talked to him, he
wasn’t going to be able to make it.”
Jackson spins around to meet up with Branson about ten yards from where the
kids are sitting. They talk for a minute or so. There’s something dark in
McCoy’s expression, but when he looks at me, he smiles. The smile that gets
under my skin. He and Terry Branson walk up to me. I shake hands with the big
man.
“Nice to see you again, Branson.”
“Yeah, sure. Who are you?”
“Terry, don’t be a dick. You know Irus Beaumont.”
I’m surprised McCoy says my name right almost as much as I’m surprised he calls
Branson on being a dick.
“Oh, okay. Yeah, nice to meet you, Beaumont. You play for the Highlanders,
yeah?”
“That’s right.” I bite my tongue on what I want to say but only because the
kids are in earshot.
McCoy introduces Branson. Some of the kids are excited because they know
Branson by reputation as the most legendary quarterback in the game. Jared’s
less than thrilled. He remains unimpressed with everyone, except maybe McCoy. I
get that he trusts McCoy. I just don’t get why.
“Thanks, Jackson. Hey, kids, it’s a beautiful day for football, yeah?” Branson
asks.
“Yeah!” they holler as loud as they can. Some of them jump up in their
excitement. Man, kids are funny. I can see why McCoy looks so happy when he’s
interacting with them.
“Okay, well, why don’t you all sit down, and we’ll go over the fundamentals
here,” Branson says. “Now—“
“Terry?” Jackson interrupts. I think he’s trying to stop Branson from going
over all the material we just covered.
“Hold on.” Branson looks at him. “Just let me take control here for a moment.
All right?”
McCoy shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
“Okay, kids, let’s talk football.”
This is where he loses half the boys. These guys are savvy. They’re picking up
on some sort of tension between Branson and McCoy. The way Branson uses his
massive height to hover over McCoy. I’m betting the kids side with McCoy over
Branson. Just a hunch. Maybe it’s Branson’s annoying drawl?
“The object of football is to get this ball”—Branson gets one of the kids to
toss him the ball—“into your opponent’s end zone for a touchdown. Now, a
touchdown’s worth six points. If you get a touchdown, you get a chance to score
a PAT. Point after touchdown. It’s a point-after kick through the goalposts.”
Some of the kids look bored, while the younger ones are all ears, still
absorbed in Big Terry’s aura, his hero status. I take the time to check out
McCoy. His glasses hide much of his expression, but his lips are flat, held
tight together. He catches me looking, and instant sunshine in the form of a
smile bathes me. Goddamn
it. I mean-mug him and turn back to the kids. I hear him laugh.
Branson, too into himself, doesn’t even notice.
“Now, you get the ball downfield through a series of downs, the ten-yard
increments from the line of scrimmage where the ball and offense lines up
against the defense. The defense tries to stop you. If you’re an offensive
player, you have to do everything in your power to keep a play alive and make
it succeed.”
“How many downs do I get?” a boy in front asks Terry.
The man gives a slight twitch, like a gnat’s buzzing around his head, and
continues. “You get four downs to move the ball ten yards. If you don’t by the
third down, you punt the ball on the fourth, kicking it away so the other team
has to come back deep out of their own end zone. If you succeed in moving the
ball on third down or on any of the downs past the line to gain, you get a
first down and another chance to move the ball.”
“Terry, they—”
Branson cuts McCoy off. “You’ll get your turn.”
Jackson steps up in Branson’s grill and whispers, “I thought you were too busy
for these kids.”
“I had a change of heart. Now move out of the way.”
McCoy holds his ground.
“Jacks?” Jared stands up.
“Sit down. It’s all good. We’ll scrimmage soon, okay?”
Jared nods and sits down. McCoy’s face is flushed. He’s pissed. This ought to
be interesting. I’ve never seen McCoy lose his temper. I know how I’d like to see him lose
it. Writhing beneath me with my dick buried in his ass.
Man, I need to quit
thinking about his ass.
Branson sweeps Jackson out of his way and continues yammering at the kids. “The
football field is one hundred twenty total yards. Of that, the end zones are
ten yards deep. It’s set up in a grid of five-yard increments. Six feet
surrounds the field, and on either side is a series of benches for the players
outside that six feet. Inside the six feet is only for situational substitution
players and the coaching staff. Between them is the chain gang who keeps track
of the ten yards with a length of chain, and the officials who make sure the
game play is legal. Then there’s nothing but field with either natural grass or
artificial turf. The artificial turf is more durable, but hurts like a son of a
gun.”
“What if you can’t get a touchdown?” Jared asks. There’s a tinge of mockery in
his voice. I think I like
this kid. Branson seems oblivious to the ridicule. Doubtful this
man is used to people, let alone children, questioning him.
“If you can get close enough for one, you can split the uprights for a field
goal, which is worth three points. If not, you punt it away on fourth down so
the other team has to start from deep in their own territory.”
“Split the uprights?” A tiny little blond kid shifts around as if his ADHD meds
have worn off.
“The goalposts are in the slingshot design with a crossbar and two uprights.
Goalposts are painted yellow.”
“Those ones are white,” Jared says.
Branson stares at him. “Sometimes they’re white.”
McCoy smirks a bit, and Jared grins. He looks like a rat baring his teeth,
yellowed from smoking.
“Now, if you’re at first and goal, which means you’re in the red zone and could
potentially score a touchdown, you have three chances to score. Second and goal
means you’ve failed once but have another shot. After third and goal, the coach
has a decision to make. Does anyone know what that is?”
I shoot my hand in the air, making the kids laugh. “I know. I know.”
“Pipe down, Beaumont.”
Jared stands up. “You either kick a field goal, go for it on fourth, or you
punt. Look, Jacks already taught us all this shit. Are we gonna scrimmage or
not?”
Branson ignores Jared again. This guy’s just making all kinds of friends. Jared
looks at me and shakes his head.
“McCoy. Beaumont. Line up and show these kids a little bump and run.”
Well, all right. I can get
behind this shit. I’d love to get my hands on McCoy. Branson tells
McCoy the call and waits for us to line up opposite.
“Green eighty. Green eighty,” Branson hollers. “Hut. Hut.”
McCoy explodes off the line.
Nuh-uh. Not so fast, man.
I get my hands all over him. I press him. Hit his chest, which is hard, and he
swings his arm down over mine, sweeping away my hand. Then he’s off downfield,
running straight ahead, and I’m with him every step, my arm around his waist as
he turns to look for the ball. He jumps, and I go with him, trying to get my
hand between him and the ball.
Somehow that sneaky bastard snatches the ball outta the air. I drag him to the
ground, landing on top of him, our breaths temporarily knocked out. The feel of
his body beneath me, no pads between us, just T-shirts, jeans, and, for me,
thin-ass sweats, is exhilarating. Which means I’ve got this shit bad, and I
need to step back a bit. Yet I’m looking forward to the next ball to be lobbed
downfield. Fuck me. I could
do this all day.
“You see how Beaumont had an arm around McCoy? That’s okay as long as he
doesn’t turn him away from the ball.”
“He’s trying to disrupt the play,” Jared says, clearly annoyed.
“Right. That’s called defense. It’s pass interference if Beaumont turns him or
holds him or, without looking for the ball himself, prevents McCoy from
completing the catch. A defensive player must be looking for the ball too, if
he’s going to intercept it.”
We run a few more plays, and the kids are amped up, but they’re like a pack of
monkeys wanting to take over the field. Branson just won’t let them for some
reason.
Once more, Branson sends us downfield. It’s a curl route, meaning McCoy turns
around and comes back to Branson for the ball. It’s a short-yardage throw,
maybe twelve yards, and I hit McCoy the minute his hands are on the ball,
coming over the back of him, trying to punch it out. He holds on to it,
sure-handed, and rolls me into a tumble with him. He gets up grinning like a
kid.
“That was fun, but we gotta get these kids out here to play.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Tell Branson to take a hike?”
“If I’ve got to, Iris.”
“I-rus! Rus, boy. Rus!”
He grins and jogs upfield, the ball still in his hand.
Damn, if he just wasn’t so
pretty.
We get back to Branson, and he’s already running off at the mouth. “We have
passing routes, or patterns. Hook: A tight end releases downfield and makes a
turn back upfield. Post: a long pass, maybe forty yards or so, where the
receiver runs a vertical route and at the last minute cuts a forty-five-degree
angle toward the post.”
“A what?” asks the kid scratching his nose with one eye closed, presumably
blocking out the sun. His face is screwed up in a look of confusion. These kids
are cute.
“Goal post, kid. Goal post.”
“Hey, Terry,” McCoy calls.
Branson jogs over to meet us. “What?”
“I think Walt wanted you to spend more time with the other groups too. You
know, spread the wealth type thing, and give other kids the benefit of your
expertise.”
“Are you sure?” Branson sort of leans in to him. “I kind of wanted to talk to
you later.”
“Give me a call afterward, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Hey, kids. Tell Mr. Branson thanks for helping out!”
“Thanks, Mister Branson,” the younger ones chime in, but Jared and a few others
simply glare as Branson gives a little wave, running off to ruin someone else’s
day.
“Thank God you finally ditched him,” Jared says.
I’m right there with the kid, but Jackson shuts him down. “Show him some
respect. He’s a great quarterback.”
“Was a great quarterback. Because of you,” Jared says with a fair bit of
disrespect toward Big Terry Branson.
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