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    War Paint
    War Paint
    War Paint
    Ebook164 pages2 hours

    War Paint

    By Devyn Morgan

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    About this ebook

    Successful, suave, and artistic, Alfred Karanov is the leading dancer with Frederickstown Corps de Ballet. With his heart tired of casual flings, he steels himself for a life of professional solitude.

    Handsome and sweet Brent Dixon, the starting wide receiver for the Frederickstown Vultures, hones his performance for his football expansion team. Solitary pursuit of perfection is all he can afford, because pro players don’t come out of the closet.

    His will falters when it comes to his neighbor, though. If he comes out for a guy who’s “the one,” perfect and sublime in every way,  he’ll wreck his career. Maybe. Or maybe he’ll serve as an example for closeted players throughout the league.

    Devyn Morgan dishes out another hot serving of toothsome athletes in love with art, sport, and each other in this heartwarming, sizzling HEA gay romance.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDevyn Morgan
    Release dateJan 6, 2018
    ISBN9781386940999
    War Paint

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      Book preview

      War Paint - Devyn Morgan

      CHAPTER 1

      The locker room, cold and institutional with its gray walls and black-and-red steel lockers, was subdued after yet another loss by the Frederickstown Vultures. The players were staring around listlessly, speaking in hushed voices as they went through the motion of tossing their gear on the ground and digging in their lockers for toiletries and towels.

      Brent Dixon dawdled a bit, not in any hurry to take the gear off his hurting body. Not only was he not looking forward to pain, he always waited until most of the guys were done with their shower before he sauntered in, all casual and naked, just like they were.

      He did everything to make the guys think he was just decompressing after the game.

      Brent knew better – the delay was a part of his overall strategy. He always paid overt attention to where he was putting his feet. Damn slick tile, last thing I need is fall and get hurt for the season, he had grumbled occasionally, along with I’m pretty over-socialized right now... I just need some breathing room! Those were his lines, and he was sticking by them. He much preferred looking like an eccentric who worried about slick shower tiles and didn’t field many social invitations, rather than risking getting caught while idly gazing at his teammates while they were all wet and naked and joshing around. Brent might have been out to his family and closest friends, but he had not broached the issue with his new team.

      Nor with his old team.

      As a wide receiver, he got more than his share of the spotlight, not just because of the position he played, but also because so many football pundits believed that his 6 foot even, 195 pound body wasn’t quite big enough for the job. Add the gay bit into it, and he just knew his performance would be overshadowed by personal details, and his personal details weren’t anyone’s business.

      His height, along with his performance, had been more than adequate for his first two years, which he spent playing a second-string wide receiver for the Miami Dolphins. Except the Dolphins had traded him to the Vultures, which was kind of too bad because he’d make less money with a brand-new team. It was also kind of good, though, because his financial haircut came with a prestigious starting position, and being on a new team would help redefine his persona as he helped the new team solidify and grow into a strong competitor.

      Frederickstown was too small to call itself a real city here in Maryland, just a shout away from Baltimore. Even though many considered it just another long-commute bedroom community for Washington, DC, the property values and the cost of living here were a lot lower than in Miami. The weather wasn’t oppressively sunny all the time, either, and Brent was looking forward to seeing a bit of snow for the first time in years. All in all, the move had plenty of upsides – especially since his sister and her daughter lived here.

      The downside of being on a newly formed team was their general suckiness, which, in his case, translated into a distinct lack of coverage as he tried to run fast and catch those long passes. When he’d been with the Dolphins, the other players were old hands at providing coverage, making sure the wide receivers wouldn’t get roughed up as they jumped into the air to catch the ball at full extension.

      The Vultures, sadly, lacked that level of finesse, which is why Brent got clobbered today. It was a small wonder his ribs weren’t broken from the impact of the Steelers player’s helmet.

      The Steelers got their fifteen-yard penalty, and justifiably so. Spearing a guy with a helmet had been against the rules for years. The current concussion awareness environment had made the sport marginally safer, but still. Brent would’ve been a lot happier had that asshole been ejected from the game.

      He drew a shallow breath, and prepared to slowly twist his trunk. Taking his gear off would hurt like a bitch.

      The door opened just before the first wave of the players headed into the showers. They stopped as coach Lucas filled the doorway.

      His presence permeated the locker room, even though he was a diminutive fellow in comparison to his players. I had expected something a little more dynamic against Pittsburgh today, he ranted without a preamble. You are the Vultures! You’re supposed to be better than this! Why didn’t you play your plan? Why didn't you stick together like we practiced?

      The players shifted in place, either standing by their lockers or sitting on their benches in various states of undress, hoping the coach would get it out of his system soon.

      Brent figured he was safe. He got roughed up, after all, and that hadn’t been his fault. And he did catch the other pass and ran in their only touch-down. The fact that the kicker had failed to make the ball sail through the uprights for that extra point wasn’t his department. Still, he tried to shrink back, occupying as little space as possible.

      Sure enough, the coach turned toward him. And you, Dixon, you think you're so special! He threw his hands up in the air, the hands that had once caught the winning ball for Villanova, the same hands that guided this team through their annual playbook strategy. "You think just because you gave us those six points excuses the fact that you kept running the wrong pattern in the first half? You’re a wide receiver. Wide. He glared. Stick to the fucking sidelines! You have no business being in the middle, even though Stevens looked like he was throwing that way. Can’t you tell a pump fake from a real throw?"

      The special-teams coach, Sid Clairmont, cleared his throat. I think we have some lateral footwork issues, too. That doesn't go just for Brent, here. Everyone, and I mean all of you, seems to have trouble taking the angle when under pressure.

      Lateral movement had always been Clairmont’s hobby horse. Everybody knew it, just as everybody knew that Lucas knew it. Somebody sucked in a breath, which collectively expressed the suspense the team felt when Lucas got Clairmont’s agenda pushed in his face again.

      Brent wished he could have gotten some popcorn and kicked back. Now what?

      The two coaches locked their gazes like fighting big horn sheep. This time, however, coach Lucas finally nodded. Yeah. Whatever gets them out of this godawful funk. More lateral footwork drills, for sure. Especially for short stuff over here. He jutted his chin toward Brent. Seriously, I know you can’t grow any taller, but you got to be able to zig and zag and avoid some of those hits, man! You ain’t big enough to absorb that kind of damage for long. However did you survive in Miami?

      Brent cleared his throat. We got coverage in Miami. Now it was his turn to exchange glares with the coach, but this time, it wasn’t the coach who looked away first.

      Knowing he’d made his point, Brent dropped his eyes to better examine his hands.

      His wide, long-fingered, nimble hands that knew how to catch a long pass so well – as long as some asshole didn’t barrel into him.

      God, he was so ready to hate coach Lucas. They had known each other for just a few weeks, but their chemistry just failed to improve despite their mutual effort. There was a lot to be said for being professional. Calm, cool, collected, and always trying. That’s what kept Brent on this team.

      When the coaches finally left, it took a good minute before the players reanimated, and began to grumble.

      The quarterback, Jared Brown, looked around the locker room and cleared his throat.

      Brent glanced his way. Jared was the one guy who always knew what was going to happen next. He'd been with the team for five years, ever since the Vultures were officially formed. Jared frowned, shook his head, and growled. I don't like the fact that the special-teams coach’s wife is a ballerina. Clairmont has been pushing for this for a while, and it’s not  gonna cause nothing but trouble.

      The senior nose tackle piped up. Yup, Marina Vaughn. She comes to the games when she can.

      I hear she's really involved, said Sampson, one of the halfbacks. He was a lot bigger than Brent, and his voice rumbled a lot deeper. This was one of those times when Brent felt self-conscious about the fact that even a medium guy on the team pretty much dwarfed him. Except Brent was on the team for his speed and accuracy, not because of his size. A good wide receiver could get away with being a bit on the small side, as long as he was fast.

      What do you think will happen, Jared? That was the other wide receiver, Troy, a much taller manly-man, who absolutely hated having to put on the stupid pink shoelaces and pink gloves they all had to wear during the annual breast cancer awareness month. He liked women and their lovely bosoms all right, he was just extra vocal about not having to dress like a Barbie because of it.

      I don't know, Jared said. Nobody talked to me about anything, but if anybody does, I'll let you know.

      CHAPTER 2

      Alfred Karanov stumbled through the front door of his two-bedroom, cookie-cutter condo and dropped his duffel bag on top of the shoe bench. The temperature outside was still balmy enough not to bother with a second layer, especially not after a rehearsal. The modern piece, which the ballet ensemble was rehearsing, was going to be the death of him. It intrigued him, beguiled him, and frustrated him like nothing else Alfred had ever danced before, and the challenge of new movement and new, strangely syncopated music wasn’t helped by the fact that he was required to hold impossible poses for an unreasonable length of time.

      Jump higher, Alfred. Spin faster, Alfred. Don’t let your breathing show when you hold still, Alfred.

      The final scene culminated in his character's death, and not even that was a restful pose. At least he got to lie down on the polished dance surface of the stage, still and motionless, while the others were still exerting themselves over his prone corpse.

      The image made him smile.

      Alfred kicked off his long sleeve shirt, struggled out of his leg-warmer pants and short dancer’s tights, and unsnapped the dance belt which doubled for underwear and provided his tender bits with much-needed support.

      As he walked across the bare, shiny wood of his empty living room, he glanced at the wall of mirrors that took the space where most people hung their oversized, flat-screen televisions, and smiled.

      He was a man.

      Lithe, perhaps, and not very tall, but he was well-muscled and strong, and his cut jaw and strong brow spelled the sort of masculinity which had saved him from having to wear toe shoes.

      His little, wiry foot muscles had been working overtime, and his feet ached proportionately to their exertion. However, Alfred knew with a sick certainty that his female colleagues were faring a lot worse when they peeled their dainty, blood-stained pointe shoes off

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