Hi there, reading friends and colleagues. There is a really exciting contest going on for non-published writers for a trip to the 2016 RT Booklovers Convention in Las Vegas. If you would like the details of this contest, follow the link here.
Though I could not enter the contest myself, I did make the effort to write my very first fan fiction piece. I’m so proud of it, I thought it would be cool to share it here with all of you. If you are a fan of NY Times Best-Selling Author Christopher Rice, I think you will enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. I just hope I didn’t get the details wrong. :o) (1500 word limit)
(Based on characters/situations from “A Density of Souls” by Christopher Rice)
“I’m coming,” he practically whispered into the phone before hanging it up. Standing in his dorm room alone, the call had his emotions in a mixture of nervous anticipation and somewhat fear. He knew he had to be cool. And he had to be careful too.
Checking himself once more, he liked the tight bright tee-shirt that he usually picked to wear to the gym as it wrapped around his upper body like a second skin. No question that it was chosen mostly for the benefit of showing off his well-defined arms, chest and abs. The loose-fitting, knee-length, dark colored running shorts that danced just above his strong, tanned calves, in lack of a better description, were simply for easy escape. If he was going to do this right, he thought serious, considering it had been a long time since he enjoyed the pleasure of sweet release with someone else of like-minded desire, he may as well showcase his best assets to get things going quickly. Just because he wasn’t an athlete anymore, didn’t mean he couldn’t still look like one. Then, out of habit or subconsciously following an old trend, he grabbed his purple and gold university ball cap, flipped it around backwards over his dark, short hair, and took one long last breath before walking out the door. In his haste to see things through before fear or nerves got the best of him, his very necessary gym bag, he forgot, and left it sitting by the desk chair on the floor not far from the door.
“Damn,” he suddenly swore under his breath. He had already jogged halfway across the campus towards the gym when he remembered his forgotten gym bag. Taking a moment to catch his breath and to decide if he would go back for the bag or just make do with whatever was available, a familiar face caught his attention as it was headed straight for him. The face, he knew it well, since his very first day at Louisiana State.
“Hey, Cannon Knight,” the tall, slender biracial guy said with just a hint of Cajun lilt in his voice. His generous smile was as bright as the thick Louisiana evening air would allow. The spark in hazel eyes was convincingly filled with cheer.
“Hey, Thibodaux Boiler,” he said returning the gesture in kind. The handshake that passed between them left no indication of the long-standing rivalry that stood between their regional high schools. Though the history of their home district competiveness was as old as the South and based on the differences between those who had versus those who didn’t, the LSU campus wasn’t the place for any outside grudges. After all, once you became an LSU Tiger, a tiger is all you should ever be.
“So,” Thibodaux began, standing wide-legged, with his arms crossed over his slender chest, “You going out for any of the teams this year? Didn’t see you last year at all.”
“Nope. Not really. You?” He always avoided any details for personal reasons.
“Aww hell yeah,” the handsome boy said, suddenly animated with an imaginary ball. “Basketball, foe sho. “ Imaginary hoop shot, score. “And just like at Thibodaux, I’ll be one of the kickers for LSU.” He was about to demonstrate a legendary move on one foot, when the school’s cycling team, of about twenty people, came barreling through and around them. In order to get out of the way, the two former football rivals found themselves in each other’s arms, wrapped around one another protectively. To make things unexpectedly awkward, the materials of their chosen outfits were so silky and thin, that for a brief moment, nothing between them was left secret to the other, including the fact that they were both going commando. When they did finally let go, Thibodaux also let go of his practiced English dialect as he let out a stream of angry words, all in French.
“Are you okay,” the Cannon Knight dared to ask.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said calm, pretending to brush away invisible damage from his obvious embarrassment. It was hard to tell if he was shaken by the act of suddenly finding safety in another guys arms in front of God and everybody or the fact that they had just bumped near-naked crotches in broad daylight for the same reason. Either way, he simply glanced at their surroundings, hunched his shoulders and returned to his original masculine stance with his legs wide open and his arms folded over his chest.
“So… I um… Guess I better get to the gym, huh,” the former athlete finally said when he could find his own voice.
“Sure. Cool. You umm… You already look like you’re ready for the team.” He gestured for another handshake, flashing that winning smile in his effort to move away.
“I suppose I would try out,” the other one said, taking the offer to shake again before he moved in the opposite direction. “But I’ve got a job on Bourbon Street during the season.”
“Cool. All right then. See you later, Cannon Knight.”
“Yeah. Later, Thibodaux Boiler.”
Once he was alone, he took his time as a thousand things came rushing to mind. It wasn’t easy for anyone from his hometown when it came to thinking about Thibodaux High. And it had nothing to do with their generations of rivalry. Just the mention of the name always reminded him of the tragedy that both schools had suffered on homecoming night of his junior year. The weather had been bad and a young boy was killed just outside the stadium. Had it not been for his own troubles that started prior to the game, he likely would have been there when it happened. Then days later, the boy’s older brother, also from Cannon High, had supposedly committed suicide. His body was found nude, with a single gunshot wound up in the old abandoned church bell tower. Nearly everyone in the district swore they heard the actual shot, and the bell. He actually knew the boy, to be honest. His best-friend was on the football team as well. A real asshole, by all accounts, who made everything worse by simply being around. The whole ordeal was a nightmare that many would never forget. Even after so much time had passed, just the thought of it brought up a tightness in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in forever from a bleeding ulcer that changed his life. That was the reason he had missed that fateful homecoming game in the first place, as well as his reason for given up his hopes for football in the future.
“But that Thibodaux Kicker though,” he reminded himself with a grin to shake his darkening mood as he walked into the gym. Had he been so inclined, it would have been interesting to see his reaction had he allowed more than a little friction to pass between their accidental public embrace. Just the thought breathed new life into his initial nervous anticipation for sweet sexual release. He had gone without it as long as he could stand.
He was slow walking through the quiet, empty space between the lockers and showers when a pair of strong hands slipped around his waist and pulled him tightly in. He returned the attention by pushing his already throbbing crotch hard into theirs, kneading his strong hands up the side of his embrace to pull their faces close. Even in the semi darkness of the room, he could still make out the glimmer of desire in the hazel eyes of the young man who held him. No matter how tempting his full sensual lips were begging for him to taste, kissing, unfairly, was too intimate and against the rules. But the other plans he had for that beautiful mouth was just as pleasing, and he was bound to reciprocate deliciously as well.
“I worried you weren’t gonna make it,” his lustful companion admitted as he tucked his hand down inside the front of his black running shorts to stroke him.
“On the phone… I told you…” He tried not to gasp between words, following his lead. “I was coming.”
“You certainly will be, Mon Cher,” he whispered with a mischievous grin.
As they slipped into a safer part of the room, he found the air was already thick with the intoxicating scent of jocks and cocks and sex. In the moment, he licked his own lips in anticipation of shoving his sex down that Thibodaux Kicker’s hungry throat. It was almost maddening to watch him happily shed his pretentious public persona as he gingerly suckled on the end of the former Cannon Knight’s Quarterback’s prick. Once he was swallowed down to the hilt, as always, his mind leisurely wandered back to a magical snowy night on the banks of the Mississippi to a place known as the “The Fly,” and the memory of his greatest love that he would carry with him until the day he died…