The Quarterback

I played nose tackle, primarily on defense, and as a guard for blocking on offense as well. I guess that means I am a versatile player. Anyways, I did OK and got a good run at pro ball in my time. I had enough money to retire because my Mama put it all in the Bank. And besides, I do all right as a sales rep for a sporting goods company. I travel around and shake hands and talk about football. It is a good life, I guess.

I still get the headaches and the like, and my knees and shoulders have some old pains, but I guess that is the same for all old ball players. Not that I am that old.

When I ran block on offense, I do not think that I ever ran for a better quarterback than Hadley Armstrong. I played with him in college. He had it all. He could throw a great ball, but he is what we call a dual-threat quarterback. He could run and dodge, and with me in front of him we scored some great touchdowns. But he was too small for pro ball I figure.

When you make the League, I guess you lose contact with guys you used to play with in college. The fact is that I never saw Hadley Armstrong again. But I did meet Hannah Armstrong.

We were sitting in an airport lounge -- I can't even remember where it was, because I travel so much. She was traveling too. I saw her come in and sit down. I remember I thought that she looked like a really classy lady. She was wearing a suit -- I mean like jacket and skirt of the same material -- a little short jacket and a short skirt. She was wearing heels and she had great legs. Like, legs with shape. I remember I thought: 'She must work out'.

She had light-colored hair and it was pinned up -- professional looking. She had a face like that on a fashion magazine. I remember thinking, and I thought this way all the time with girls: 'I wish I had the confidence to go over and talk with that lady.'

But I did not have to. She saw me and came over. She said: "Freddy? Freddy Tasker?"

I said: "Yeah?"

She was smiling at me. Like she knew me.

Then I saw those eyes. They were beautiful eyes. But I guess when you play ball you recognize people by their eyes. You know, when you are in a huddle and everybody has the same helmet on, and with the grille and everything, you look across and you recognize people by their eyes. As it happens, no amount of mascara and other stuff could mask those big green eyes. Just make them bigger.

"Hadley?" When that question just popped out, I thought how stupid I was. This could be the single most embarrassing thing I have ever done, and I have done plenty of those. It seemed so stupid that I should call this beautiful lady, Hadley.

"It's Hannah now," she said.

Now plenty of guys would say how they might react in this situation. Like, you meet a guy that you know, and you thought was a regular guy, and he is dressed like a woman, in a public place, and he/she is talking to you, and you are just sitting there, with your mouth open.

Some guys might say: "Fuck off, your pervert." Or maybe just say: "I'm sorry, I don't know you," and just walk away. But what I said -- it just sort of came out as sometimes happens with me, was: "Hannah. Wow. You look great."

She said: "Do you mind if I join you?"

I said: "Sure." And she brought her bag over and sat down.

Now, maybe some people believe that things happen for a reason, but that day, there was some storm or something, and flights were delayed. So, we ended up talking for a big chunk of the afternoon. We talked about all the guys we had played with in college, and then everybody else we knew in college.

I realized that I really had lost contact with everybody. My football career had taken over everything. It made me a little sad, I guess, now that my career was over, and friendships were all behind me. I just had co-workers and customers, and football fans.

Somehow Hannah avoided talking about herself -- about how she came to be living as a woman. Somehow, I did not even ask the obvious questions. Now that I think about it, I am not sure what the obvious questions are. Anyway, when her flight was finally called it was as if we still had lots more to talk about, even though we had been talking for hours.

She gave me a business card. A real estate company. She said: "Look me up when you're in town." Like, her town. My old town.

"I'm coming next week," I told her. "In fact, I have to visit my Mama. She's a bit poorly at the moment."

She walked away and I looked at her ass in that short tight skirt. The whole time I was talking to her I never thought what I was thinking as I watched those tight little buns disappear down the escalator. It was like I had been talking to an old friend. I had been. But that ass was something else!

I barely thought of anything else in the days that followed.

In fact, I had not been scheduled to fly back to my hometown the following week, but I did need to go. So, I made the changes and had the flights booked. It was true that my Mama was not well. As it turns out, much worse than I thought.

When I got home I could see that my mother was very sick. She was lying in her bed and it was soiled with shit and piss. She was barely conscious. I was seriously cut up about it, and I suddenly felt guilty that I had not visited her for months. I called an ambulance and had her taken to the hospital immediately.

They cleaned my mother up and put her on a drip. While I was sitting around at her bedside, I decided to call Hannah. I pulled out her business card and made the call.

"How terrible for you," she said. "I'm coming to the hospital right now."

I did not ask her to come. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed that she might be around. How could I answer the question 'How do you know one another?'? 'Oh, we played football together -- Hannah is really a guy.' So, I suppose I was not so keen that she turn up. But she did.

My mother was just regaining consciousness. I held her hand for a bit, then Hannah took over, just before she came to.

My mother said to her: "Hello, who are you?"

"Hello Mrs. Tasker. I'm Hannah. Hannah Armstrong. Freddy is right here. Come over Freddy. Your mother has woken up. I'll get you something to drink Mrs. Tasker. You must be parched."

Hannah was a naturally caring person. That seemed pretty clear to me. She was attentive to my mother, and talking to the doctors and nurses and such. I have to say that I don't like hospitals, and I don't do the bedside thing that well. She was good at this.

It was getting late and I went to get a coffee. When I came back my mother was sitting up chatting with Hannah. Mama turned to me and said: "You should marry this girl. We have been talking all about you. You need somebody like this in your life."

Hannah turned to me and smiled. She clearly thought that it was a great joke. But she said to me: "You go home if you like and get some rest. I can stay here until you're ready to come back."

Mama said: "Don't be silly. I'll be fine. Drop back in the morning if you like. You two get some time together."

I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast and I was five-chicken hungry. She suggested that we go for a meal.

It was just a diner. But an up-market diner, with drinks. I had a beer and she had a glass of some foreign wine. She sipped it, and that seemed right. I was sure Hadley used to drink beer, but I could not imagine Hannah doing that.

"The doctor told me that she has rallied for you, but her heart is close to shutting down," she said. "It could be only a day or two. How very sad for you, Freddie. Are you up for this?"

I told her how much my Mom meant to me, bringing me up pretty much on her own while my father worked on oil and gas projects, and then completely on her own when he was killed on one of those projects. I suppose that I was worried that I might start blubbing, so I changed the subject. I asked about her situation, and whether she was close to anybody.

"My mother died a year or so ago," she said. "And as for my father, well, he has never accepted who I am, so ... well, I'm pretty much alone. Since my operation, I have had relationships. With men and women. I suppose nothing has been the right fit. I'm still looking."

I was not thinking about her relationships. I was thinking about the operation. That meant that all the male stuff was gone, and in its place was a nice warm pussy. It made me smile to think of it. I suppose that if a guy like me had ever thought about transsexuals before, and maybe I did, I would have thought about a guy losing his junk with a queasy feeling, but I was just wondering what that pussy might look like. It would have to be as pretty as the rest of her.

She said: "I would like to go with you to the hospital tomorrow morning. Why don't you pick me up from my apartment tomorrow at 9:00. I'll write down the address. We can go together."

She worked as a realtor so she could just shift some appointments. I was happy to have her there. As I said, I don't like hospitals, or sickness, or any of that stuff. We said goodnight and went our own ways, and I was parked outside her small apartment block in the morning.

When she appeared she looked great. At the airport and when I had been with her the day before, I guess she was in her work clothes. I mean, smart looking, hair up on top, beautiful. But that morning her hair was down and it was long. It was like a silk curtain moving in the slight breeze. She was wearing a simple dress, but it hugged her figure, and that was some figure. Honestly, when I saw her walking towards me, smiling, my heart skipped a beat, or my dick pulsed heavily -- probably both.

The moment we arrived at the hospital the crash cart was pushed down the corridor in front of us. I remember thinking: 'who is the poor bastard who needs that?' But it was my Mom. They would not let us approach the bed while they did their work. There is no sadness in that moment, just shock. Looking back, I think that it was OK to see my mother die like that. I mean, I think that she just slipped away, but all that activity meant that it seemed less sad somehow.

I guess I was still in shock when I signed the papers and headed back to my Mom's place with Hannah. I did not even ask her if she wanted to be there until she had been there for over an hour, tidying up after me even though I had only stayed one night.

"This is a beautiful home," she said. "And it's in a great location. The last of these large family homes in this street that has not been refurbished."

"It sure needs work," I said. "I would like to do it. Maybe take some time off and stay here a while?"

"That would be nice," she said.

Nice. What is with that word? Does that word sound sexy or am I just imagining it? It makes a little smile when it is said. A little bit of tongue and a little bit of teeth. A little hiss at the end.

Anyway, I just grabbed her. I just grabbed her and kissed her like fuck. Like a Hollywood movie with the orchestra in the background. The whole thing. Her arms were around my neck and her sweet-smelling hair was falling all about her face and in my hands. And she was as light as a feather, but most people are when you have arms like mine. I knew what to do. I never gave it a thought. I think she only said one word: "Yes." But she must have said that about a hundred times. She was still saying it when I was donkey deep inside her, on the double bed in the spare room.

I toppled over beside her. I had just fucked the quarterback.

She was lying naked beside me. Somehow all of her clothes had come off, and all of mine too.

I ran my fingers up her body. The pussy was just as I had imagined. A moist open purse beneath a mound planted with a garden of fair pubic hair. Her belly was soft and smooth. My finger traced over one of her perfect breasts, moving slightly as she shivered under my touch. My finger traced her smooth throat, her perfect chin to her lips and her smile.

"I hope you don't think I'm taking advantage of you in your grief," she said.

I was trying to think of something smart to say. I just couldn't think of anything. Some people might say that is because I am not a thinker, but my mind was full to the brim, with her. Is that a thing? When you are so caught up with somebody that all other thoughts vanish? Honestly, I was struck dumb. All I could do was fondle her with my hands and kiss her with my lips. And of course, given a fair amount of time to recover, penetrate her again, and again and again and again. But that came later. I am not that kind of athlete.

And that is the way that it has been ever since. My wife leaves me dumb. When I look at her head on the pillow in the morning, when she puts my breakfast on the table, when she gets home after a day at work, when she lets her clothes slip to the floor in our bedroom. Speechless.

She doesn't want to hear me anyway. She wants me to sing to her with my body. That's what I like to do.

I now coach football at my old college. Way better than my old job, and it gives me time to work on the house, turning my old family home into a new family home. Something for our new adopted family. Three boys. All football players, it's my hope. Hers too, I hope. She can still throw a mean pass.

The End

(c) Maryanne Peters 2020