Author’s Note - My boyfriend and I are driving the other day when he starts trolling me on my writing. He thinks it’s funny that I chose to write about football players. The man doesn’t realize what I’m dealing with, but whatever. So, he’s selling me on a plot line - wealthy and sexy lawyer with a cold and distant father and a vampire who was turned during the Spanish influenza who have hot sexy sex in their love dungeon. “Double fanfic, Babe!”
The sad part wasn’t that he’s pitching Shades/Twilight slashfic at me, but Preston and Cory in the back of my head shouting “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”
~ Dayne (email@example.com)
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Chapter 7 – Surprisingly Tasty
The balcony and player’s lounge are stuffed with people. It’s on the ass-end of July, but the coaches finally have the freshmen in good enough shape to bring them into the fold, or have weeded out those who won’t work on the team. To celebrate, they’re hosting a massive barbeque in the locker complex. The team and coaches are all here, along with some ol’ boy alumi with deep pockets and select members of the press. Thus, we all have to look presentable and act like our mothers taught us manners.
I’m coming out of my redshirt season, so there’s some interest around me. However, most of it is centered on Cory, who left Freshmen Camp weeks ahead of the others. It’s all anyone can talk about. The coaches announced today that he would be playing with the team this fall, the only freshman without a redshirt. He’s a natural with crowds, so everyone wants to talk to him, and I can’t even begrudge him that.
He wore his glasses today, which seem to draw more attention to his eyes rather than hiding them. A couple times, our eyes meet and he grins at me. Then I feel really stupid for how attracted I am to him and that just makes me cranky and irritable.
Right now he and Rice are convincing a bunch of people to put weird shit on fruit. Cory’s mother sent him a care package that contained – among 5 more pairs of Converse – some Mexican candies and a bottle of chamoy, this blood red condiment that looks rather revolting. Apparently, it goes on everything, including watermelon, which is in no short supply here. Both guys have plastic cups packed with the fruit and doused in chamoy and some chili-lime salt. I’m their next target.
“Dude, seriously,” Rice says, “just try it.”
Cory spears a piece of melon on his fork and waves it in my face. A drop of chamoy falls off and plops wetly on the concrete. Good thing we’re outside or Vuis would pitch a fit. “Come on, Efrain. You know you want to.”
I know I want to do a lot of things. They all involve things he wouldn’t like. But, the kid says my name with that taunting voice and good boy grin, and suddenly I can’t say no to him.
“Fine.” I bite the fruit off his fork and immediately wish I hadn’t. This weird mix of salty, sweet, and spicy, I swear there’s this kind of pickled flavor somewhere.
“Oh, I ask you three times, but the first time Card says something…”
I’m probably more infatuated with Cory than I should be, but I seriously do not do everything he asks me to. I finish chewing and try to swallow, so I can defend myself. Yet, the longer it’s in my mouth…
“Huh, that’s actually pretty good.”
Cory turns to Rice. “I told you I could get him to eat it. You owe me lunch.”
“Dammit, Garza,” Rice swears.
I should feel offended at being tricked, but Cory beams at me and shoves more sauced fruit in his mouth and my indignation slips away under that blue gaze. Thankfully, Rice leads him off to sucker in more teammates before I lose my wits completely.
Nope, wits are completely lost.
The last time I boned up in the locker room was early high school. There I was, just minding my own business, when oh hey, guys, this is my penis. I wasn’t even looking at the other boys, my dick just makes a grab for attention in a room full of guys in various states of undress. Of course it was embarrassing, but I wasn’t the only one it happened to, so it didn’t matter to anyone. It’s just what adolescent dicks do.
If only I could still use that excuse.
Okay, it’s not like I’m actively creeping on my straight teammate. I just happen to see Cory, out the corner of my eye, coming out of the showers, towel around his waist and water still clinging to his chest. He’s muscled and defined, with just enough body fat to keep him from looking too hard and veiny. He takes another towel and starts drying his hair.
And that’s when the towel around his hips slips off.
I look away and focus on getting my shorts on.
“Damn, Card,” I hear Teague say. “Are you sure you aren’t black, too?”
Against my better judgement, I look over. Lithgow and Cory are giving him almost identical flat stares. Cory has the towel in front of his crotch, but the entire length of his powerful legs are exposed. All of it, from trim ankle to the rounded swell of his ass, is burned into my eyes before I have the sense to look elsewhere. I get my shirt over my head and try not to think about the blood rushing to my dick.
“Could you be less weird, Teague?”
I deal with my embarrassment the same way I deal with any other emotion I don’t like. “Oh, lay off him, Lithgow. When you’re that small, every dick is monstrous.”
“Fuck, we must be talking micro-peen,” Lithgow says. “If the size of Card’s truck is any indication, it can’t be that big.”
“Vehicle size seems like a poor measure,” Cory reasons. “Or, else you’d need a semi.”
“Damn, Lithgow,” says one of the guys on the other side of their section. “I think the trainers might have some cream for that burn.”
Card smirks. He sets down his towel and starts stepping into his underwear – these cute short boxer briefs. I’m trying and failing not to look at what’s nestled in his light brown pubic hair. Even flaccid, I can tell that he’s not compensating for anything.
“So, is everyone done creeping on my dick?” He looks at each of us, and includes the guys in the lockers behind him. “You guys good? Great.” Then he turns to pull on the rest of his clothes.
“It seems that we have been dismissed, gentlemen,” I say and walk off before I really embarrass myself.
On my way out of the locker complex, Vuis stops me to talk about my progress. “You’ve grown a lot, son. It was good thinking to put Card on your ass.”
I realize that’s when all this started. That first tackle. Fuck you, well-meaning coach. It’s all I can do to say something polite and leave. I’ve been pushing myself lately, mainly to keep up with Cory, but it has paid off. I just wish it didn’t come with such a steep price.
On the way to the bus stop, I start messing with Grindr. I lost interest in hooking up a month or so ago, which may be why I’m panting after Cory. I just need to get balls deep in someone’s ass, that’s all. Once I satisfy that urge, his rolling r and blue eyes and…fucking hell. I spend the whole bus ride discreetly swiping through matches and pretending that my hard-on is from the pictures on my phone and not a certain baby faced lineman with delicious thighs.
I have a date before I reach my house.
Sleep, eat, practice, creep on Cory, fuck some random guy, sleep, eat, practice, accidentally flirt with Cory and hope he doesn’t notice, fuck some random guy, sleep, eat, practice, spend an entire night chatting with Cory at a party, fuck some random guy that kinda looks like him, sleep, eat…
I throw myself into football and fucking around, but my mind keeps going back to Cory. I probably wouldn’t want him as much if I could have him. Men don’t keep my interest long after the first fuck and it’s rare for guys to last more than a week. It’s really for the best that he’s straight, otherwise it would mess with our friendship. I like him. I like hanging around him. I just wish my dick would get with the program.
But, it won’t.
And thus, I am looking up pictures of him on Facebook. The recent ones from hanging out with the team, the night of our dance-off, even stuff from when he was in high school. I run my hands through my hair in frustration because I’m lusting over pictures of his 15-year old self in his soccer uniform. I thought I’d be safer creep-stalking him in the living room, where I can’t immediately whip out my cock and start pumping, but the urge is just as strong.
I’m at my limit when I finally notice his profile information. All at once his “column A, column B” comment makes sense. Why didn’t I notice this before? I suddenly feel like shouting.
Then, Indie stumbles in, drunk and rambling about how he fucked up.