Chapter 69
Noah
To be honest, I was killing it.
Summer bootcamp wasn’t supposed to feel this good, but something
had shifted–like I’d finally clicked into place. My passes were tighter,
my reads were sharper, and I was moving like my damn body had
finally caught up to my brain. Even Coach Aiden’s insane
conditioning drills didn’t hit the same anymore. Okay, they still
wrecked me, but now I was wrecked and respected, and that counted
for something.
Guys were starting to notice, too. The nods during drills turned into
fist bumps after plays. “Blake, you a machine today?” “Bro, that
footwork!” “Yo, what’re you on, man?”
It was kinda sick, not gonna lie. I wasn’t just on the team anymore–I
was earning my spot. Every sprint, every throw, every drop of sweat
had people looking at me like I was the real deal. Even Keon–Mr.
Too–Cool–For–Everything–had stopped calling me Rookie and started
calling me “QB.”
I’d never been this guy before.
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And suddenly, I had people wanting to hang out. Keon mentioned a beach thing again, and Miguel kept throwing around pizza plans like we were best friends. At least three guys asked for my socials last
week, and I had three different DMs from three different cheerleaders
sitting unread in my inbox.
Problem was… I had plans. Every damn night.
Aiden didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t need to. I was expected
at his place the moment practice ended, no questions asked. Training.
Structure. Order. That was our deal.
But how long could I keep dodging invites before I started looking
like the weird antisocial scholarship kid who ran off every evening
like he had a parole officer to check in with?
I needed an excuse. A real one. Something solid enough to explain
why I couldn’t do late–night hangouts or movie marathons without
making it sound like I was secretly married or working nights at a
strip club. I thought about telling them I was in a recovery program—
except that would make parties awkward. Or maybe a job? But that
would eventually require pay stubs. A sick relative? Morbid and hard
to maintain.
God. I craved those hours with Aiden. The control. The quiet. The way
my body obeyed him even when my head screamed otherwise. I wasn’t
giving that up. Not for anything. But I also couldn’t afford to be an
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outsider here. I needed allies on this team if I was going to go pro. I
needed friends.
And it wasn’t like I could exactly say, “Sorry, bro, I’ve got to go get
edge–denied by my dominant coach while he forces me to recite game plays and calls me boy.”
Yeah. That’d go over great.
It didn’t help my internal conflict–and let’s be real, my Aiden craving
-that we spent every damn second together on the field.
Coach Mercer wasn’t just involved. He was hands–on. Every rep, every play, every drill–I could feel him watching me, hovering near me,
barking orders that sounded way too much like commands meant for the dungeon and not a football field. And lately… I swear he was
enjoying himself. Like, way too much.
Especially when I started blushing.
Like that day when I nailed a perfect long throw during scrimmage
and he came up behind me so close I felt his breath on my ear,
“Good boy,”
I almost dropped to my knees right there on the turf.
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What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was I thinking? My brain short–circuited, and my cock stirred like it didn’t give a shit that we were surrounded by twenty sweaty guys and a field full of
potential witnesses.
And the worst part? It didn’t stop there.
Sometimes he’d toss out a soft “attaboy” with this edge to his voice- low and amused, like he knew exactly what it did to me. Or he’d place his hand a little too low on my back when correcting my stance,
letting it linger just long enough to mess with my
head.
It had been four fucking days since he let me come. Four.
Which meant I’d been practicing under orgasm control, hard as hell for 90% of the day, twitching in my jock like some desperate perv
every time he said my name with that tone. And he knew. Oh, he
knew.
So yeah, by the end of practice, I was a walking hormone grenade. A
sweaty, overstimulated, blue–balled mess trying not to lose it in front
of half the starting lineup.
That’s probably why I snapped when he helped me stack weights after
the final drill and–Jesus–pressed his crotch right into my lower back.
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No warning. No apology. Just that slight press of heat and hardness
behind me, casual as anything. I stood there frozen, heart in my
throat, cheeks burning, and I swear I felt him smirk against my
shoulder.
My dick throbbed. I panicked.
I muttered some excuse about hitting the showers and bolted like my
life depended on it.
***
The water was still running in the next shower stall when I stepped out into the locker room, grabbed my towel, and practically collapsed on the bench. I took a long swig from the sports drink Coach Mercer had shoved into my hand earlier–one of his homemade electrolyte concoctions that always tasted better than anything store–bought
and, worse, reminded me of him.
I was still trying to cool down–physically and emotionally–when Miguel sauntered up and flopped next to me with a suspicious grin.
“What happened back there?” he asked. “You ran like you saw a
ghost.”
“I just got a bit overheated,” I said quickly, wiping my face and
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downing more of the drink.
Miguel tilted his head, his grin sharpening. “Did Coach get a little too
close?”
I nearly choked, coughing mid–sip. “What? What do you mean??”
He laughed, totally unbothered. “Relax, I didn’t mean you. Most guys find him intimidating enough to pee their pants.”
I blinked, trying to slow my racing heart. “And you don’t?”
“Oh, I find him hot as hell. If he got that close to me, I’d wet my
pants too… just in a very different way.”
“Oh my God,” Keon muttered, rolling his eyes as he dropped onto the
bench opposite us. “You seriously need to get laid, dude.”
Miguel shrugged dramatically. “Oh yeees… With him, I need that, and
badly.”
Keon ignored him and turned to me, squinting like he was reading a
play. “And judging by your lack of a social life and the way you’ve
been walking around like you’re about to snap, so do you.”
I stared at him. “Thanks?”
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He smirked. “Which brings us to why we wanted to talk to you.”
Miguel perked up immediately. “Tomorrow is Keon’s birthday.”
“Really? Happy birthday, man!” I patted his shoulder.
Keon gave me a toothy smile. “You have to come to the party. Tomorrow, Friday night. We’re throwing down at the team house- beer, music, dumb party games, the usual chaos. And yes, there’ll be
girls. Hot ones.”
“And boys,” Miguel added helpfully, giving me a pointed look. “Equal
opportunity chaos.”
Keon snorted. “Just come, man. You’ve been killing it on the field, and
it’s summer. You deserve to blow off some steam.”
I forced a grin and grabbed my cleats from the floor. “Count me in.
That’ll be fun.”
What might not be quite as fun was asking Aiden for a Friday night
off.
But hey it was just one night…. What could possibly go wrong?
