by Alexis Angel
AJ (holding up his hand): No, let me finish. I have no objection to her behavior at all. As a private citizen she's free to do whatever she wants. But the moment she puts herself under the microscope, she needs to place her own life on hold and uphold what society tells her is the moral code that we live by.
Courtney: So, coming back to the initial question. Do you think the actions that we've witnessed with Colt, Ethan, and Julianna will negatively impact their play on Monday against the Stepbrothers in San Francisco?
Colt
Monday night. America’s night. Lights. Cameras. Crowds.
Football.
I love every single fucking minute of this game.
But tonight, I seriously consider maybe finding a new line of fucking work.
The clock was winding and I snap the ball, heading back, looking for my receivers.
Too late. The Stepbrothers Defense has been on us like nothing else all night and broke past my right tackle.
I have maybe two seconds. But before I can do anything I see fucking stars. Pain shoots through my entire fucking body and I fall towards the ground.
My brain registers what happens without words. Someone must have gotten through and come up my blind side.
They got around the left tackle.
I land on the ground, trying to keep the football. I can’t let go of the football.
I fail.
It leaves my hands and bounces off.
That’s probably the only thing that saves my life. There’s a pileup of guys that fall on the ground, chasing the fucking ball.
But I’m past caring at this point. I take a few deep breaths, moving my legs and arms to see if everything is working. It’s good.
The pain subsides. Nothing broken. Nothing torn.
I stand up and realize that that we’ve turned over the ball.
Fucking again.
With a sigh, I run off the field as Ethan leads the defense out.
This has got to be like the ninth time we’ve traded spots on the field.
Ethan hasn’t spoken to me since the night he and I both had Julianna. In fact, he up and left before we could do anything more. Like a fucking light switch went off after he came.
It’s not like Julianna and I kept at it. We lay there for a little bit, kissing and shit, before we realized that we were pretty exposed in all this. With the way things were going with our sex lives, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that some fucker with a camera somewhere had taken a picture of us. I don't even know where or how. But we decided it was probably best to call it a fucking night.
We left the stadium in separate cars. Going to separate beds.
When all my body wanted to do was to be near her. To hold onto her and never let her go.
But it wasn’t just fucking Julianna that I wanted.
I couldn't stop thinking of Ethan.
That fucker who’d been around my whole life. The one who I’d competed with the since we were kids - who always had been trying to steal my thunder. I couldn’t stop thinking of his fucking body.
Of his goddamn cock.
I mean, don't fucking look at me like that, okay?
I’m not fucking gay. I know I’m not gay.
I like fucking women too much. All fucking shapes and sizes. I’m an equal opportunity fuck machine.
I guess equal opportunity even extends to gender too.
I mean, it’s not like I want to jump every fucking guy that I come up to. I’ve seen cocks all my life in the locker room. I bet you were going to think I was going to say ‘the cocker room’ didn’t you?
But that’s not what I was thinking then.
Until Ethan and I took Julianna together.
Fuck, that was so fucking hot. It was so fucking dirty that even now, as I’m exhausted and reaching the side-lines, my cock is fucking twitching as I think of kissing Julianna’s tits and running them all over my face while Ethan rubbed his cock all over her ass cheeks.
Fuck. Now is not the best time.
Especially the way we’ve been playing.
I know what you’re going to say - I’m supposed to be the fucking best, right?
But I can’t be the best if I’m supposed to be constantly on the field. That’s what the defense is for. To keep the other team’s offense from scoring.
But it also gives me a chance to breathe. Sure, if we have a turnover or shut them down, that’s one thing.
But when we keep having to go back on the field over and over again.
When we keep getting called in because the ball turned over too soon, me and my offensive line get fucking exhausted.
It’s one thing if we were going over because our defense was shutting them down.
But we were allowing them to score.
By the time I head back out in the middle of the third quarter, we’re losing. The Stepbrothers lead us 36 to 7.
I’ve thrown three interceptions because I’ve been worn out by the end of the first Quarter.
Our defense is giving up too much. They’re letting too many things get through.
What the fuck is Ethan thinking?
Why is he playing like shit? I can’t keep doing this without him.
There, I said it, okay? I need the fucker. I can’t do it on my own.
My heart’s fucking sinking as my offensive line basically crumbles and I have to throw away the ball. Again.
We barely make it past a minute before we’re out of downs and have to punt the ball again.
The Stepbrother return it for a touchdown.
That means I’m back on the field. Fuck.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep going. Even our second string QB is exhausted.
The water is falling in waves against my body as I close my eyes and point my head up towards the shower head.
Everybody was mostly silent as the game ended. One of the worse losses in New York Nailers history.
I know I just came to this team this season, but I’ve grown to think of these men as my brothers. As this team as my fucking family.
And I feel like I’ve let the team down today.
Not even Coach Karl has anything to say to us. Maybe that’s the worst feeling of all. That even the coach doesn't want to fucking talk to you because he’s disgusted.
The shower is definitely cooling me off - calming me down and making me feel a bit more normal. Fuck.
21 to 7.
I decide to stay under the water until I feel calmer. Until my brain is focused again. I can’t keep on being distracted by thoughts of Julianna. Thoughts of Ethan.
The locker room is pretty deserted by the time I get out of the shower. That’s fine with me. Just the way I fucking want it.
I walk past rows of deserted lockers heading towards mine. Towels, jock straps, socks, helmets, all line the floor. All waiting for the maintenance folks the team hires to come clean up.
I don’t know why, but I make a turn to go the longer way, seeing if anyone is around.
And that’s where I run into him.
Ethan fucking Blake.
I have my towel on but he’s still naked, putting on deodorant.
Fuck. The fucking sight of his naked fucking back - muscled and chiseled - makes my cock twitch. What the fuck! I know I’m not gay, but what the fuck is it about this motherfucker that’s getting me fucking hard.
Hearing movement, Ethan turns towards me.
Our eyes lock. I stop walking past him and turn towards him.
“Ethan…” I manage to croak.
Don’t you fucking get caught up at laughing at me, bro. You know I fucking hate that motherfucker.
You cannot fucking forget that. I want you to burn that into your brain.
But the normal Colt Stackford is gone. Instead, my heart is fucking beating a mile a minute.
Ethan brings his eyes down, not meeting my gaze, “Sorry about the game tonight, Colt…” he begins.
“It’s okay, man,” I say, not knowing where all this is fu
cking coming from. I should be skewering his fucking ass right now.
But I don’t.
“No,” Ethan says with a deep sigh. “No, it’s not alright.”
I’m silent as a troubled look goes through his face. “It was my fault. I saw you play and I saw how exhausted you got by the end of the game,” Ethan say. “I couldn’t hold them back. I couldn’t shut them down.”
Ethan’s shoulders slump.
My nemesis since I’ve been six years old is defeated. The one kid who was able to always stand up to me when we played peewee football in our small Texas town is broken. The one kid who didn’t care that his father worked for mine on the ranch is now giving me a vacant fucking stare. The one guy in high school who I had to share the MVP award with on our football team. The only other person in the history of our high school who had their jersey retired. The one guy who was good enough for Delta Sigma Rho - the most prestigious secret society at Ole Miss to offer two spots and not one to someone from the football team. The one guy who was drafted with me. Who has played across from me. Who was used with me in tandem by the Dallas Devils to take us to victory time after time after time.
He’s standing before me now.
Defeated.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Ethan says and I can’t bear to see him like this.
I don’t know why I do what I do and what the fuck I’m doing but I take a couple steps over to him.
“It’s like my head isn’t in the fucking game,” he says more to himself than to me. “I can’t stop thinking about…”
He stops himself and I know at that moment that the same thoughts going through in my head - those same thoughts that are distracting me during my game - are wreaking all holy hell in his head also. Except with defense, loss of concentration can destroy a team from its underbelly.
I know Ethan well enough by now to know that he’s thinking and kicking himself about what we did. He’s not like me. Anything goes with me. But not him. He had a crazy ass dad that fucked up his brain. I gotta bring the motherfucker back before he loses himself in despair.
Before he starts viewing what happened with the three of us as something bad.
“Hey,” I say softly and Ethan looks up.
I’m inches from the dude. I can smell him - his cologne - and I inhale deeply.
Fuck, this guy pisses me the fuck off.
He’s everything that I want to be. He’s solid. Stable.
He doesn’t need to try to be the center of attention. When he walks in the room, he has a fucking gravitas that attracts everything in it to him.
My hand reaches over and I bring it to his chest.
Ethan draws a sharp breath and looks at me.
My eyes meet his and we lock our gazes.
I’m not breaking this stare. Let’s see if he does.
Let’s see how far this fucking goes.
I bring my hand down and trace my finger down his abs before descending to his crotch.
I can feel his pubes on my hand and in a second, not even having to look down, I feel his cock.
Fuck I’m fucking hard.
I grab his cock in my hand and squeeze it.
He wanted me to be real? He wanted me to be genuine.
Let’s make this fucking real.
Ethan
Is this really happening? I’m too stunned to say anything. I swallow hard and can feel my breath rising and falling with the movement of my chest. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. Everything I know to be true about myself is being challenged in this moment, and on top of that, this is Colt Stackford we're talking about—the guy I punched on National television, the guy who can't keep from dipping his dick into every woman who he comes in contact with, the guy who was once voted sexiest man alive by Ladies Who Love magazine.
And now his hand is wrapped around my cock.
His large, strong hand is gripped around my shaft with force, and I can feel myself growing hard under his touch. My back is pressed up against the lockers, and I can feel a steel handle in the small of my back, but I don't dare move. "Admit that you fucking want this," Colt says, whispering so as to not draw any unwanted attention.
I don't know what to say. He's right; my whole body is pulsing with desire and my cock is so hard it feels like it might burst. He smiles. He knows. That bastard could always read me. It was an almost uncanny ability. I feel his grip tighten again, and he slowly pulls on my dick, long, and firm, and slow strokes at first, and then his pace quickening until even my balls are slapping his hand. His hand draws my cock back and forth. My breath catches in my throat. I find myself hardly able to exhale. An almost electric current continues to course down my body, making my cock stiffer than I ever thought possible. He tries to lock his gaze with mine, but I can’t do it. I tilt my head back into the wall of lockers, while his hand keeps a steady rhythm on my shaft.
There’s a part of my mind that told me to stop all of this, that this was wrong. But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right? It was like I had willingly jumped onto a rollercoaster ride and now it was too late to exit. This ride was in motion and I had to see this through. Did I even want off the ride? I wondered. Colt pushes his hips into mine, and I can feel the strain of his muscles while he increases the intense pace of his tugs on my cock. I can smell his manhood. I can’t lie to myself. I find myself wanting him. I know I can’t last much longer. The desire has built up inside of me, like a soda that’s been shaken. Any minute now, I’m going to explode.
"Fucking cum for me," Colt demands with his hot breath in my ear. I can see a warm flush in his face.
That’s it. It feels as if he just gave me permission to release everything that had built up inside of me, and I can’t hold it in any longer. "Oh shit," I breath out. Ropes of hot cum shot out of my cock and into his fist and onto the locker room floor. He continues to milk my cock and even when I didn't think I had anything left, wave after wave of cum explodes into the spaces between us.
I take a deep breath, and I realize that I had my eyes closed tightly. I open them, and the room seems brighter. What just happened? Did anyone see or hear us? We didn't need any more tabloid fodder. Shit, what have I done? I needed to put this behind me. I just know that I needed to get out of this locker room and away from Colt, and fast. I don’t feel ready to confront the reality of what just happened. I put my dick into my boxer briefs, zip, and button my pants, and grab my bag before nearly bolting out of the locker room door. Colt tries to say something, but I don’t turn around to look at him. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. The only thing I can think about is getting as far away as possible from him.
I'm not looking forward to today's practice. It's damn near 100 degrees outside and the thought of seeing Colt and Julianna is rattling my already fried nerves. And lately, I can't even get a full night's rest in because even in my sleep, my mind is like a runaway train. Images keep flashing through my brain. Am I in love with Julianna? Maybe Colt was right about her. And what about Colt? What is happening between us? I don't know what to think anymore. I look out across the football field—across all 100 perfectly manicured yards, and instead of thinking about the sport, my mind is going back in time—to that penthouse, to the team's skybox, to the locker room. I nearly trip as I step on a thin, black rubber jump rope that’s lying on the field in a messy heap. It’s a rope that one of the players used for his extra cardio workouts.
Looking down at that rope, I remember a hot summer afternoon when two girls invited me to play jump rope with them. In those days, I was shy, but with a bit of determination on their part, I finally agreed. I can remember them standing there, wearing floral print dresses, holding onto both ends of the brightly colored nylon rope, and stretching it out between them. They told me to stand in the middle as they swung it over my head. On the first spin, I didn't jump in time and the rope caught on my foot, almost causing me to trip. But I caught myself with my other foot, waving my hands and arms in the air for balance. B
oth of the girls laughed.
"Again! Again! Again!" they urged giggling. "You can do it, Ethan!"
They swung the rope around me again, and this time, I fell into their rhythm. They swung, and I jumped, time after time, until my calves ached. I smiled as a thin film of sweat gathered on my forehead. It felt good to finally master the jumps. And then I heard a deep voice that made my heart stop.
"What are you, a faggot?" my dad asked towering over me. "No son of mine is going to sit here like a little girl playing with girls' toys. Get over here and help me with the farm work."
Dad used to work for Colt’s dad. And the abuse he took on a daily basis as a ranch hand came right back down to us.
Down to me. I remember thinking how it was Colt’s fault that I couldn’t jump rope.
I remembered the deep embarrassment of the moment flooding my face as I walked away from those girls. I couldn't bear to look them in the face. But then I’m catapulted back into the present, feeling the weight of my football helmet's facemask laced between my fingers, sweat beading down my back. I need to stay focused. I'm Ethan Blake, the best defensive end in the league. The most important thing right now is winning a spot on New York Nailers, isn't it? I ask myself. It’s important for me to keep that in perspective. I need to get ahold of myself. My career is everything.
I look over my shoulder and see Colt warming up. He‘s stretching his right arm and repeatedly throwing footballs to a wide receiver. I watch as his arm and leg muscles tens. Every pass spirals tightly down the field and looks perfect, landing softly into the arms of his open receiver. There is no doubt that he was a gifted football player. He always has been. It's his too-big-for-his-own-good ego that drives me crazy, and not in a good way. Colt suddenly feels my gaze on him, and he looks back at me. He motions for the receiver to wait a moment, and he begins to walk in my direction, but I look away and jog off to the other end of the field. Hell no. There is no way that I can talk to him right now, and he must have got the hint because he doesn’t try to approach me.
"Hey there, stranger," comes a voice.
