Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Christian shrugs. “It’s been three months…”

  “When did I ever say we were through?” Ronnie snaps.

  “You didn’t have to say it. Jesus, Ronnie. When I told you I was thinking of going with the Blizzard, you kept quiet. When I told you I was leaving, you never said a word. So how am I supposed to know we even had something between us if you don’t bother telling me in the first place?”

  “I told you.” Ronnie steps away from the truck, toward Christian. “Every time we were together, I told you how I felt. You just didn’t listen.”

  Christian struggles not to give ground. “You never said…”

  A look of consternation crosses Ronnie’s face. “I didn’t think I had to say the words out loud.”

  Confused, Christian starts, “Then how—”

  “Listen.”

  Grabbing the front of Christian’s jacket, Ronnie pulls him close. Before Christian can react, he feels the sweet press of lips on his, a mouth he hadn’t thought he’d taste again, and his eyes slip shut as Ronnie kisses him. Christian gives into the moment, the man—for the first time, he hears the unspoken words hidden in the velvet crush, the emotions Ronnie never spoke of, the feelings for him that had always lingered in every touch, every kiss, every time they made love. Ronnie licks into him, possessive; Christian melts beneath the kiss. This is definitely worth missing the bus, he decides.

  Against his mouth, Ronnie murmurs, “Stay with me tonight.”

  For once, Christian hears the words beneath the request. Love me, and let me love you. His response is another kiss, deeper than the one before, and he eases his arms around Ronnie’s waist to hold him tight. The warmth between them keeps the chill of the night at bay.

  THE END

  Play On

  Sean Mason first sees the sexy new guy at practice.

  It’s mid-September; the team’s been on the field for a month already, easing back into the game after summer vacation, but this will be the first time rookies take the field. Tryouts were last weekend—Sean skipped them like he always does. He did that shit his freshman year, kicking soccer balls into goals and showing off his skills in the hopes of being picked for the team. Now he’s a junior, and as long as he wants to keep playing, the coach keeps putting him on the roster. He proves he can play every time he gets out on the field.

  This year’s new players currently jog around the pitch, seven guys strung out in a loose line as they circle the field. Sean notices them when he exits the locker room with a few of his other teammates, and someone laughs. “Fresh meat,” Thompson says, nodding at the rookies. Through his buzzed blonde hair, his scalp is sunburned, though his pale face is slathered with sunscreen. He’s got a white smear he didn’t quite rub into his skin completely, just under his jaw, and Sean thinks it looks like cum smudged under his chin. “How many d’ya think will still be here at the end of the season?”

  “Once Coach Barrett’s through with them?” Sean turns at the sound of Kidman’s reedy voice and grins at his teammate. Short and squat, Kidman’s built like a linebacker and can’t run two feet without purpling in the face. But he’s a damn good goalkeeper. Pushing his dark, lank hair from his face, he frowns at the rookies and asks, “Hell, which ones are going to be stupid enough to come back after their first day?”

  Sean follows his teammates out onto the pitch. “We were.”

  “We can’t get away,” Kidman jokes. “The coach sucked us in—”

  Sean agrees, “He sucks, alright.”

  The three laugh at that—Coach is a hard-ass, able to reduce the cockiest college boy to tears. Sean knows; he’s seen it happen. Once or twice the old man almost got to him, but Sean just ground his teeth and let the harsh words roll off his back. He’s a good player—he knows it, the team knows it, and the coach damn well better know it after two seasons of yelling at him on the field.

  They stop at the edge of the pitch while the freshman run past. By the loll of their tongues, the whites of their eyes, and the sweaty hair pushed back from their brows, they’ve been running a while now. Sean tries to remember those days—he’d show up early for practice and be set jogging around the course what, eight laps? Ten? Something like that. The coach is a huge believer in running the body ragged before play even begins. These new kids will learn not to show up so early next time… “Give up now!” Thompson shouts at them. The guy passing before him cringes at the sound of his voice. “Turn around, go home, save yourselves!”

  That sets Kidman and Sean snickering again. “Ain’t worth it,” Kidman tells the rookies. “Do basketball or football instead. The cheerleaders are hotter.”

  “At least those sports have cheerleaders,” Thompson adds.

  That’s when Sean notices the guy bringing up the rear of the pack. Despite his lag time, it’s evident he’s just pacing himself. His shirt is off, tied around his narrow waist, exposing a smooth chest the delicious color of dark mahogany. Sweat glistens like water on thinly-defined muscles bunched in his abdomen and flexing along his arms and legs. Sean’s first thought is damn…that brother is fine. Who needs cheerleaders when you have an ass like that to check out during the game?

  Only once the rookies are past does Sean realize he didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face. How could he? All that bare skin from neck to waist distracted him. If they were alone on the field, Sean would chase the guy down, knock him to the ground, roll him over and bite at the ruddy nipples that look like chocolate kisses set in his chest. Sean wants to lick away the guy’s sweat, trail his tongue around muscles that would clench at his touch, rim around the dusky navel before following the faint trail of black curls down to the prize in the rookie’s shorts. Without thinking, he throws a look back over his shoulder after the runners as he follows his teammates onto the pitch.

  While he’s watching, the guy glances over. High cheekbones, strong nose, dark eyes like black jewels set in his face. A razor-thin line of hair traces his jaw and circles his full mouth. He has large lips, the color of garnet, which Sean can almost feel pillowed against his own.

  The hint of a smile pulls those lips taut. Sean’s just about to smile back—so he’s not the only one who likes what he sees—when he walks straight into Kidman. That’s what the rookie is grinning at, has to be. Just his luck; here he is trying to look fly and he comes off whack. As Sean takes a step back, Kidman elbows him in the stomach. “Get off me.”

  Sean pushes back, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Why’d you stop?”

  “Girls.”

  Coach Barrett’s hard voice silences them. He stands like a monolith before the trio of players, feet planted apart, arms crossed, clipboard in one hand and whistle in the other. The three huddle together, each hoping he isn’t singled out. Sean ducks behind Kidman but it doesn’t work—he’s taller than his friend, so the coach picks on him. “Where’s everyone else, Mason?”

  With a wave back at the sports complex on the edge of the field, Sean asks, “Locker room?”

  “What’s going on in there?” the coach wants to know. “Circle jerk? You guys come first?”

  Beside Sean, Thompson whispers, “Yeah. We finished early.”

  Sean knees the back of Thompson’s leg. He wobbles, catches his balance, then turns to punch Sean in the arm. The coach, only seeing the last part of the exchange, slaps Thompson with the clipboard. “Ten laps,” he snaps.

  “But he—”

  “Twelve.”

  Thompson sighs. “Coach—”

  “Keeping talking,” the coach warns. “You’re up to fifteen.”

  Throwing Sean a hateful look, Thompson jogs to the edge of the pitch. Sean grins but his victory is short-lived. “What are you two waiting for?” the coach asks. “A golden ticket? I want eight from both of you. Now.”

  With a sigh, Kidman starts, “Coach, my asthma…”

  At the stern look Barrett throws his way, Kidman trails off. Jogging after Thompson, he mutters, “I’m going to die out here.”

  “I
f you’re lucky,” the coach shoots back. “You too, Mason. Start hoofing it.”

  Sean glances around, trying to find…there. That hot black guy’s just skirted the goal and now follows the rest of the team along the stretch of field heading for the centerline. Sean starts to jog, gauging the distance separating them, and picks up speed the last few feet to break through the ranks and fall into step beside the guy. Matching his strides, Sean flashes him a wide smile. “You’re new here. I’m Sean.”

  The guy nods. “Cordero.” His hair is braided into tight rows across his scalp, each ending with a small flip at the nape of his neck. This close, his skin has a reddish sheen to it, polished, and Sean stumbles because he can’t stop staring. Perfectly white teeth flash at him in a quick grin. “Careful there, holmes. You’re real slick today.”

  “Yeah, well.” Sean can’t think of anything else to say about that, so he changes the topic. “You’re a freshman?”

  Cordero’s eyes narrow and he makes an irritated noise out of the corner of his mouth. “Psh. I been here three years.”

  Sean’s interest piques. Freshmen aren’t usually his style—too damn young and immature. But a junior, now, like himself… “I ain’t see you ’round.”

  “Maybe you ain’t been looking,” Cordero offers.

  They run behind the next goal, the two of them slowing to distance themselves from the other runners. “Please,” Sean says, throwing a glance around to make sure none of his teammates can overhear. “Why d’you think I went to school in the first place? I’m in the D and A program.”

  Cordero grins, like he knows Sean’s joking. “What the hell’s that?”

  “Dick and ass.” Sean throws him a wink, heart thudding in his chest. The ball is Cordero’s to play.

  Around the opposite end of the goal, into a straight run. Cordero shakes his head, his grin widening. “Damn, man. I got to sign up for that one. I’m sure I’ve racked up enough credits already.”

  Sean laughs, then jumps when the coach shouts in his ear. The bastard’s so close. “Cut the gossip, ladies! If you can chat, you can pick up the pace!”

  Tamping down his grin, Cordero speeds ahead and Sean hurries to catch up. When he draws alongside Cordero again, Sean looks back to make sure the coach is out of earshot, then mutters from the corner of his mouth, “Jesus.”

  Cordero glances behind them before answering. “He always such a nut buster?”

  That earns him another laugh. Sean likes this guy. “Oh, no. He’s just gone easy on you rookies. Most times he’s worse.”

  * * * *

  All throughout practice, Sean can barely concentrate. His mind is on Cordero, his gaze constantly drawn to the new player until he feels like the whole team knows he’s staring. It’s hard to play soccer with a hard-on shoved down the front of his shorts. Thank God for the long jersey he wears, or everyone would know he’s sporting wood. He thinks once practice is over, he’ll skip the communal showers and head back to his dorm, lock the door behind him, and jerk one out. Damn, that bro is tight.

  Cordero plays midfield, not a stone’s throw from Sean’s winger spot. Whenever Sean tries to follow the ball, his attention is snagged by the new guy—the coach made Cordero put back on his shirt before play and the bright white T-shirt seems to glow against his dark skin, more distracting than his bare chest had been. As Sean watches, Cordero pulls up his shirt, exposing that flat stomach of his. He bends down, tugging the shirt to his face to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead.

  Sean can’t look away.

  After a moment Cordero senses he’s being watched. As far as Sean’s concerned, there’s nothing else worth looking at on the field today. Cordero’s hands freeze, shirt still pressed to his face, and he glances over at Sean from the corner of his eye.

  In that instant, Sean knows they’re getting together.

  When? He isn’t sure. But didn’t Cordero pass that “D and A” comment back to him, keeping it in play? There’s no denying something arcs between them, a sizzling energy that sparks along the base of Sean’s spine to invigorate his cock. A slow grin eases across his face and he calls out, “Hey, rookie.”

  Cordero snickers into his shirt. His face disappears into the bright white cloth as he rubs away the sweat, then he ducks under the hem and tucks the shirt behind his head, wearing it like a bolero. Sean’s gaze drops and, because he knows Cordero’s watching, he licks his upper lip.

  “You bad,” Cordero says with a laugh. Propping his hands on his hips, he shakes his head like he can’t believe Sean’s audacity. “Better watch out for Barrett.”

  “Barrett can bite me,” Sean replies.

  With a smirk, Cordero jokes, “And here I thought you was wanting me.”

  Encouraged, Sean takes a few steps closer—not enough to get out of position, but he doesn’t want to flirt across the length of the pitch if he can help it. Turning his back to the game, he drops a hand to the front of his crotch and makes a show of adjusting the budding erection in his shorts. “Tell me you don’t want a piece of this.”

  The message is clear—he’s sprung.

  Cordero’s grin turns shy and he ducks his head. “I’m considering it.”

  The rest of the field has disappeared for Sean—nothing exists but Cordero and his sexy grin. Taking another step closer so he doesn’t have to shout, Sean asks, “How about after practice? I’ll give you a good look at what I have to offer, help you make up your mind. You fine, bro. I’ll tell you straight.”

  “Nothing straight about you,” Cordero says.

  Sean laughs and moves closer still. Grabbing his crotch, he admits, “I got one thing, straight and hard, just begging for—”

  “Mason!” the coach shouts.

  Quickly Sean drops the act. Releasing the front of his shorts, he smoothes his hands down his jersey and backpedals to his spot, unwilling to look away from Cordero just yet. “Don’t think I’m through with you.”

  Another shout; his name again. “Mason!”

  With an exasperated sigh, Sean whirls as he steps back to his spot. Raising his voice, he calls out, “I’m—”

  In position, he plans to say. But before he gets the words out, something hard and fast strikes the side of his face, just below his temple.

  Sean drops to the ground.

  At first he’s stunned. Then blinding pain erupts behind his eye—the world brightens around him in a flash of white light and his vision sparkles at the edges. He sees the soccer ball bounce away as he writhes in the grass, then it’s kicked out of sight as dark legs approach to kneel beside him. Sean feels firm hands on his arm and hip. “Damn,” Cordero swears. “That had to hurt. You all right?”

  Rolling onto his side, Sean presses both hands to his face as if he can hide the pain. “Fuck.” His breath comes quick and fast, in time with the ache throbbing in his skull. Unshed tears and sweat burn his eyes. “God damn. What the hell?”

  Strong hands grip his arms, hauling him to his feet. The pain washes over him anew when he stands and he has to bend over, head tucked down, to keep from passing out. Nausea bubbles in his stomach, and the back of his throat feels full, as if he’s going to be sick.

  Cordero leans over him, concerned. “Talk to me, man. Let me see.”

  Fingers pry at Sean’s hands—he lets them pull his palm away and braces himself for the worst.

  “Sh’yeah,” Cordero says, dismissive. There’s a hint of laughter in his boyish voice that sounds barely contained. “Ain’t nothing. Get some ice on it, you be fine.”

  Ice. Sean looks up and sees Cordero’s naked chest mere inches from his face. No amount of pain can drive out the sudden image of an ice cube melting on dark skin, rivulets of water trickling over relaxed muscles, chased by Sean’s white finger along such black flesh.

  For a moment he forgets where he is and reaches out. His fingertips brush over Cordero’s sweaty abs, the touch electric, leaving behind sweaty prints, stark for a moment, that gradually fade back into Cordero’s skin. Sean lea
ns closer, wanting more…

  A sharp pain recalls him to the moment as Cordero presses the bump where the soccer ball struck. Quickly Sean pulls back his hand and shoos Cordero away. “Shit, man. What are you trying to do, give me a concussion?”

  This close, Cordero’s grin is blinding. “You a big baby. Guess a guy like you can’t handle a little pain.”

  And they’re back to talking about sex again. Or at least Sean’s back to thinking of it. “I can take whatever you dish out,” he promises. When Cordero reaches for his head, though, Sean holds out an arm to ward him off. “Not right here.”

  Cordero grabs Sean’s wrist, the warmth of his hand like a bracelet of fire searing into Sean’s skin. “Let’s get you some ice,” he says with a grin, shaking his head. “You something else.”

  Without waiting for a response, he leads Sean off the pitch toward the team’s bench, where a large cooler full of bottled water and Gatorade await. Everyone’s watching them—Sean keeps one hand to his head and lets Cordero pull him along, enjoying the hot hand holding his arm. At the center line, the coach stands with arms crossed, clipboard held to his chest like a schoolgirl’s. The glower on his face says he doesn’t know why they’re out of position but he’ll gladly give them a dozen laps around the pitch if it’ll get them back in the game.

  Sean wants to point out he took a damn ball to the head here. Cut him some slack. But that really will land him laps, so he keeps quiet.

  Cordero walks Sean to the bench. As Sean sits, the coach blows his whistle, goading the team back into their positions. “You a damn wimp,” Cordero murmurs, but there’s no malice in his voice, nothing mean about what he says. He’s teasing, and this time when he touches the bump on Sean’s head, his hands are gentle. Grabbing a nearby hand towel, he opens the nearest cooler and scoops out a handful of ice. He twists the towel shut, then tamps it in his hand to create a makeshift ice pack. “You know most pro players actually go out their way to hit the ball with their head, right?