by J. M. Snyder
“This?” Cordero asks. One finger breeches Sean, easily slipping into him. The burn of entry sears through him like wildfire and he bucks into the fist pumping his cock. Cordero’s lips are inches from Sean’s ear; each breath warms him up inside, spiraling down his spine. “You like it when I do this?”
“Yes,” Sean gasps, and “please” and “God!” He tries to squat, sitting down on Cordero’s hand, but finds the plum-shaped tip of Cordero’s dick bumping between his buttocks instead. Cordero’s hands slip to Sean’s hips, holding him still as he’s positioned into place. Then Cordero wriggles his way in, spreading Sean’s feet with his own to open his legs a bit, guiding himself inside inch by excruciating inch. Sean moans, drops his head against the wall, then presses his cheek to the tile, letting the shower splatter his scalp and back and face. “Fuck me,” he growls, his voice guttural. “God, man, fuck me already, will you?”
Cordero complies, easing in until Sean feels his full length inside. They move together in an ancient rhythm of bump and grind, the pleasure of their coupling erasing the sting from the soap. Sean drops one hand to his own cock, pumping into his fist as Cordero brings him to release. “Yes,” Sean says, again and again, his voice rising in volume until he’s crying out over the sound of the shower and his shouts echo off the tiles around them, reverberating back in a crescendo. “Yes, yes!”
Together they reach the edge of lust. At the last moment Cordero pulls out, shooting his load onto Sean’s backside. When the hot cum splatters him, Sean jerks off, his own orgasm ripping through him like a tidal wave. He turns his face up into the shower spray as he comes, leaning back against Cordero, his need shuddering through him. Cordero’s mouth finds Sean’s, finally—he tastes sweet like victory, his tongue and lips enough to stiffen Sean’s dick again.
* * * *
It becomes routine—after practice, Sean heads over to Cordero’s for a little fun. If the roommate is out, as he usually is, they have the whole place to themselves. Why limit their lust to a cramped stall in the bathroom? The couch in the living room is much more comfortable, as Sean discovers when Cordero’s insistent kisses press him back to the overstuffed cushions. The ottoman between the sofas is the perfect height to kneel against while Cordero fucks him from behind. And once they even do it on the kitchen table, Sean sitting on the edge while Cordero holds his knees apart to thrust into him. That time sticks in Sean’s mind as particularly raunchy—they used margarine for lube, and now Sean can’t butter toast in the cafeteria without getting a hard-on.
Unfortunately, the two guys don’t meet up outside of soccer. Though Sean looks for the rookie whenever he’s hanging around campus, he’s never once spotted Cordero among the other students. They have different classes, different friends, moving in different circles that only intersect when it’s time to play ball. Sometimes when he’s alone, lying in his own bed, Sean wonders what Cordero’s schedule is like. Maybe he’ll call up the guy in the morning, meet him for lunch, grab a little quick dick before his next class. But when morning comes he always forgets, and the piece of paper with Cordero’s digits on it gets buried under the school books on his desk.
That’s why whenever they’re on the field, Sean can’t stop staring at Cordero. Thank God there are so many rookies on the team—the coach wants them on the field as much as possible so they practice every Tuesday and Thursday from three to five, and again on Saturday from ten to three. Each time they play a full-length game, and after each, Sean follows Cordero back to his dorm room for a different kind of balling. Knowing he’ll have that thick, black dick up his ass makes him flirty and coy out on the field, and more than once it’s hurt his game. On Saturday he hurries to practice, rushing through the locker room in his eagerness to take the field, and doesn’t even wait for the coach to holler before he’s running laps, circling the pitch to catch up with Cordero. Coming up beside the rookie, Sean fakes a dodge into Cordero’s path and laughs when Cordero shoves him away. “Miss me?” Sean asks.
From center field, Coach Barrett bellows out, “This isn’t study hall, Mason! Cut the chit-chat.”
Cordero distracts Sean something horrible. Most of the time when they’re on the field, Sean ignores the soccer ball, intent on seducing the rookie. No matter where they are in relation to each other, Sean somehow manages to close the distance between them. He’s offside so often, Barrett gets tired of yelling his name. It’s no longer laps around the field; it’s push-ups, fifty at a time, face down in the short-cropped grass while his teammates’ feet kick and fumble the ball in the corner of Sean’s vision. Even though it’s only practice, Barrett insists on regulation rules, and no game is complete without Sean racking up at least one yellow card.
It’s Cordero—he’s driving Sean crazy, just standing there looking hot in his baggy shorts and oversized jersey. Thinking ahead to a time after the game when they can get together just throws Sean off. He can’t pay attention to the damn soccer ball when his own balls ache something fierce.
It’s only a few weeks into the season when Sean gets his first red card. It’s for being offside again, a problem he never had before Cordero joined the team. Sean rests on the bench for a few moments, but when Barrett heads his way, he knows what’s coming and stands before the coach can send him on laps. Sean spends the rest of the time circling the field, staring at Cordero as he runs. It isn’t until after the whistle blows and everyone’s heading into the locker room that Coach Barrett pulls Sean aside. “Give me a minute, Mason.”
Sean glances at Cordero, who stops in mid-step to wait. At the coach’s frown, though, Cordero shrugs. “I’ll catch up with you.”
Sean turns back to the coach and flinches at the hard look in those steel-gray eyes. Suddenly defensive, Sean asks, “What?”
“What,” Barrett echoes. He shakes his head, as if disappointed. “I’ll tell you what. Since that rookie’s joined the team, you can’t play worth shit.”
Sean glares at his sneakers, silent. He isn’t the worst player on the team, so why does the coach have to call him out? What the hell does he want Sean to say, anyway? Sorry dude, I’m banging the guy and we only hook up after practice, so thinking about getting with him throws off my whole game. Wouldn’t Barrett have a heart attack if he knew that?
When he realizes Sean isn’t going to answer, Barrett sighs. “Here’s my dilemma, Mason. I’ve got a really great player who used to be committed to the game, but now seems to have checked out this season. And I’ve got a talented rookie who could maybe be something hot if he’d just apply himself a little harder, yet all he wants to do is fool around. If you two were at each other’s throats, I could work with that. I’d pit you against each other, let your animosity take the field. But you guys are friends, and the laughing and goofing off distracts the whole goddamn team.”
Sean frowns, tightening his mouth into a small pout to keep his lips from trembling. Barrett’s right—Sean can’t argue with him. And if he’s seen the play between Sean and Cordero, then the rest of the team must know what’s going on as well. Do they laugh behind his back? Mime blow jobs and crack gay jokes when he’s not around? Is Barrett telling him this as a warning, or is he kicking Sean off the team?
God, no, don’t think it, don’t dare…
If Sean is getting let go, when will he ever catch up with Cordero again?
Clearing his throat, Sean mumbles an insincere, “Sorry.”
“I got to do something, kid.” Barrett shakes his head, defeated. “I can’t afford to have you both on the field. I spoke with Jefferies earlier—”
“When?” Sean asks, his voice sharp. Is Cordero the one being booted? That wouldn’t make things any better for Sean. Sure, he’d still play on the team, but the two would never see each other again. Practice has become the highlight of his week, and he actually looks forward to it now…or rather, the special time he spends alone with Cordero after. If that disappears, if Barrett takes it away, Sean doesn’t think he’ll bother finishing out the season. “Are
you bouncing him?”
A look of confusion crosses Barrett’s face. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“You know,” Sean tries to explain. “Kicking him off the team.”
Barrett makes a little disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not ‘bouncing’ anybody. What I’m trying to do is find a solution that works for us all. You’re a hell of a good wingman when you pay attention. He’s quick on his feet and on top of the action when you’re not distracting him. So tell me how we play this, Mason. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
Sean scuffs his sneakers in the grass and stares at the ground, silent. Hell if he knows.
After a long moment, the coach sighs. “Think about it,” he says. Sean nods quickly. He’ll think about it all right. “Our first game’s in two weeks, and I can’t have the same mess out there that I have now when we take the field against Bronwyn. If you guys can’t come up with a solution between yourselves, I’ll have to step in, you hear?”
Sean nods again. The coach turns away, tapping Sean’s arm with his clipboard to signal their little chat has ended. Without further prompting, Sean jogs toward the gym, leaving Barrett to retrieve the practice balls. His throat burns and his eyes sting—the more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. The bastard. What’s it to him if Cordero and Sean hook up after practice? Yeah, they fool around on the field, but it’s only practice, for God’s sake. When it’s a real game, they’ll buckle down. The way he’s talking, you’d think the two were rutting right there on the center line. Jesus.
As he nears the gym complex, he slows because he sees Cordero leaning against the outside wall, using his key to trace the lines of grout in the brick facade. He looks like a dark shadow against the building, a hole torn from the rest of the day, and Sean feels his spirits soar. I’m hitting that. He keeps quiet and moves fast, stepping right up to Cordero before the rookie can notice him. He doesn’t even get a chance to turn before Sean’s up in his space, chest pressed against Cordero’s arm, legs framing Cordero’s. Right up on him, his mouth inches from Cordero’s ear—who cares who sees? Pushing against him, pinning him to the wall, Sean gropes at the front of Cordero’s shorts and breathes, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Cordero elbows him aside with a grin. “Man, you all up on my jock. What’s Barrett want?”
With a dismissive wave, Sean growls, “Fuck Barrett.”
“He gonna take you up on that if he hears you.” Cordero nods past Sean, who leans back against the wall beside his friend and turns to see the coach heading their way. In a soft voice, Cordero wants to know, “What’d he say?”
“Same shit he said to you, I guess.” Sean’s arm rests easily in the gap between Cordero’s back and the wall behind them, his hand cupped around Cordero’s ass. As Barrett approaches, Sean rubs his fingers down the crack of Cordero’s butt cheeks, the motion hidden by the press of their bodies together. It thrills him to know he’s copping a feel right here where anyone can see.
When the coach is close enough he nods at the two players. “Boys,” he says, greeting them. His arms are full of muddy soccer balls and that damn clipboard of his. For a moment he stands in front of the door that leads down into the players’ locker room, as if waiting for it to open on its own. When it doesn’t, he stands aside and throws Sean a quick look. “Can you get this for me, Mason?”
He’s too comfortable where he is to comply. But when Cordero moves, Sean pushes him back and lunges for the door. The smile he flashes Barrett as he holds it open feels fake. Heading in, Barrett tells them, “See you two inside.”
Sean’s in no mood for one of Barrett’s feel-good pep talks today. He already knows what the coach will say—it’ll be the same old shit, “You guys look good out there,” followed by his constant admonitions to stay alert, tighten up, look alive. He’ll give Sean a knowing look as he says it, like he’s the only one carrying the team. Sean doesn’t want to hear it all over again.
As the door shuts behind Barrett, Sean snags Cordero’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Any other day, Cordero has fallen into step with Sean, just as eager to get back to his place and satisfy his lust. But today, incredibly, Cordero shrugs out of his grip. “Hold up, man. We gotta talk.”
Uh-oh.
Dread curls in the pit of Sean’s stomach. His veins run cold, as if all his blood has drained away. The three horrid words hang between them like a gun, cocked and loaded. We gotta talk.
Sean’s pretty sure he knows what Cordero wants to say.
Facing his friend, Sean crosses his arms tight over his chest and glares at Cordero. “So? Talk.”
“Man,” Cordero drawls, shaking his head. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” Sean wants to know, voice rising. His previous anger swirls over him again, cloying. He takes a step closer—once again he’s in Cordero’s face, but his earlier playfulness is gone. The shadow crossing Cordero’s features is Sean’s own, and his voice sounds impossibly loud in the few inches of space that separates them. “What d’ya gotta say, huh? Talk to me.”
Cordero starts to speak, but Sean shakes his head. When frustration flickers through Cordero’s eyes, Sean closes his own so he won’t see. “I can’t hear you. You ain’t saying shit.”
Strong hands push against Sean’s chest, shoving him back. “Get outta my face,” Cordero sneers. “I said we need to talk, so shut up and listen.”
“I know what you’re saying.” Each word is clipped, bitter, as if Sean bites it off when it’s spoken aloud. Cordero’s hands are still on his chest but he slaps them away. “I know what this is all about. I thought maybe we had something, but whatever.”
Confusion crosses Cordero’s face and he reaches out, smoothing a hand down Sean’s arm. “Naw, hold up.”
But Sean brushes him off. “Don’t even.”
So much for their afternoon tryst. Sean’s heart constricts, tightening in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. It’s only been a few weeks, damn, and he’s already like this? He doesn’t know what pisses him off more…Cordero breaking things off or his own stupid self being so damn upset by it.
“Whatever,” Sean says again, heading for the door and the locker room and the rest of the team inside. He has half a mind to tell Barrett he’s out of here.
“Sean.” Cordero catches the back of his shirt as he passes, but Sean keeps walking and the sweaty fabric slips from Cordero’s grip. “Hey, dickhead. Get back here. I ain’t through with you.”
“Fuck off.” Sean yanks open the door hard enough it swings wide. The adjustable closure at the top of the door catches hard, jerking the door back at him, but Sean ducks inside the cool hall and narrowly avoids getting hit in the backside. Wouldn’t that make a grand exit?
Fuck Cordero. “Sean,” he says again, right on Sean’s heels. His hand on Sean’s shoulder sears through Sean’s shirt, burning Sean’s skin. “Hold up, man. We ain’t—”
“We ain’t shit,” Sean spits. They aren’t dating, are they? Does Cordero even think of Sean when they aren’t together? They don’t call or send emails back and forth, or even text each other. There’s nothing between them, Sean realizes. Nothing but heated moments and hot sex. And yet…
And yet it hurts, being thrown away so easily. Maybe they aren’t like that, but God, could they have been?
Does Sean want them to be?
With a shrug to throw off Cordero, he says aloud, “No.”
“Sean.” The hand on his shoulder tightens; Sean surges ahead, up the short flight of stairs leading to the locker rooms, trying to shake Cordero loose. It doesn’t happen. The guy sticks to him like Velcro, right up on Sean, invading his space. “Dawg, stop this. Hear me out.”
Ahead the hall divides—women’s lockers on the left, men’s on the right. Between them are two doors, restrooms, separated by a pair of water fountains. Before they reach the turn that will lead him into the locker room, where the rest of the team already gathers, Sean whirls around, anger ove
rpowering him. He knocks Cordero’s hand down and shoves the rookie away, hard. “What the fuck you gotta say?” Sean asks, livid. He doesn’t need to hear an apology, doesn’t want to be fed some half-assed line about how they have to split. He gets it. It’s over. Move on.
On reflex, Cordero pushes him back. “Don’t be like this…”
Too late. Sean gives him another shove that sends him staggering. Cordero grabs at Sean’s shirt to keep his balance and pulls Sean close. Oh, no. Sean wrestles to free himself, head tucked into his shoulders as he barrels into Cordero’s chest. His eyes sting—are those tears? His head throbs with the start of a nasty migraine, his stomach churns anxiously, and his throat tightens around emotions that rage unchecked through his body. His hands clench into fists that pummel Cordero’s flat stomach.
Cordero shoves him back. Sean feels strong hands on his chest, his neck, then finds himself pinned against the door to the women’s bathroom. One of Cordero’s hands catches him around the throat—Sean grapples with that hand, trying to loosen its grip, and can’t. He stares, wild-eyed, as Cordero leans down into his face. “Go ahead,” he whispers. “Hit me.”
Cordero’s body sears against Sean’s, his weight holding Sean in place. Through their shorts, Sean feels Cordero’s erection hard against his thigh, and he’s surprised to realize his own libido hasn’t waned. The whites of Cordero’s eyes mirror the design in the tile behind Sean; his flat nostrils are flared, his jaw bunched in anger, his dark skin shiny with sweat.
“You got what you wanted from me, din’t you?” Sean taunts. “A dumb white ass to fuck. So go ahead. Tell me it’s over. Tell me—”
