Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Chase moves in towards Rory, filling the spot the coach vacated. His sudden closeness is breathtaking and dangerous, like a loaded weapon resting within reach. In a low voice, Chase murmurs, “She’s right about one thing. You do get me up in a hurry.”

  Rory’s blood surges at the veiled innuendo in Chase’s words, and he hates the primal way his body reacts to the guy. Without thought, without reason. He gives his hand a hard tug and manages to extract it from Chase’s grip. He isn’t even going to dignify that with a response.

  As he pulls away, putting some much needed distance between them, Chase says with a smirk, “I’d ask if you feel the same about me, but from the look of things, I already know I do.”

  “Leave me alone,” Rory growls. He shoves both hands against the front of his swim briefs in a vain attempt to hide the erection curved at the front of his crotch. There’s no way he’s going to buddy up to this guy, no matter what the coach says. He’ll carry the team to victory himself if he has to. Just as long as Chase stays as far away from him as possible.

  * * * *

  For practice heats, swimmers are assigned to lanes based upon their overall rankings on the team. Naturally, Rory’s in the first lane. But as he steps up onto the starting block, he’s a little unnerved to see Chase only three lanes down. Really? The guy just made the team and he’s already starting so high? Rory wonders if maybe there’s something to worry about there after all—he did beat me this morning, he thinks, snapping his goggles into place and wincing at the sting of plastic against his face. But that’s only because I wasn’t expecting company, and I didn’t even know he was in the pool. Let’s see how fast he is now.

  The answer is too fast for Rory’s liking. The moment the heat starts, Chase dives into the pool and hits the water a good two seconds before Rory, which means he has a head start. Even swimming all out, Rory only barely holds onto his top spot on the team. At the end of the heat, he surfaces at the starting block gasping for breath, his gaze drifting towards the scoreboard praying his name doesn’t budge from its position. When’s the last time that’s happened? Not since the first year he began to swim competitively. Fuck.

  As he climbs out of the pool to give other teammates a chance to practice, his muscles burn from the sprint. He should’ve stretched more before he jumped into the pool, he knows. That’s why he was so slow off the block, why Chase almost caught him. But that’s the keyword—almost. Rory’s still number one, where he’s always been. Where he always will be.

  A cool wet hand claps him on the back and he jerks away. Chase laughs, once again too close for comfort. “Damn, man,” he says, that eternal grin of his eclipsing everything else around them. “You’re faster than I thought.”

  Rory shrugs him off. “Faster than you. And don’t forget it.”

  “We should practice together,” Chase suggests. Water drips from his chest, and at the base of his neck, his hair curls beneath his swim cap. Energy strums through him, coming off his bare skin in waves, warming Rory’s arm and promising so much more. Just a step or two, enough to bring them closer, to touch their flesh together, and Rory would feel the heat radiating from Chase, feel it burn against his own skin, feel the pulse just beneath the surface of those damp muscles…

  Rory turns away, disgusted. Partly at Chase, for making him feel this way—any way, really, and for almost beating him in the pool, that’s no way to earn Rory’s endearment, that’s for sure. But mostly at himself, for feeling anything at all. Yeah, he likes guys, and one of the perks of being a gay swimmer is the sausage smorgasbord parading around poolside at practices and meets. That doesn’t mean he can let his libido get the best of him. He’s too close to graduating, and he can’t lose focus now. As long as his parents are funding his schooling, he hasn’t been able to follow his Olympic dreams, and the timing is off, anyway, but the U.S. swim team will be looking for new talent next year, and he plans on trying out once he graduates.

  No, not just trying out. He plans on making it, and heading to Tokyo to capture Olympic gold in 2020. And he can’t afford to let himself get sidetracked by a sexy body or a pretty face.

  Especially one belonging to a guy who has the potential to usurp his position on the team.

  When Chase starts to follow him, Rory says, “I practice alone in the morning, got that? You want to swim, go downstairs to the kiddie pool.”

  Chase starts, “The coach said—”

  “I don’t care what she said.” Rory snags his towel off the starting block and deliberately turns his back to Chase, staring at the scoreboard as he dries his neck and chest. None of the fresh swimmers even come close to his time. Chase’s time, either, actually. His newest teammate is in the second position now, C. Cohen immediately under R. Holt on the board.

  With a laugh, Chase says, “You’re a hard guy to like.”

  “I don’t want you to like me,” Rory snaps. “I sure as hell don’t like you. Let’s get something straight, okay? We might be on the same team, but that doesn’t make us friends. I don’t want to hang out with you, I don’t want to practice with you. I don’t want to ‘show you the ropes’ or help you improve your speed in the water, or any of that shit, capiche? I’m the best swimmer here, not you.”

  Chase’s smile fades, and his eyes harden. They’re blue, Rory notices, a gorgeous, dark shade brightened by the light reflecting off the pool. Under his breath, he mutters, “We’ll just see about that.”

  * * * *

  The next morning, the pool is empty when Rory arrives. Yes! His are the only footsteps that echo softly off the tiles. His is the only towel on the starting block. Maybe he managed to get his point through Chase’s thick skull after all.

  But halfway through his warm-up lap, he hears the familiar splash of another person entering the pool and pulls up short in mid-stroke. “What the fuck?” he mutters, pushing his goggles up on top of his cap.

  Amid a wash of white-capped waves, Chase surfaces in the lane beside Rory. “Race ya,” he says, grinning.

  “Not interested.” Rory starts to swim away.

  Chase calls after him. “Afraid I’ll win?”

  A foreboding chill trickles down Rory’s spine. “What did you say?”

  “I finally figured out why you don’t like me,” Chase says, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Admit it—you know I swim as good as you do and you’re afraid I’m going to come in first one of these days, isn’t that it? I saw you checking out the scoreboard after each heat yesterday at practice. Wanted to make sure you stayed on top.”

  With little effort, Rory flips around in the water and zooms back to face off against Chase, closing the meters between them in seconds. “I’m the best swimmer this team has ever seen,” he snarls, pushing up against the rope that separates their lanes. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove when the coach isn’t watching, but all you’re doing is pissing me off.”

  He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he snaps his goggles back into place and dives below the surface, pushing with his legs and feet until his lungs ache for air. His head clears and the water soothes him like it always has, washing away everything bitter and mean inside him and filling all of his hidden recesses with its cool, shadowy presence instead. When he gets his rhythm back, he lets his body float up and starts a strong butterfly stroke, his arms slicing through the water with an almost Zen-like movement. He will not let anything interfere with his practice.

  He will not let Chase win.

  As he turns at the far end of the pool, he hears Chase dive into the water again and resume swimming. If it’s a race the guy wants, Rory’s up for the challenge. He pushes off the wall with more force than he intended and shoots farther underwater than what would be allowed in competition, but the gloves are off now. While he’s beneath the surface, he passes Chase going in the opposite direction and adds a little extra oomph to his speed, goosing ahead faster. Then his arms come up, pulling him through the water, widening the gap between them even more.

  L
et Chase try keeping up now.

  The guy tries, Rory will give him that. But he hesitated too long after Rory’s head start and can’t seem to gain back the distance he lost. Every time Rory turns at the wall, Chase is still several yards out, and by the time he reaches the end of the pool, Rory’s already swimming away. Back and forth they sprint, lap after lap, Rory in the lead and Chase dogging his heels, slowly wearing him down but never quite managing to close ranks. Three laps, five, eight. Rory feels the water moving around him in the same visceral way he feels the blood in his veins. It spurs him on, gives him life. Gives him meaning. Nothing else exists but the burn in his muscles, the flow washing over him, the breath he manages when he bobs up above the surface long enough to gulp in air.

  At ten laps, he decides to call it a race. He’s won, there’s no doubt about it, and he pulls himself up out of the water onto the side of the pool with arms that tremble close to exhaustion, but he feels vindicated. He feels good. Pushing up his goggles, he pulls them off, swim cap, too, and tosses both onto the starting block beside him. Water drips from his shoulders and neck and chest, tiny rivulets running between his thighs back into the pool beneath his legs. As he catches his breath, he watches Chase in the lane beside his, those powerful arms churning through the water, still playing catch up even though Rory has already won.

  When Chase reaches the wall, he surfaces briefly and grabs the lip of the gutter, his whole body already angling back to launch into the lane again. But he sees Rory sitting on the side and stops, gripping the gutter tightly with both hands as he leans back in the water. “Calling it quits already?” he teases. The words are gasped, ragged. He’s obviously winded.

  Rory runs a damp hand through his dry hair, pushing it back from his forehead so it stands up in spikes. “Already? In case you didn’t notice, I won.”

  With a grin, Chase peels off his goggles and tosses them onto the concrete, narrowly missing Rory’s leg. “I let you win.”

  Rory bats the goggles away. “Bullshit.”

  Holding onto the gutter, Chase leans back farther and submerges the entire back of his head in the water. His eyes close, but that damn smile stays in place. He walks his feet up the wall until they’re flat against the tiles between his hands, his toes curled over the lip just like his fingers are, his knees folded tightly between the wall and his chest. Then, taking a deep breath, he pushes off the wall and glides away effortlessly, floating several meters down the length of his lane, arms drifting out to his sides, eyes still shut.

  For a long moment, the silence between them stretches out like something almost akin to peace. They could be friends, Rory knew—swimming obviously meant the same to Chase as it did to him, and if he only let down his guard a little, things could be different between them. He could like the guy. Chase was sexy and confident and almost as good in the water as Rory was himself.

  Admit it, you’re two of a kind, he thinks, watching Chase drift farther down the length of the pool. The real reason you don’t like him is because he’s too much like you. There’s no way you two could be friends. He’s so egotistical, he thinks he’s the school’s next best swimmer, when you know that’s a joke because you already are the best.

  About twenty yards away, Chase opens one eye. Slowly, his grin widens. As Rory watches, Chase lets himself sink beneath the water. His arms and legs disappear, then drag the rest of his body down. When his swim cap dips below the surface, all Rory can see is a dark blob bisected by the rope that separates the two swim lanes. He glances at the wall clock and starts counting the seconds. If Chase can hold his breath for a full minute, Rory will be impressed.

  Movement snags his attention, bringing it back to the pool. Still underwater, Chase swims under the rope into Rory’s lane. His arms spread out as he pulls himself back towards the end of the pool, his legs frog-like as they help propel him through the water. Rory watches him swim closer and checks the clock. Twenty seconds, not bad for someone who didn’t appear to take in a deep breath before diving under.

  Chase is closer now, and gaining speed. He reminds Rory of a shark circling a boat, looking for an easy kill. Suddenly Rory is all too aware his legs are still dangling over the edge of the pool into the water. Just as he’s about to pull them out, though, Chase surfaces between them, sputtering a stream of water from his lips that arcs up at Rory and splats on the front of his swim briefs.

  Which strain beneath the start of an erection Rory would’ve sworn wasn’t there two seconds ago. But seeing Chase’s wet face peering up from between his thighs makes his belly ache. Rory kicks the water, as if that might scare Chase away. “You’re in my lane,” Rory says when Chase only comes closer to the wall between his legs. “Any swimmer who crosses lanes during a race is disqualified. You know the rules.”

  The reflection off the water dances in Chase’s eyes, deepening the blue color to an almost stormy shade. “I make my own rules,” he murmurs. Gripping the lip of the gutter, he pushes himself up, rising in front of Rory, arms locked and muscles tensed.

  They’re mere inches apart. Rory leans back and Chase follows, planting one knee on the concrete beside Rory’s leg. They’re so close, water drips from Chase’s body onto Rory’s thigh. With his hands on the floor behind him for support, Rory scuttles back, crab-walking away.

  Chase follows, climbing hand over hand onto Rory.

  For a moment, Rory thinks he’s going to manage to slip free—Chase falls back and once Rory’s legs are out of the water, he digs his heels against the concrete and pushes, scrambling back for room to stand. But before he’s clear of his teammate, Chase hooks his fingers into the waistband of Rory’s swim briefs, and Rory’s next move backward sends the briefs sliding down his leg.

  Freed from the tight confines, his traitorous cock stiffens and stands, rising to greet Chase. “What’s this?” Chase nips at Rory’s dick playfully, biting at the air above it. Beads of water dribbling off his chest trickle down Rory’s length and harden it more. Above his erection, Chase leers at Rory. “I thought you said you didn’t like me.”

  Rory’s mind is a whirl of emotion—embarrassment wars with desire, need wrestles want. “I-I-I-I didn’t,” he stammers, and then, “I don’t…”

  “Don’t what?” Chase purrs.

  Holding Rory’s gaze, he bends out again and, this time, the tip of his tongue licks out between his lips to tickle over the bulbous head of Rory’s cock.

  Pleasure shoots through Rory, intense, immediate. He almost comes from the seductive look in Chase’s eyes alone. Catching his lower lip between his teeth, Rory bites down hard to keep from crying out, but a voice inside his mind whimpers. Yes, he thinks, and please, and no, I shouldn’t, I can’t, I won’t—

  But he wants to, God, he does, and when Chase leans down, closing those warm, wet lips completely over the tip of his dick, Rory moans and lets himself fall to the tiled floor. His hips arch up, pushing as much of himself into Chase’s willing mouth as he can get inside. Chase’s hot tongue swirls down his length, licking along the underside of his dick to the root and then lower, over his balls, slathering them with warm saliva. The contrast between the heat inside Chase’s mouth and the cool water from the pool only energizes Rory, stoking the flames of passion smoldering within him. He grips his briefs in both hands and tugs them down, exposing all of himself to his teammate as he thrusts up into Chase, wanting more, wanting so much more.

  “God,” he gasps, the word torn from him as Chase suckles his cock. His hips rock against the floor, his buttocks slapping the tiles. This is worlds better than his own hand in the shower stall yesterday; this is those same soulful eyes staring into his as his dick disappears between those pretty lips, and the heady scent of chlorine enveloping them only intensifies the sensations. “Yes, damn, yes, God, yes.”

  With one hand, Chase encircles Rory’s dick and holds it with a steady grip as he goes down on it. Rory feels the back of Chase’s throat tickle over his glans, then those cheeks work his length. He tugs at his bri
efs, yes, yes. Chase’s tongue laps up the saliva slicking his shaft, yes. Chase wraps his lips down over his teeth and nibbles along Rory’s hard length, yes.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Just when Rory thinks he can’t hold his orgasm back any longer, he has to come, Chase eases a finger between his buttocks to breech his ass. As the long digit rubs into him, Rory’s release ripples through him, crashing over him in waves. Rory comes in long spurts—the first Chase drinks down, but the second shoots the swimmer in the face, and the third splatters his chest as he sits back. His own swim briefs tent beneath a raging hard-on, so he pulls them down and takes care of it with a few practiced jerks aimed at Rory’s exposed pubes. Quickly Chase comes, too, his spunk a hot rush on Rory’s wilting cock and balls.

  Then Chase grabs a towel from the starting block and tosses it onto Rory’s stomach. He’s still grinning as he leans over Rory. For a heart-stopping moment, Rory’s sure the guy is going to kiss him, and he half-hopes, half-fears the press of lips against his own.

  But Chase leans down farther, angled towards Rory’s ear instead of his mouth. “Who’s the winner now?” he whispers.

  Rory is no longer quite so sure.

  * * * *

  No other words pass between them. Chase turns away from Rory to slip back into the pool, leaving Rory to towel himself off. Instead of pulling up his soiled briefs, Rory shucks them off and, carrying them with his goggles and swim cap in one hand, towel in the other, he heads to the locker room bare-ass naked. He knows Chase is watching him retreat—he feels a hot gaze on his backside, and he puts a little extra oomph in his step, flexing his buttocks, squeezing his thighs, to make sure Chase enjoys the show.

  This time Rory showers in the locker room, lingering under the hot spray, his body lathered with thick suds as he waits for Chase to join him. He still doesn’t like his teammate—at least, he doesn’t think he likes the guy, not yet—but he’s willing to take a chance now. See what might develop between them. Where things might lead.