by J. M. Snyder
“No!” Chase looks shocked at the question, almost offended. “I never thought in a million years I’d ever actually beat you in a race. All I wanted was for you to notice me. To see me. To think hey, there’s a cute guy I have a lot in common with, so maybe, I don’t know, we can hook up sometime or something. I never expected to win.”
“Well, you are cute,” Rory grudgingly admits. “If all you wanted was to get my attention, you did pretty good at practice that morning. You didn’t have to beat me in the pool, too.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Chase gives him a wistful smile. “I honestly thought we were neck and neck the whole heat. I didn’t even know I came in first until I climbed out and saw you still swimming. You probably think I did that on purpose or something.”
Rory shrugs. “Or something. As much as I hate to say it, I want to like you—”
Now that smile brightens. Chase steps out from under the spray of the shower, towards Rory, one hand reaching out to touch him. When Rory doesn’t pull away, Chase’s fingers ease around his wrist to slip into his palm. “Then like me. Because I like you.”
He moves nearer still, his hand tightening in Rory’s, then he pulls Rory to him so close, Rory can see the way the shower has turned his eyelashes into spikes. He’s a few inches shorter than Rory is, and turns his face up towards Rory as his eyes slip shut, his lips parting in a slight gasp. Beads of water or sweat dot his upper lip, and more water glistens like dew on the faint fuzz of his cheeks. Rory finds himself being pulled down, his hand guided to Chase’s waist, then around behind Chase to settle in the small of his teammate’s back. When Chase lets go, Rory’s fingers dip down on their own to smooth over the wet Spandex covering Chase’s round ass.
Then Chase’s mouth brushes over his, briefly at first, questioning, before touching down again, firmer this time, more sure, eager to claim a kiss. Rory’s lips are eased apart by a probing tongue that darts between them, delving into him, tasting him. A moment later, Chase fists a hand in Rory’s hair and pulls him down hungrily, wanting more, hugging him tight in sudden desire.
Wrapping his arms around Chase, Rory gives all he has to the moment, this man. He wants it all, he has it, and he wants everything else Chase will give him, not just here and now but tonight, and tomorrow in the morning when they practice alone at the pool, and for as long as they have together.
It’s only the sound of his name over the intercom calling him to the starting block that makes Rory pull away. Chase doesn’t let him get far, though, and holds him tight beneath the hot spray from the shower above. “You’re up,” he murmurs.
At first Rory thinks he’s referring to the upcoming race. But Chase grinds his hips against the stiffening cock in the front of Rory’s swim briefs, put there by the strength of their kiss. “Shit,” Rory mutters.
With a laugh, Chase steps back and trails a hand down Rory’s chest. It tickles over his navel, picks at the waistband of his briefs, then cups his erection and gives a gentle squeeze. “Win the heat and I’ll take care of this for you before the relay,” Chase promises.
Rory raises one eyebrow as a thrill shoots through him. “Oh? And what if we win the relay?”
Through his briefs, Chase strokes Rory’s hard cock. “If? You mean when. Let me just tell you my dorm room is a single. When we win the relay, we’ll see if we both can’t fit in my bed.”
“I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” Rory promises.
THE END
Out of Bounds
It was only three weeks into the fall semester, and already school was the last thing on Joakim Gaithers’ mind. Twenty-two, with three years of college under his belt and nine months away from graduating with a bachelor’s degree in economics, he had a bad case of senioritis. Since returning to campus at the end of August, he’d yet to crack open the first textbook, and he’d already skipped a handful of classes—the ones he knew he could get away with.
The only bright spot on his schedule was basketball practice, which would be starting up at the end of the month. Then he could lose himself in the game like he did every year and coast through everything else until March Madness. From there it would be a short two months before he walked across the stage in his cap and gown, and done! College degree, check. Real world, here I come.
But first, he had to make it to practice. Baby steps, Jo kept telling himself. Some days he had to repeat that phrase half a dozen times before he could manage to get out of bed, and he’d taken to muttering it under his breath in the shower, keeping his voice down so his roommate’s girlfriend wouldn’t overhear as she primped in front of the bathroom mirror. Jo lived for basketball; it got him this far in life, and even though he didn’t have anything lined up yet after graduation, he knew whatever he chose to do after college would somehow involve b-ball. He was a good player—hell, he was better than good, he was one of the best. His coach knew it, his teammates, too. After his freshman year, he’d been one of the top NBA draft picks, but he had a full sports scholarship and his father had advised him to finish school first. “Keep playing the way you do,” his father told him, “and they’ll keep a spot open. You’ll see.”
And damned if they hadn’t. The same teams who tried to snag Jo the first year he was up for the draft came back the next, and the next. He kept up a strong defense, scored big on rebounds, and could sink a three-point shot with ease. Come May, he suspected he wouldn’t only have a degree but also another offer to play, and hopefully this time he’d have his pick of teams. His father was making noise about going on to get a master’s degree, but Jo wasn’t thinking that far ahead. He was tired of school—tired of classes, and dorm life, and tests and books and essays, everything that wasn’t a basketball in his hands, his feet pounding on the pavement, the ball sailing through the hoop like a dream.
He couldn’t wait for practice to begin.
The calendar on his phone already had the dates blocked off—practices in green, home games in blue, away games in red. He hadn’t even bothered to put down the deadlines for his class assignments, but he had down what counted to him so nothing in the rest of his life would interfere with his sport. Basketball was life, as the poster hanging in his room declared; the rest was just details.
* * * *
Going into his final year at State, Jo was a little nervous about…well, nervous in general, he guessed. His future was up in the air, but he knew that would solidify itself in a few months when classes ended and he graduated, one way or another. And classes, well, he’d get through them—he’d have to if he wanted to walk across the stage in May. He was in no fear of being tapped as valedictorian or anything, but as long as he got a diploma in the end, it’d be time and money well spent.
But he was a bit worried about basketball. He could admit it, if only to himself, though he’d never breathe a word of doubt to his fellow teammates or even his coach. But this was it, his last chance to take his team all the way to the Final Four in March. They’d gotten as far as the Sweet Sixteen bracket the year before, and the team that ended up winning the tournament had knocked them out of the running, but it would be so nice to take home the gold trophy his final year.
Only the team had undergone a few changes between the end of the spring semester and the beginning of the fall, and that was why Jo was worried. The seniors who had played so well last year were gone, and there were fresh faces onboard, new teammates whose strengths and weaknesses he’d have to learn in the few short months between the start of the season and the beginning of the opening of the tournament.
And then there was the new assistant coach.
Or rather, Jo hoped there was a new assistant coach. The previous one had moved on to coach his own college team somewhere in the Midwest. Jo knew the school had been interviewing applicants all summer long; for a while, Coach had sent out e-mails updating everyone on the team with details about the search.
As the field narrowed down, the e-mails grew more frequent, and Jo didn’t even bother reading them. Hello?
He had other things on his mind in the middle of the summertime than school. He deleted them unread, even the last one that came in late August with the subject, Found a winner! Meet new assistant coach, Kevin Jones!
Now that classes had resumed, though, Jo wished he had bothered to open at least the last message, if only to read the new assistant coach’s credentials. He wanted to go out with a bang his final year and hoped the team could create the sort of magic they’d need to make it all the way to the top. He could barely wait for practice to start up again so he could see the team all in one place at one time and assess their chances of winning himself.
* * * *
Unfortunately, the team couldn’t officially practice before the end of September in accordance with NCAA rules, but Jo often got together with a few of his teammates in the evenings in the campus gym to shoot hoops, and on weekends they played pickup games. Basketball was big at State—bigger than anything else, because the college didn’t have a football team, so all the energy was funneled into b-ball. Team pride surged at the games, and even the stands were full during practices, with times posted on the school website so students could come out to watch.
Since enrolling four years earlier, Jo quickly became the team’s star player. It was no exaggeration to say everyone knew his name, everyone. Not only collegiate fans and coaches but professors whose classes he didn’t even take and students who passed him on the quad. It helped that the team website had a phonetic spelling so he didn’t get shout outs during play mispronouncing his name.
Coach had only called Jo Wah-Keem once, at the very first practice way back in freshman year, then frowned and squinted at the tall, buff, but decidedly white guy in his lineup. Jo’s skin was tanned from shooting hoops outside all summer, but his skin was still the palest out of everyone else on the team. At least his buzz cut didn’t stand out—many of the other players had shaved heads, or barely-there hair.
But his name was pronounced Jo-ah-kim. It was a family name on his father’s side, Hebrew in origin, though his mother liked the sound of the J and didn’t want to pronounce it with the usual Y. Her reasoning had been it would be easier for him to be called Jo, a perfectly acceptable nickname, than to go through school being bullied for being saddled with a name like Joakim when he wasn’t even Jewish. His father had only wanted the name carried on; he didn’t care how it was pronounced.
And, to be honest, Jo liked the confusion it caused, particularly on the court. When he was younger and attended basketball camps, he knew he got called on more than once for a team because someone saw his name on a roster and thought he was black with a name like that. He saw the disappointed twist of their mouths when they realized they were getting a scrawny little white boy instead, but then he showed them whenever he brought his A game. He had to admit, that felt good.
* * * *
On Fridays his last class ended at quarter after four; on this particular Friday, three weeks into the first full month of the semester, Jo swung by the cafeteria for a quick bite to eat and hoped to see someone he knew whom he might interest in a game of one-on-one after dinner.
No dice.
The night was still young—he might meet up with someone at the gym, so he headed there next. He paid for a locker each semester so he wouldn’t have to lug his court clothes around campus, so he stopped by the locker room first to change, then headed down to the courts, dribbling a basketball the whole way. The sounds of the ball bouncing off the concrete floor reverberated and echoed dully back to him from the close corridor. As he approached the double doors leading out the gym, he listened for the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood flooring, the bounce of the ball off the backboard, the grunts and calls of players as they vied for the ball.
But the gym was empty. Jo was all alone on the court—the scoreboards were dark, the bleachers folded up against the walls, the floor polished to a pale sheen that reflected the lights shining down from the rafters. No worries, someone would show up eventually. It was Friday night…it was either play ball or sit at home and watch a game on TV, and where was the fun in that?
Jo shot the ball a few times from the free throw line, but chasing after it got old real quick, and it wasn’t quite the same sinking every shot when there was no one to cheer him on. The next time the ball bounced out of bounds, he checked his phone as he chased after it. It was only five thirty, still too early to go back to the dorm and call it a night. God, he wanted to do something, anything, that wasn’t schoolwork. Where were his teammates at?
When he’d retrieved the ball, he dribbled it lazily with one hand as he texted Lonnie Mack, who played center on the college team. Lonnie was a lanky junior who towered over Jo and most everyone else in the school, standing an impressive 7’2” tall. They called him Lean Lonnie, and though he wasn’t the best basketball player, he looked like he was. He could palm the ball into the basket without even trying. With Lonnie on the court, too, at least Jo wouldn’t have to chase after the ball by himself. And maybe he’d rustle up a few other players, as well.
Hey man, let’s play ball, he texted.
Within a few seconds, Lonnie replied. Going to a kegger. Where u at?
Jo groaned. Gym, he wrote back. No one told me about a party. WTF?
Lonnie took a bit longer to respond the second time. Jo bounced the ball, waiting, his thumb hovering over his phone impatiently as he watched the little icon that indicated Lonnie was writing a reply. What was it, a goddamn novel? He was about to call his teammate instead when the message came through. I’ll pick u up. Meet me outside in 10.
Where is it? Jo wanted to know, but did it really matter? He was already heading for the gym doors.
Lonnie’s response was quicker this time. Off campus. BEER MAN! Bball can wait 4 1 night. Leaving now. CU.
Maybe one night, Jo conceded. He pocketed his phone and jogged back towards the locker room to change.
* * * *
Lonnie drove a Volkswagen Golf, the driver’s seat pushed as far back as it could go. From outside the car, it looked as if he were sitting in the back and reaching to grasp the steering wheel. Inside, his knees still bent up around his elbows, and Jo wondered how uncomfortable it was for him to drive such a small car. But the hip hop music blaring from the stereo and thudding through the car’s frame kept the talk to a minimum between them. When Jo climbed into the passenger seat, Lonnie nodded at him and shouted, “Sup?”
Then nothing but Eminem and Dr. Dre rapping at top volume for the next fifteen minutes as Lonnie cruised through the darkened city streets heading…where, exactly?
Jo wasn’t sure, and really didn’t care. If he couldn’t play ball, getting off campus was the next best thing. He didn’t drink much, and didn’t dare do any drugs—had to keep his scholarship intact, and to do that, he had to be in top shape on the court. But loud music and anonymous bodies grinding against each other in a crowded house sounded like a good way to kill a few hours. And one or two beers wouldn’t put him off his game.
“Hey, where’s this party at again?” he asked during a lull in the music.
Lonnie shrugged. “Somewhere up near McLean, I don’t know. In a townhouse this girl’s parents own, but they’re out of town for the weekend.” When the music didn’t start up again, he nodded at the center console between them. “Check my iPhone, will you? See what’s up.”
Jo dug the phone out of the console and found the problem—the screen was dark, the device shut down. “When’s the last time you charged this?” he asked, hunting for the cord. “It’s dead.”
“Shit, I don’t know.” If Lonnie was concerned, he didn’t show it. “Don’t worry, I sort of know where we’re going. If not, hey, we’ll find another party to crash.”
Luckily Jo found the cord and plugged it into the car’s USB port. He turned on the phone, but didn’t restart the music. Instead he called up the GPS to make sure they were still on course. In the quiet of the car’s interior, he asked, “So are you ready for the season to start?”
Lonnie gave another shrug, as if he couldn’t be bothered one way or the other. “Can’t wait to see the new crop of cheerleaders. But that’s not your thing, is it?”
“I don’t mind them,” Jo admitted. “I mean, I appreciate the female form. I just don’t get off on it, that’s all.”
“You like dick,” Lonnie said succinctly.
Jo laughed. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
He knew a lot of gay athletes had to hide their sexuality, but he’d never found it to be much of a problem once he came to college. In high school, yeah, there’d been a few tense moments in the locker room, but now his skills on the court earned him respect off it, as well. His teammates knew he liked guys, but they also knew he didn’t gawk or stare at them in the showers or while changing, so things were cool.
Every now and then a freshie might get a bit weirded out when he saw the great Jo Gaithers talking up a hot guy in the food court or after class, but if he tried to squeal to the coach, he was told to mind his own damn business. Jo even overheard the dressing down once. “Who he dates is his prerogative, not yours,” Coach had said. “He plays circles around you out there on the court, and don’t you forget it. Gay or straight, he’s the best player I’ve got, and if you make this into something it ain’t, remember I’m gonna side with him over you any day. Got that?”
Now Lonnie glanced at the phone in Jo’s hand, taking a quick peek at the route before returning his attention back to the road. “I heard some schools have male cheerleaders. Mason does.”
“If I’d have known that, I would’ve made it one of the criteria I used when picking a school to go to,” Jo joked. “I think I’ve just about dated all the cute guys at State already. Well, cute by my standards.”
“Who’d listen to you talk about basketball,” Lonnie added.
Jo laughed. “Yeah, right? Believe it or not, sports isn’t always a pickup topic with gay guys.”
