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Jack hangs back, watching curiously as I walk past him and towards my office.
"Four hours for you," I say before I close the door behind me.
CHAPTER 9
JACK
I push myself through my hangover all day, and by the time the other players are leaving, I'm feeling weaker than the puppy Coach accused me of being earlier today.
"Yo, Perry!" Masters calls out. "You getting out of here? Some of us were going to head out to the burger joint downtown. A good greasy meal to help kick this hangover."
"Thanks, man, I'm good. I have to make up for this morning or Coach is going to kill me."
"I don't understand why he rides you so hard," he says with a scowl. My crotch gives an odd lurch at the visual those words bring.
Fuck. Do I want Coach to fuck me?
I've never even considered being with a man before. But the idea of Bryant Nicks fucking me puts new thoughts in my head.
Would it hurt? Would I mind if it did?
I shake my head of the thoughts and grin up at Lane. "I'm a charity case, remember?"
He furrows his brow. "You work twice as hard as anyone on this team. You've proven you belong here."
How heartwarming. I scoff. "And I need to keep proving it. There's also the chance that I might have recorded certain things that occurred last night and maybe… sent them to Coach Nicks.”
"Why the fuck would you do that!?" The quarterback all but screeches, his eyes wide like he’s surprised I’m still alive.
"I was pretty fucking drunk and feeling a bit full of myself," I say honestly. "If I don't want to lose my place here, I'm going to have to do a lot of work to make up for that little oversight. He nearly kicked me off the team this morning. That's why I was late."
The thought of what really happened has my cock growing. What the fuck is wrong with me?
"He won’t kick you off. He knows we need you to win."
"Maybe, but better safe than sorry. Besides, sweating the liquor out works best for me," I say, assuring him.
"Yeah, you're like a health food junkie, right?" He says, alluding to the strict diet that Coach Nicks prescribed me. If only he knew that everything I've done so far has been because of our coach. Hell, even me stepping out of line yesterday was inadvertently because of him. I wanted so badly to get under his skin, to piss him off and see what happens when he cracks. I suppose I succeeded.
My cock twitches and I look down at it, confused by my reaction to Nicks' treatment and what I think I want out of this. I never in a million years expected distant, controlled Bryant Nicks to cock slap me and cum on my face before walking away like I was nothing.
It was humiliating. Demeaning. Degrading. And I've never been harder in my life.
Masters and the rest of the team clear out, and for the next hour and a half, I push myself through each exercise with an added layer of anticipation. What will happen now that the dynamic has changed between us? When he doesn't show up, I think that maybe he's waiting for me in the showers. I move to the treadmill, pushing myself to run twice as fast, as if it could wind the clock down faster.
But he isn't in the shower, and when I finally get dressed to leave for the day, he isn't even in his office. He left without saying a word to me.
Is that supposed to be a reward or punishment? And why the fuck do I care so much?
The next day, I show up early for my warm-ups. Coach Nicks works out in the room with me, silently pushing me to do more, lift heavier, run faster, just to keep up with him. For an older guy, he's in damn good shape. His big muscles are dusted with hair, like a big, burly bear. That makes me laugh, because aren't bears a gay thing? I need to remember to look it up to be sure, in case I decide to use it to taunt him.
Nicks looks over at me with an eyebrow raised. So far, the only thing to break our silence has been the whir of the machines or clink of the weights setting down. His expression makes me want to laugh more, but I press my lips together instead. He might not appreciate my bear thoughts.
Hell, I'm not even sure I do. Because if he's a bear, what does that make me? A cub? That's not much better than a baby bulldog, and I don't want to encourage that shit. Nor am I really ready to think about myself in terms of whether I'm gay or not. I don't think I am, but also… My thoughts towards the stoic beast of a man are confusing at best.
He looks like he's about to say something, but the first few second-string players walk in. Neither of us realized the time. I walk past him, intentionally brushing his shoulder on my way out, just to see what sort of reaction I get. He gives me nothing.
The rest of the day, Coach puts me through my paces. He yells at me to run harder, faster, jump higher. With every instruction he gives me, I yell out, "Yes, Coach!", just waiting for a reaction from him. He seems pleased during our end of practice scrimmage and dismisses us, but I know he doesn't mean me. I stay for two more hours, once again with anticipation, only to find he's left again.
