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Surely it's just the dynamic, right? He's figured out that I'm motivated by orgasms, and he's obsessed with making me the best.
But if that's true, why do I crave the taste of him, or the look in his eyes when I'm swallowing his cock whole?
Groan.
I need to redirect my thoughts. Buttoning my suit jacket, I walk into the locker room where the other players are waiting for all the guests to be seated. Nicks warned me yesterday that we're essentially going to be paraded around like prized pigs, and since I'm a scholarship student, they'll be especially interested in checking me out. He made it sound like they could get really intrusive with their questions, and it irks me to no end that a bunch of rich assholes think they own me because I play for this team. They're the ones that need me to win this thing.
"Get used to it," Coach told me while we were resting in the sauna, after he'd bent me over the bench and rubbed his cock between my ass cheeks until he came all over my back. "When you're in the NFL, the sponsors do own you. I had more than one rich sponsor's wife cop a feel and proposition me, thinking they were owed a performance other than what they got on the field."
"None of the husbands?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He wasn't mad though, he just chuckled. "No one's ever been brave enough to try, and there wasn't any interest on my part before," he'd told me, answering my unspoken question.
"So you don't normally…" I trailed off, not sure how to word my question.
"Don't normally dick my players into submission? No," he said, shaking his head. "This is a, uh… new development. Very new, for me."
"For me too," I admitted, and we fell into somewhat of an awkward silence until I was feeling overheated and left for the showers. Nicks didn't join me, and he was gone by the time I emerged.
I think the kiss was too much. Somehow, just wanting to get each other off feels a lot less intimate—and a lot less gay—than kissing him did.
Coach’s eyes follow me into the room. I can feel them boring into the back of my head, watching me greet and shake my teammates' hands.
"Looking sharp, Perry," the running back, Grant, says. "You clean up nice."
I'm sure the compliment is underhanded, Grant is kind of a douchebag and seems to think my presence on the team takes away from his position. But instead of taking his bait, I turn it around on him.
"Not so bad yourself, Gipson."
Only then do I turn around and face front, where Nicks and the rest of the coaching staff are mulling about. As soon as I make eye contact, he looks away, and I know it's immature, but it bothers me.
I don't have time to mull over it, though, because the coaches are having us walk out single file, in order of starting players. Since I'm firmly on the first string, I'm one of the first players to enter the room, maybe five people behind Lane Masters, who of course leads the charge as quarterback, with Grant Gipson right behind him.
There is a polite round of applause, and we file along the stage that's been erected on one side of the cafeteria. The rest of the players stand around their tables until everyone is in, and then we're allowed to sit. I'd much rather be at a table than up on this stage, being gawked at.
Coach Nicks introduces himself, which he doesn't need to do, seeing as the polite applause became almost raucous when he entered the room behind the team. He's hot shit around here, leading this team to success despite its embarrassing history of failure. Not everyone likes him as a person, but everyone respects him and the title they know he's capable of bringing home for Groveton College. After introducing himself and discussing some of the training we've been going through over the summer, he introduces the full starting line, beginning with Lane Masters. Each of the players on stage has family in attendance, and Nicks asks them to stand up while he discusses the many qualities that make each player a “fine sportsman”.
I don't hear any of it. He goes through the full offensive and defensive lines before he comes back to me, and I nearly miss my opportunity to show my teeth and wave when he starts talking about the final addition to his all-star starting lineup. Nicks gestures for me to stand, and I try not to wonder if anyone will notice I don't have friends, family, or even a date here to support me.
"Now, most of y'all aren't going to know this young man. He's here all the way from Alabama, where Tucker Sanders and I pulled him out from under the Crimson Tide's nose before they could get their paws on him. He's got better stats than more seasoned players, runs faster than lightning, and I'm pretty sure the refs are going to want to check his hands for magnets, because he doesn't miss a thing." The crowd chuckles, beaming up at me like I'm something special. "Jack Perry is a good kid, and he's the player that is going to make our offensive line impossible to beat. I can guarantee you we'll have more points on that board than you've seen in years."
"Since you were on the field!" some ass kisser yells, and the room goes wild—the players whooping, guests standing to applaud.
Coach has us all stand up so we can snap a few pictures, and then releases us to sit down at the tables when the meal is served. It’s a never-ending trail of mini courses that are based on real food, from tiny waffles topped with a few berries and swipes of sauce across a plate that is far larger than the food, to finger sandwiches that take less than two bites to eat.
It all tastes alright, but I'm not sure I understand why it's all miniature. I find myself craving Coach's sometimes bland, but filling, meals, and wish I'd had more than my double protein shake this morning. I try drinking a lot of water to make up for the lack of food. The last thing I need is to come off uncouth because my stomach growls, but then, of course, it isn't long before my bladder is screaming at me.
I excuse myself to the restrooms, and on the way back, bump into…
"Aniyah," she reminds me.
"Right. Sorry," I say, wincing. I do actually feel a little bad about using her and her friend the way I did, even if the friend obviously didn't mind. Once I was sober again, I realized I might have been a little rough on Aniyah.
Not as rough as Coach was on you.
Aniyah seems to take my brief moment of reflection as interest, because she moves closer, brushing her hand over my shoulder.
"You can really tell how strong you are, even through your suit," she purrs, leaning in a little too close for comfort. I'm not actually interested, but I wonder if I'm going to need to start acting like I am, in the event someone catches on to how little interest I have.
