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After I check out the dorm, which is mostly empty since the semester doesn't start for another two months, I take a walk around campus. It reeks of old Texas money and people who think they're part of the elite. Even the dining hall looks like a restaurant you might be required to dress up for. Hopefully that isn't the case, because I don't dress up for shit. Pretty much all I have are athletic clothes, a couple pairs of jeans, and an assortment of sports and band t-shirts. I actually even own an almost vintage team shirt for The New Orleans Saints, the team that Coach Nicks played for when he was drafted to the NFL.
There aren't any cars in the sports complex, so I figure it's safe to poke around. I'm surprised to find the doors are unlocked, and I'm able to walk right in. I let out a low whistle of appreciation as I walk around. This place is swanky as fuck. Groveton has a pretty good sports medicine study track, so there are all kinds of amenities available to players to act as guinea pigs for the students. There are physical therapy stations, a sports massage office, and a number of other facilities that might be useful down the line. The best part is that all of their services are free, since you're being worked on by students, but you still have a professional supervising.
I find the football locker rooms and walk around, running my fingertips over the metal lockers and gleaming wood benches. The lockers are all engraved with the last name and numbers for each of the players. Well, all except one. “Perry” is scrawled in black marker on a piece of masking tape on one of the lockers, probably waiting until I sign the damn contract before they’ll give me a fancy engraved name plate.
The showers are gleaming dark green tile stalls with three shower heads each, and there are two rooms for ice baths and a huge sauna. I wouldn't mind slipping in there for a while to relax my travel weary muscles, but I don't know where anything is and I still want to do a lap around the stadium. As I'm walking towards the tunnels, where the players run out on game days, I hear the clink of equipment. I follow the sound, interested in seeing what kind of gym facility this place must have.
The room is mostly dark. Whoever is in here only has the recessed lights on, which casts a comfortable glow over the room. Sure enough, the gym is state-of-the art. There are enough machines and equipment that the whole team could probably work out at the same time, although typically the groups are divided into days.
I slip into the room silently, not wanting to bother anyone but also wanting to get a closer look. There's a man at the bench press, lifting an impressive amount of weight, especially considering he doesn't have a spotter. His richly tanned arms are bulging, veins popping almost menacingly, as the man raises and lowers the bar without much difficulty. His shirtless chest is toned and gleaming with sweat, grey streaks swirling through the smattering of dark chest hair. His pecs flex, and my eyes are drawn to his nipples. I can't say that a man's nipples have ever turned me on before, but I can't help but stare. And I’m forced to swallow as my eyes trail down his ripped stomach and notice the shape of his dick through his gym shorts. Curious at my own reaction, I marvel that I can make that much out when he doesn't seem to be hard at all. His dick is definitely bigger than mine, which, while it’s not a competition, is impressive. That’s probably why it’s capturing my attention the way it is.
The man lets out a low grunt of effort as he lifts the bar one last time and settles it back on the rack. I pull farther back into the shadows, not wanting to get caught ogling. If I were staring at a sexy woman, I wouldn't be as shy. I'd probably set up right across from her and squat thrust until she came and sat on my dick.
I harden at the thought of it. Definitely not because I'm looking at him. I mean, it's perfectly normal to admire an athletic form. I know how much work he must put into his body. Being an athlete is kind of like being an artist in some ways, our bodies are our canvases and it takes a certain amount of cultivation to get our bodies in the right shape. Admiring another artist's work, that's all I'm doing.
And then I notice who I'm admiring.
Coach Nicks sits up on the bench, swinging and stretching his arms in front of him. I pull farther back in the shadows, because I don't want to get caught watching my new hard-ass coach, especially not with the raging boner I can't seem to get to go down. Quietly, I slip my hand into my track pants and pull my hard dick up under my waistband. Hopefully, the elastic is strong enough to keep it back. You'd think the fear of getting caught would deflate the fucker, but it's having the opposite effect.
Nicks walks to the other side of the gym to grab a towel, and I take the opportunity to slip out as quietly as possible.
My heart is beating like mad as I jog out to the sports complex main atrium when a gruff voice stops me.
"Perry!"
I groan and turn around, assuming an irritated demeanor to cover my nerves. "I'm checking in. You weren't in your office."
"You could have called when your bus pulled in four hours ago."
"What, you're following me?"
"I keep track of my assets." He looks me over, his hazel eyes assessing me. "You hiding a contract in there?"
For a moment, I stumble, thinking he's referring to my still hard cock that is pressing against the bottom of my stomach. But he's looking around me, not at my crotch.
"I haven't signed it yet," I say boldly.
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because that fucking contract is insane. You can't control me like that."
"I can, and I will. It's part of the deal. No contract, no draft prospect, and no scholarship, so you can fuck off back to Alabama."
My face heats and my fists clench. He's not going to get away with this. "Fine." But I'm going to make your life a living hell. Good luck taming this dog.
"Let me grab something from my desk and we'll get going then. I'll help you unpack and see what we're working with." Nicks says, turning back towards the hallway.
What is he even talking about?
"Can't I just bring it to you later, or like tomorrow?"
"I've got time, and we need to go over your schedule and details. "
"Like when I'm allowed to piss?"
"Precisely," he says, turning a menacing grin on me.
I'm almost embarrassed when we walk into my small dorm room. All that I have in the world is sitting on the bare bed in a dusty duffel bag and a cardboard box that came from a liquor store.
