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Usually I’d hunt each word of praise for the faintest scrap of criticism. Now, though, I just grinned at Brayden’s compliment.

“And those v-lines, dang.” Brayden nudged Jefferson with his elbow. “Fuckin’ epic, right bro?”

Jefferson’s stare was razor-sharp. Like he was trying to mentally catalog every inch of me, to memorize all the strength and definition he’d played such a vital part in helping craft. Something possessive, there, in that fierce look.

“Y-yeah,” he agreed, sounding distracted. “Epic.”

I stepped up, lifting a leg over the side of the tub. Careful not to drop Jefferson’s phone in the process; knowing, too, that discretion was no longer my focus. That they were looking - my teammates with unabashed interest; Coach with a sort of weary familiarity; and Luke...

Well, Coach’s boyfriend seemed caught somewhere between curious and awkward.

I held out the phone; let myself be pulled down, away from my original seat and over to where the seniors were sitting. Squeezed in-between Brayden and Jefferson, Carlos crowding in from the other side. Hands already on me, under the water and the bubbles. Discreet enough that Coach and his partner would have to guess at what was happening, rather than know for sure, though certainly noticeable enough for me as fingers eased between my legs and groped at my cheeks.

One arm slung around my shoulders, heavy and grounding, Jefferson thumbed open his phone. Swiped through his gallery - past videos of training sessions, shirtless selfies, and photos of the stray cats that roamed the school campus - until he pulled up the footage he’d filmed at the club.

It was familiar, was my first thought, only from an inverted perspective. Looking up at me, on the grimy little stage and bathed in the fast-moving spotlights, rather than the perspective I now only half-recalled. Blurry, like it’d all been a dream.

Adam had picked the muscle-tee, the shorts, the jock strap I knew was underneath them. Carlos had taught me my laughable attempts at dancing. Brayden had buoyed my confidence to the point where I could even consider walking out under those lights. And yet the man on the screen was unmistakably Eoin: my face, my bared arms and legs, my abs when I dragged the shirt up and then - grinning, shaking my head as if suddenly bashful - let it fall again. A version of myself I’d never imagined seeing.

“Damn, lil bro.”

Brayden’s voice low, heavy with fascination. No hint of the teasing I expected from him, only the closer press of his body into my side and the weight of his hand on my thigh.

I was hard, on-stage. Had wondered at the time how obvious that was, how clear through both underwear and shorts; got my answer now, weeks delayed, as this strange, unpredictable version of myself pawed at his crotch through his clothes. Shaping the layers of fabric around his cock, until the full, thick outline was lewdly defined. Doubly emphasized, then, by the way I thrust my hips forward toward the watching crowd.

I shivered - despite the heat of the water - as fingers hooked around my dick. One hand first, then a second; coming in from different angles, competing and conspiring to grope at me more eagerly. Fondling more than stroking, touch for its own sake. For the heat of flesh against your fingertips, the knowledge that each brush, and squeeze, and graze sent fresh waves of pleasure and surprise through the man you were pawing.

“You taught him well,” Jefferson murmured. Not so much turning to Carlos - his eyes never left the screen - but an incline of head indication enough.

“Not every lesson,” Carlos replied, softly.

A splash of water; ripples threatening to douse Jefferson’s phone. Donny pushing in to join us, Carlos’ broad arm hooking around the junior’s lean, muscled shoulders. Dragging him in closer, until he was practically sat on the older wrestler’s lap. Not that I thought either would object to that.

“Shit, Eoin.” Donny flashed me a wink. “You never did say what you made in tips that night.”

I’d not counted in the end. Embarrassed by the memory of it, each crumpled bill a reminder of what’d felt at the time like a mortifying display. Amateurish in comparison to what I knew Brayden could offer.

Only now, looking at how I stroked myself through the jock on-screen, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver of pride.

I bit my lip as the fingers slipped down underneath me. Tracing the wet curve of my ass, until they were squirming against my hole.

No way to hold in the gasp as the first fingertip pushed into me.

“That might be our cue to turn in,” Luke said, his tone wry. He widened his eyes, pointedly, when I turned my bleary gaze on him.

“Probably,” Coach agreed, dryly.

He pushed himself up, swinging his leg over the side. Already reaching for a towel even as his boyfriend was just standing.

There was no way for me not to stare at how the water ran down Luke’s chest, or the tight cling of the black swimsuit he was wearing. The color disguising more than the tight cut revealed, not that it seemed to deter my treacherous eyes.

“G’night, guys,” Luke said, still sounding amused.

I heard my bros chorus the same in return. My own mouth too dry to even muster a response.

And then they were gone, down the path and around the corner, and it was just my teammates and me.

“You think they’re gonna fuck?” Donny sounded delighted at the prospect.