One on One
The sky cracked open above the pitch, thunder rolling deep and slow like a warning growl. Rain poured in sheets, soaking the grass into mud and drenching every inch of Jamie’s skin. He was shirtless, barefoot, breathing hard.
Across from him stood Coach Adams.
Hair dusted across his thick chest and arms, water slicking through the curls. He wasn’t ripped, but powerful – brawny, heavy with mass, a real brute of a man. His belly stood proud just above the black shorts plastered to his solid thighs.
They faced each other on the empty field, lights coming from out the darkness somewhere flickering behind the rain like something half-remembered. No ball, just the two of them.
Coach lunged first. Jamie met him head-on, their bare chests slapping together, skin sliding from the downpour. He gasped at the impact, mud spraying from their legs as they struggled for footing, each trying to gain the advantage.
Heavy arms wrapped around Jamie, pulling him in, crushing him to that hot, soaked body. The smell was deep and complex – sweat, grass, musk and rain - and it hit Jamie like a drug.
They tumbled, limbs going everywhere, the game still afoot. Coach landed on top, pinning Jamie down into the muck with raw, practiced weight. Their chests heaved, slick and pressed tight. Rain hit Jamie’s face as he stared up, breathless and defeated.
Coach Adams’ face was just inches away, noses practically touching. Rain beating on his beard and running rivers down his back. His eyes, piercing and dark, held Jamie’s like he was seeing through him, pinning him to the spot.
Jamie felt his heartbeat in his throat.
Neither of them moved
Panting, their breaths mingled, hot and heady despite the cold rain enveloping them. A sliver of a smile appeared on Coach’s face.
Coach didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The look said everything.
Jamie’s legs spread slightly, involuntarily, the mud sucking at his thoughts. His hands gripped the older man’s sides. He could feel the heat under the wet skin, the soft hair matted down across the Coach’s belly pressing into his own taught trembling stomach.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky. For a moment, he thought Coach might kiss him.
He shouldn’t want him to.
But he did.
Then –
I jolted awake in bed, soaked in sweat, sheets twisted between my legs where Coach Adams was moments ago. Early morning light streamed through the cracks in the curtains, headphones forgotten on the pillow and the playlist long finished. My cock, throbbing and solid, had clearly been leaking for a while and left my stomach a sticky swamp.
I groaned, burying my face into the pillow, trying not to cry and willing myself soft, to no avail.
What the fuck is happening to me?
It had been two weeks since I started training early with Coach every day before college. Weights. Track. Drills that left me soaked in sweat and barely able to walk by first period. Coach didn’t say much – just barked orders that I instantly followed, spotted me on the bench, clapped me on the back when I pushed through something heavy.
And honestly, it was working. My arms were looking fuller, chest thicker. I’d catch myself checking the mirror more, flexing a little. I liked the progress.
But the dreams were getting weird.
Not nightmares. Just … intense. Hot, disjointed flashes. Skin. Grunts. A heavy weight holding me down, pinning me. I’d wake up with my legs tense, heat racing, solid cock tight against me like it had been straining all night.
Just hormones, I told myself. Probably all the training. Muscle memory messing with my head.
I tried not to think too much about it.
Lately my life had begun to move to a quiet rhythm shaped by duty, routine, and the unavoidable weight of pressure. Dad has always been fit and in shape moving straight from a Rugby scholarship into starting up his own construction company years ago and now has several important contracts across the area. He still goes down to site and helps out when they need a hand, he hates being stuck behind a desk, and sometimes I think the only thing telling him apart from the other young worker is the greying at his temples.
Despite his hard work and long hours he’s been putting in lately he always makes it home for dinner—boots by the door, back stiff, voice gruff with tired affection. I’ve tried to step up and help since Seb left for Uni: cooking, cleaning and keeping everything steady, mostly for Oli’s sake. He was only 10 and a constant whirlwind of energy, always crashing through the house with foam swords or wild ideas, his laughter sharp in the silence sometimes.
I wanted to be a good big brother like Seb was for me. Only a year apart but he felt so far away. His messages come less often these days anyway but there’s something comforting knowing he is out there —doing well, chasing what he wants. We were inseparable growing up and I wish I could tell him what’s been going on with me lately, but I can’t bring myself to even reply to him. What would I even say?
‘Hey bro! Glad you’re having a great time in Bath, by the way I keep having these super confusing dreams about Coach and me and I wake up rock solid and dripping!’
No, it’s just a phase I’m going through, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. It’ll pass I’m sure of it, I just need to hold it together and keep to the routine I’ve built around myself. Even if that did mean spending more time with the object desires of my dreams.
That morning I met up with Lacey outside her locker. She leaned in for a hug, blouse tight over her chest, soft against me. I barely noticed, my arms went around her out of habit more than anything.
“You’re not even looking” she teased, pressing a little closer.
“Sorry” I mumbled. “Just tired, been hitting the gym hard.”
Right then, Luke walked up, grinning like always. “You can say that again. Dude, you’re getting fucking stacked.”
He reached out and squeezed my bicep
I froze.
It wasn’t anything really, just a friendly grab. But something about it made my heart skip. Just a little jump, quick and shallow.
“Coach got you on some superhero regime or something?” he said, still gripping me.
I laughed. Forced. “Just extra reps.”
He let go and moved on, chatting about something I barely heard. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the touch.
Not Lacey’s. Not her pout, or her tits pressed against me.
Luke’s hand, around my arm. Warm. Firm.
And for some reason, my thighs clenched, and I couldn’t shake the feeling.
The locker room steamed with sweat, soap and the lazy rhythm of post-practice banter. I peeled off my soaked jersey, my muscles twitching from the last brutal tackle. I dropped it into my bag and made my way to the showers, still pumped with adrenaline, my mind buzzing.
But it wasn’t the game replaying in my head.
It was the way Luke’s shorts had clung to his ass during sprints. The outline of the bulge in his compression tights. The way the sweat traced the curve of his lower back as he bent over to tie his cleats.
I shook my head. Hard. What the fuck man?
I stepped into the showers and let the water run over my shoulders, soothing and relaxing me. My eyes drifted.
At first I told myself it was just comparison. Completely normal. Guys checked out other guys all the time at the gym, just to see where they compared. This was no different.
But my gaze lingered – longer than it should have.
Ben, laughing at some dumb joke lathered up his chest. Muscles glistening, tan lines just barely peeking from his hips. The water streamed down his abs, pooling at the bush that disappeared into the thick base of his cock.
I swallowed. Hard.
I turned slightly, adjusting the water. But my eyes darted back after only a few seconds.
Ben was stroking shampoo into his buzzed hair, his back arched under the spray. His ass was fucking perfect. Tight. Round. Flexing with every movement. My cock twitched.
No way. No fucking way.
I reached for the wall, grounding myself. Needing something – anything – to support my weakening knees. My heart pounded – not from exertion, but from the panic of how right this felt.
I caught my own reflection in the fogged up mirror outside the shower: lips parted, breathing fast, eyes locked on the other guys like prey.
What’s going on with me? Snap out of it Jamie
I backed away from the spray, hiding my half-hard dick with my hand, face burning crimson.
“Gotta jet” I muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and ran to get changed. I barely got the towel around my waist before bolting from the showers, leaving the room none-the wiser and a trail of soapy suds behind me.
What the fuck was that?
I didn’t even know what I’d been staring at. Why I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Why my dick was so fucking hard. It still throbbed under the towel, pulsing with every step pressed tightly to my body. Leaking like it thought something had just happened – something I wanted.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard the voice.
“Jamie”
I froze.
It was Coach Adams. He was standing just outside his office. A dark grey T-shirt clung to him like a second skin, his thick forearms bursting out from beneath and crossed over his chest.
“C’mere a sec”
Shit, did he know something? I thought to myself, panicking.
I swallowed hard and jogged over, trying to keep the towel from tenting too much. My cock wouldn’t go down – it just throbbed with every heartbeat, angry and alive.
Coach stepped back, letting me squeeze past. The office smelled like leather and old cologne, like him. There were taped up schedules on the wall, papers across his large wooden desk and a container of chalk beside his laptop. No matter how many years Coach had been in this room I doubt he had never even thought of decorating the space he inherited from those before.
This room was actually built into the changing block, his office door attached to the locker rooms via a short hallway – close enough to hear those outside whilst presenting the illusion of privacy for anyone trapped behind the solid door.
He closed it behind me resolutely.
“I’ve been watching you” he said, voice low and gravelly.
My chest tightened.
“You’ve been pushing hard lately. I like that, you’ve proven me wrong”
“Thanks Coach” I said meekly.
He nodded, then reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a matte black tub. No label. Just clean unmarked plastic, a scoop clinking faintly inside.
“You still need a little more, though. You wanna make the team? Gotta build power and focus, not just strength”
I nodded. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
He held my gaze for a beat, then handed me the tub. It was warm from sitting in the drawer. “Special formula” he said. “Protein blend I’ve been working on with a few of the guys. Helps you with recovery. Testosterone. Gets your head and body right.”
I took it, hoping he couldn’t see how red my face was – or how hard my cock still was under the towel. The head was sticky against my thigh.
“Two shakes a day” he said, stepping closer. “First thing in the morning, and one after school. Don’t skip. You’ll start to feel it almost right away.”
I nodded quickly. “Yeah, got it. Thanks Coach!”
He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. Thick fingers digging in just enough to ground me. Or to claim me.
“You keep this up” he said, his voice dropping a little lower “you’re gonna go real far Jamie. Real far.”
I nodded again, practically breathless.
As I turned to go, I felt his eyes on me – low, and lingering.
And even as I left, towel clinging to my hips and cock twitching hard beneath it, I couldn’t stop gripping the tub like it meant something. Like I’d just been marked, all the while with Coach’s orders ringing through my head.
