It was 7:00AM on a Saturday in October out on the soccer pitch, the grass still damp from the early morning sprinklers. The ‘stadium’, if you could call the local sports complex that, usually filled with cheering parents, was silent and filled with fog.
No practices or games were scheduled until at least 10:00 this morning, making this wide open field a surprising place of solitude on a chilly Fall morning. Jack arrived at 6:30 and had been taking shots on goal, the tension in his shoulders tight as he considered the approaching challenge.
A little after 7:05, his cross-town rival, a captain of Jack’s team’s rival school, Matt, strolled down from his car. Taller at 6’4” to Jack’s 5’11”, and leaner than Jack, his limbs were long, dangling out and filled with coiled power, perfect for the midfield position he played. His damp, blonde hair was held in place with a sweatband, a familiar sight that usually sparked a competitive fire in Jack’s gut. This morning, it felt different. More personal.
Their rivalry had evolved over 4 years in high school, both starring from the moment they joined their teams. What started out as a bitter hatred for the other had slowly transformed into something else. They were both still fierce competitors, both hating to lose, especially to each other, but lately, an admiration and borderline obsession grew between them. Something confusing that they both, in their own way, tried to label only as mutual respect.
“So?” Matt’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with that familiar challenge. Even from this distance, Jack could see the slight glint in his eyes, the competitive hunger Jack recognized because he saw it in the mirror in himself.
Jack walked towards the penalty spot, kicking idly at a stray piece of turf. “You ready Matty boy?”
Matt smirked, a slow, cocky curve of his lips. “You sure you’re up to lose again?”
That stung after Jack’s team’s recent loss, but it also sent a jolt of competitive energy through his veins. The way Matt carried himself, the playful arrogance, was fuel for Jack’s spirit. Jack ignored the little flicker of heat in his chest and focused on the burn of their rivalry.
This meet-up was a long time coming, a challenge they regularly referenced to the other that they swore would happen before school ended.
“Just you and me. First to three.” Jack said.
“We never did decide what we’re playing for.” Matt responded, competition a must for them both at all times.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Jack started. “I think we play for anything.”
“Anything?” Matt replied, confused.
“Yeah. Winner chooses. But we agree right now that anything’s on the table. Anything. Loser can’t back out if we agree now?” Jack stated, innuendo thick in his words.
Guys as competitive as Jack and Matt lived for the thrill of victory and dominance that came with these types of challenges. They also had deep respect for honoring the stakes if they were on the losing end, which neither Matt nor Jack were much in life.
Matt’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of focused intensity that Jack knew well.
“Whatever I want,” Matt echoed, the words a low promise, “sign me up…”
He walked towards the goal, pulling on gloves borrowed from his team’s actual goalkeeper. His tall, lean body filled the space as he moved.
Jack watched him, noting the grace despite his height. The way his jersey clung to his defined shoulders. The line of his jaw. Focus Jack, he told himself. He’s the enemy. This is about beating him. Yet, the competitive drive felt tangled with this other, confusing feeling. It was like wanting to tackle him hard and wrap his arms around him in victory all at once.
“Alright,” Matt said, finally settled between the posts, his eyes locking onto Jack’s. The distance felt suddenly very small. “Your kick.”
Jack placed the ball on the spot. His heart hammered, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion. It was the familiar pre-penalty anxiety, but amplified by Matt’s presence.
Jack backed up, focused on the ball. He chose his spot – low and hard to Matt’s left. He ran up, the familiar rhythm of his steps calming him slightly. He struck the ball clean.
It was a good shot, powerful and low. But Matt was already there, a long arm stretching, gloves deflecting the ball wide.
“Saved!” Matt’s triumphant shout echoed. He bounced the ball once, the sound loud in the quiet.
Jack’s gut twisted with frustration. God, he hated losing to Matt. He walked forward to retrieve the ball, avoiding Matt’s eyes, though he could feel them on him. He told himself the flush on his face was just effort.
“My turn,” Matt said, tossing the ball back to Jack.
Jack pulled on the keeper gloves and jogged to the goal, feeling smaller than usual between the posts. Matt took his time, breathing deeply, his chest expanding. Jack focused on reading him – the set of his shoulders, the angle of his hips, the look in his eyes. That intense, focused look.
Matt backed up, his long legs covering the distance quickly. He ran up, a smooth movement, and struck the ball.
Jack dove instinctively, guessing right, but the shot was perfectly placed, high and hard into the top corner, just under the crossbar. It was impossible to save.
“One-nil,” Matt called out, his voice tight with satisfaction.
Jack ripped off the gloves, frustration boiling. Get a grip, Jack. This was just a game.
The next few shots were a blur of tension and adrenaline. Jack scored his next, a tricky low shot to the corner. Matt responded with a powerful drive that Jack barely got a fingertip to, but it wasn’t enough. 2-1 Matt. Jack scored again, finding the net after faking Matt out. 2-2.
With each kick, each save attempt, the tension wound tighter. They rarely spoke, communicating only through the intense looks on their faces, the quick, assessing glances. Jack found himself watching Matt intensely – the way his muscles bunched under his jersey before he kicked, the sweat glistening on his hairline below the band, the determination etched on his face when he was about to dive. This fascination was just part of the competition, he told himself. You had to know your opponent, every nuance.
Matt saved Jack’s fourth shot, a soft one hit poorly due to nerves. Matt responded with a shot to the opposite side of Jack’s dive. 3-2 Matt. Jack’s heart sank. He took a deep breath, trying to recapture his focus. He still was given a chance to tie for ‘overtime’.
He walked up for his fifth shot. If he missed, Matt won. If he scored, it was 3-3, and they’d go into overtime. The pressure was immense. He looked at Matt who stood tall, arms slightly out, filling the goal. His eyes were piercing, fixed on Jack.
Jack ran up and struck the ball with everything he had. It rocketed towards the goal, aimed low and hard. Matt dropped, a long blur of motion. For a heart-stopping second, Jack thought he’d saved it again. But the ball squeezed just under his outstretched arm, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud.
“Goal!” Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 3-3.
Matt got up slowly, slapping his thigh in frustration. Good. Let him feel it.
Now came overtime. Each successful shot was met with the opponent’s successful reply. The score crept up – 4-4, then 5-5.
They both dripped sweat as the competition and morning air heated up, hair beginning to stick to their foreheads. Jack’s legs burned, his lungs ached. He stared at Matt, who looked equally spent, his chest heaving, the sweatband dark with moisture.
Jack was up for his sixth shot. Score was 5-5. If he scored, the pressure was all on Matt. He placed the ball, took his steps back. Jack’s mind flashed with thoughts he immediately tried to suppress: the angle of Matt’s neck, the way his chest rose and fell, the sheer presence of him. He ran up, connected. The ball flew true, high into the corner Matt had left open but hit the crossbar and banged back. A miss.
“YES!” Matt shouted, relief washing over him, with a chance to win.
Jack jogged towards the goal, ready to take his turn as keeper. Matt walked slowly to the spot, retrieving the ball.
Jack pulled on the gloves, trying to control his breathing. This was it. If he didn’t save this, he lost. If he saved it, the game went on.
Matt placed the ball. He stood behind it for a long moment, just breathing. Then he looked up. His eyes met Jack’s across the distance. The competitive fire was still there, burning bright. But beneath it, something else. Vulnerability? It was fleeting, gone before he could name it. Matt’s expression hardened into a mask of piercing concentration.
Matt backed up, took his run. Jack watched him, trying to read every muscle twitch. He saw the slight shift in Matt’s weight, the angle of his foot. He gambled, diving to his left.
The ball flew towards the other corner.
It seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before hitting the back of the net.
Silence.
Jack lay on the damp grass for a moment, the sting of defeat sharp and immediate.
Game over. 6-5 Matt.
Matt stood at the penalty spot, chest heaving, his gaze fixed on Jack who was getting slowly to his feet in the goal.
Jack walked slowly out of the goal, pulling off the gloves, his eyes fixed on Matt. Matt started walking towards him, covering the distance between the spot and the penalty box. Jack met him halfway. They stopped just a few feet apart, breathing heavily, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the low hum of the lights.
Matt’s eyes searched Jack’s, losing their competitive edge, becoming something softer, more complex. His chest rose and fell rapidly under the damp jersey. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, the sweatband pushed high.
Jack waited, his jaw tight. The defeat tasted bitter, but it was overshadowed by the anticipation, the nervous knot in his stomach. What did Matt want? Bragging rights? A humiliating demand?
Matt finally spoke, his voice low and raspy. “Winner.” He pointed his thumb at himself.
“Yeah,” Jack managed, his own voice tight.
Matt took a small step closer. Jack didn’t flinch. Matt looked him up and down, a slow, deliberate gaze that made Jack’s skin prickle. His eyes finally settled back on Jack’s face.
“I want…” Matt paused, the words hanging in the air. “You.”
Matt stepped closer to Jack, their bodies almost touching. "I want you," he said again, his voice low and seductive. "I want you to do whatever I tell you to do. I want you to never forget I beat you.“
Jack's mind was racing. Matt’s commanding presence made him want to submit.
"Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fair is fair.”
Matt's grin widened. "Good boy. Now get on your knees and kiss my feet."
Jack hesitated for a moment, surprised by the sudden escalation and domineering tone. But honoring their wager, he sank to his knees. He slowly removed each cleat, struggling to do so on another guy. Finally, he was able to remove each cleat and Matt’s socks, leaving him standing barefoot on the damp pitch, gigantic, smooth, sweaty feet now exposed.
Jack felt a rush of disgust that confusingly mixed with an eagerness to honor their competition and to explore his rival. He pressed his lips to Matt's sweaty feet. He could feel the other boy's eyes on him, watching him with a mixture of amusement and desire.
"Good boy," Matt said again, running his fingers through Jack's hair.
“Who won our match?” Matt asked, as Jack placed kisses on the tops of Matt’s sweaty feet.
“You did Matt,” Jack muttered, humiliated more by his loss than the action he now had to take as a result. He smelled the scent of energy having been exerted for victory.
“Take off my shorts." Matt said.
“What?! Here? In the open?” Jack began to panic.
“No one will be here for at least an hour.”
Jack knew he was right and did as he was told, pulling Matt's shorts down to reveal a jock strap that covered him in the front, pale hairless thighs on either side. Jack stared at it, getting a glimpse of parts of Matt he’d never seen in the years they’d known each other. His thighs seemed thick but slim, ghostly pale and long like his arms.
“Sniff it.”
Jack hesitated, “sniff what?”
“Jack...” Matt said, with a tone of disappointment.
Jack scrunched his nose, put off by the request knowing how sweaty Matt’s junk probably was after their match. He slowly moved his face in until it was inches from whatever Matt had underneath the front of the jock strap and inhaled as deep as he could. It smelled like a postgame locker room mixed with a deep masculine musk. Jack was disgusted and intoxicated at the same time, gagging out loud but feeling his belly stir.
“Come here,” Matt pulled at Jack’s chin, bringing him as close to eye level as the 6 inches of height different allowed.
Matt lifted Jack’s chin and bent down to make contact with his lips, desperate to feel close to his most respected rival. As they explored each other’s mouths and wrestled their tongues, finally letting out years of obsession with the other, Jack reached around and squeezed Matt’s smooth, soft, exposed bare cheeks. Jack couldn’t get enough of the soft, slim glutes that powered Matt’s ferocious playing style, kneading the taller boy’s butt, his hands running over every millimeter of Matt’s smooth ass.
Matt pulled away.
“I want you to taste it.” Matt whispered, slowly pushing Jack back down and turning around.
Jack’s eyes went wide at the sight of the pale cheeks in front of him, framed out by the jock strap that Matt still wore. Without thinking about where he was about to dive into, Jack spread the other boy’s cheeks apart.
He could see the puckered hole of Matt's ass, lightly dusted in hair only at the source, the rest of his crack and cheeks smooth to the touch. Jack leaned forward and flicked his tongue over the tight ring of muscle, savoring the salty, musky taste. It was coated in sweat and smelled of pure man after their long morning match. Jack felt disgusted by how much he savored the feeling of cleaning Matt’s hole, lapping at it over and over.
Matt moaned and pushed back against Jack's face, urging him to go deeper. Jack obliged, pushing his tongue inside the other boy's asshole and swirling it around. He could feel Matt's body trembling with pleasure.
In one swoop, without command from Matt, Jack pulled back and pulled down Matt’s jock. As Matt fumbled to stay upright, he removed his shirt, leaving the tall blonde midfielder fully naked head to toe in the middle of the field.
Jack spun Matt back around and made eye contact with his long, probably near 8 inch cock. It was long but thin. Jack thought to himself that Matt’s dick was essentially Matt on a smaller scale - long, gangly, and smooth. It looked as if it had been leaking pre cum for an hour, already glistening at the head and moist. He was desperate to taste it.
"Fuck yes. Suck my dick Jack, suck my dick,” Matt begged.
Jack leaned forward and flicked his tongue over the tip of Matt's cock, tasting the salty pre-cum. He wrapped his lips around the head and began to suck, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin.
Jack’s lack of experience at the action was more than compensated for by his primal need to become one with his fiercest competitor.
Matt moaned and threaded his fingers through Jack's hair, guiding his head back and forth. "I can’t believe you’re sucking my dick Jack. A little cocksucking loser."
Jack sucked and licked as fast and desperately as he could handle.
"Wanna taste my balls too, Jack?"
Jack obediently moved his attention to Matt's balls, licking and sucking them into his mouth as he jerked Matt’s 8 inches. He could feel the other boy's body trembling with pleasure.
"Fuck, Jack," Matt moaned. "You’re better at sucking dick than you are at soccer.” Jack pulled back, looking up at Matt with a mischievous grin, rolling his eyes.
Jack returned to sucking Matt off, able to easily add a hand to the taller boy’s long member to increase the pleasure. The euphoria rushed into him quickly, lightning head to toe as Matt couldn't hold on any longer. He cried out and without warning, his hot, sticky cum spurted out, flooding Jack’s mouth. Jack blinked with surprise, struggling to adjust to the flow into his mouth. He did his best to keep his hand and mouth pumping, his mouth filling up with Matt’s extra salty seed after their match, some dribbling out onto his cheeks.
“Wait wait wait don’t swallow,” Matt added quickly as his orgasm finished. Jack looked up at him, mouth still filled with some of Matt’s juices, the salty, thick, pool swelling his cheeks.
“Open your mouth.” Matt commanded, as Jack slowly opened his mouth, revealing the creamy substance from Matt’s dick. Jack felt the taste intensify as it coated his taste buds and marinated in his mouth.
“Who won?” Matt asked.
Jack looked up at him, masculine eyes twinkling, in utter humiliation of his loss.
“You,” Jack attempted to choke out over the liquid that filled his mouth to the brim.
“Don’t forget it. Swallow my cum.” Matt looked down and commanded, one more time, as Jack gulped down what felt like a gallon of Matt.
“Good game.” Matt said as he dressed, treating what had just happened as any other match with its requisite sportsmanship, shaking Jack’s hand.
“You too,” Jack replied, standing. “I want a rematch though. Should we do a best of three? Next match next weekend?”
Matt looked at his rival turned whatever they now were and grinned ear to ear, already planning his next prize.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
