Chapter 10: Origins - Jason and Max
This Chapter is told from Jason’s POV
The play froze on‑screen: a knot of maroon jerseys in the ruck, mud flecking the lens, the timestamp blinking from three seasons ago. I sat back in the film‑room chair, blue light bleaching my hands, the hum of the projector the only sound. No matter how many times I ran this match, my focus kept drifting to one shape—6’3” tall, number 8, Max Thorne.
I was watching Max’s most recent game. With our next match a month away, I’d started treating his footage like a second job—every carry, every misstep, every tell. He may be larger. He may be stronger. But I’m smarter. I’ll read him. I’ll out‑think him, out‑play him, and I won’t stop until we put his team under.
Even in the grainy footage before me, Max moved with that same brutal economy I remembered: all mass and intent, every carry a dare. On the speakers, his voice cut through the stadium noise—“Drive! Now!”—and the sound hit low in my chest, a command my body recognized before my brain caught up. Heat prickled under my collar, an old jolt waking in my muscles.
The projector image blurred at the edges. The film room dropped away. Our first match came back into my memory like a rush of cold air. It was a stadium under harsh lights, the stands shivering with noise, the air thick with liniment, wet earth, and that clean, rain‑sharp smell that crawls under your skin and stays there.
It was the semi‑final. My team versus his. Every preview had framed it as a captain’s clash: Jason Santoro, the calculating openside, against Max Thorne, the immovable number 8. We’d nodded across conference tables and awards banquets, but the first whistle that night was the real introduction.
From the first scrum, I understood why people talked about him the way they did. He was a brick wall in a maroon jersey—but he radiated heat, a live furnace of muscle jammed in close. When we packed down, I felt his pack’s power come through like a slow tectonic shift. His bark snapped over our heads—“Drive! Now!”—and the vibration went straight through my ribs.
The first time I tackled him, I did everything right. Low, tight, head to the side, shoulder on the thigh. I hit him and it was like slamming into a parked car that decided to keep moving. He staggered two more steps before gravity finally took him, and when we went down he crashed on top of me, all that weight and heat pinning me to soaked turf. For a second his face hovered inches from mine—eyes dark, mouth open, breath hot with effort.
He didn’t smirk; he just looked like he was measuring me. Then his hand planted on my chest, fingers wide, and he pushed himself up. The pressure of his palm left an imprint deeper than the mud. “Get up, Santoro. Game’s still moving.”
He was gone before my lungs had fully remembered how to work. The arrogance of it hit as hard as the tackle—but under the flare of anger, something else flickered. My body knew it wanted another collision before my mind decided what to call that.
I didn’t wait long. Ten minutes later he took a short ball off the scrum‑half and turned to crash the midfield again, head down, sure of his line. I’d already started drifting, reading the pattern. I cut across the grain, didn’t go low this time; I drove my shoulder up into his ribs just as he committed his weight.
The timing was perfect. He folded around the hit, the ball spilling free as he hit the deck. Our scrum‑half pounced, whistle shrilled our way. I stood over him, chest heaving, adrenaline and something sharper humming in my veins.
He looked up at me through streaks of mud, eyes narrowed. There was a new edge there now—recognition. “Nice hit,” he grunted, rolling to a knee.
“Thanks.” I didn’t offer a hand. Turning my back on him was deliberate, petty, and deeply satisfying.
From there, the match shrank to a private duel inside a very public game. He’d take three of my forwards on his back and drag them five meters, legs pumping, jersey stretched over his shoulders like armor. My answer would be a clean steal in the tackle a phase later, hands in exactly the right place, his roar of frustration hot on the back of my neck.
He crashed over from a five‑meter scrum, veins standing out in his neck as he grounded the ball, noise from the crowd washing over him. I saved a try in the corner by hitting him just before he could reach, driving us both into touch. Every collision had the same rhythm now: impact, breath, stare. Each time, his gaze found mine for half a second too long, like we were both checking the other’s temperature.
He was magnificent, and it infuriated me. Even caked in mud, he looked like something you couldn’t ignore—that maroon blur cutting through the grey rain, thighs churning, calves flexing with each step. I told myself I hated his casual cruelty, the way he laughed with his teammates like none of this cost him anything. But my eyes wouldn’t let go of him. I tracked his jersey automatically, body tensing for the inevitable moment when he’d turn and come down my channel again.
Every time he did, some part of me lit up before the hit.
When the final whistle went, we’d lost by three. A last‑minute penalty. The ache of it settled low in my stomach, but the louder sensation was a hollow burn under my sternum, like I’d been playing a different match layered on top of the scoreboard—the one where I had a hunger to compete against him.
In the dull roar of the crowd, I made myself a promise that felt as solid as the turf under my boots: this is my rival, this my mission. I didn’t just want to match Max; I was going to beat him, to dominate him, until there was no doubt left in either of us who was better.
The handshake line was its own kind of punishment. “Good game, good game, good game,” down the row, clapping backs, trading grips. My smile stayed fixed until I reached him.
Scrum cap off, black hair plastered to his skull with sweat and rain, a smear of mud across a high cheekbone. His chest rose and fell under the torn jersey, breath still rough, heat pouring off him. Up close, that same mix—salt, grass, liniment, wet air—hit me like a flashback. He extended his hand, big enough that I knew it would swallow mine.
I took it. His grip was crushing, measured. He didn’t shake; he just held on, anchoring me there. “Hell of a game, Santoro,” he said, voice rough from shouting. There was no warmth in it, just acknowledgment, like he was stating a shared fact about the way our bodies had collided all night.
“You too,” I managed. I tried to pull back. He tightened, just a fraction.
Then the smirk appeared, a small tilt of his mouth that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re quick. I’ll give you that. For a little guy.”
The insult was perfectly aimed. Heat rushed up my neck. “And you’re a big, dumb plow horse. All power, no finesse. Enjoy the win. You got the calls.”
His fingers flexed around mine, pressure sharpening. The smirk stayed, but his eyes went flat and cold. “I make my own calls. And my own luck.” He lifted his free hand and tapped his temple with one thick finger. “You lost because you’re not strong enough where it counts.”
His gaze dropped, slowly, tracing the line of my body before dragging back up. “Anywhere that counts.”
The meaning landed low and dirty. Rage flared, and right behind it, a pulse of unwanted heat that made my grip falter for half a second. I ripped my hand free like I’d been burned. “Go to hell, Thorne.”
He leaned in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath ghost my cheek, hear the private tone under the words. “See you next season, Santoro. I like breaking in guys who think they’re tough.”
His hand came down on my shoulder, a heavy, claiming slap that sent a jolt all the way through me. Then he turned away, swallowed by celebrating teammates and the roar of the crowd.
I stood alone in the churned mud, shoulder throbbing under the spot where he’d hit, hand still buzzing from where he’d held it too long. The taste of defeat was metallic on my tongue, but it wasn’t the score that replayed in my head; it was the feel of his weight on me, the sound of his voice in my ear, the way my body had answered every time he came into my space.
Hatred was the easy label. It settled in quickly, solid and sharp. But underneath it, wired through every memory of the match, was something else—a live current, humming hot and constant whenever I thought of him. A fascination I didn’t want to name. Both took root in that moment, tangled together from the start.
The screen snapped back into focus, the present‑day footage replacing the rain‑slick memory. On the monitor, Max broke through a tackle three years later, same stride, same inevitability. I hit pause; he froze mid‑charge, eyes fixed somewhere past the camera.
Even with the projector quiet, my pulse wouldn’t slow. The air in the film room felt too warm, my shirt sticking between my shoulder blades. The intensity of the emotion was jarring. But rivalry leaves its own scent, its own rhythm, and I could feel both thrumming under my skin.
Since that first match, that initial defeat, our battle had gone from a single wound to a running tally. We’d traded blows on the scoreboard, each club taking two tight wins off the other. Captains’ column: 2–2, dead even. The next match—circled in red on my calendar—was the tiebreaker, the kind of rematch people wrote headlines for.
With the rematch looming, I had no doubt Max thought having his massive cock inside my my boyfriend, causing Chris to moan in ecstasy and cum explosively while I watched, all while Max taunted me, and ordered me around in my own bedroom—gave him the psychological edge. If they knew, a lot of guys would surely say Max has owned me. They’d be wrong.
Chris was right to choose Max. It sharpened my edge. Being under Max doesn’t feel like losing; it feels like loading a spring. Every time he pushes me down, something in me pushes back harder. The score between us isn’t settled. It’s finally getting interesting.
* * *
At home, Chris was curled on the couch, laptop open, rain ticking against the windows. He looked up as I came in, his face softening into that smile that usually grounded me.
“How was the tape review?” he asked.
I hung my coat, feeling my phone a weight in my pocket. “Same as always. Patterns. Things you think you’ve put behind you, still right there when you hit rewind.”
He watched me a second longer than usual. “You sure you’re okay?”
I let the question hang for a breath, feeling the buzz under my skin, that old promise re‑igniting.
“More than okay,” I said. “Focused. Determined. Driven.
Chris relaxed against me, taking it as reassurance. Outside, thunder rolled low over the city. A storm was brewing, and I already knew whose shape it would take.
More to cum . . . In the next chapter, Max (and the hot cuck sex) returns
