Sewell-Thomas Stadium
The air at Lake Lanier carried the scent of pine needles and grilling meat. From the sprawling deck of a DKE brother’s parents’ lake house, the water glittered, a vast, blue-gray mirror for a perfect late summer Georgia afternoon. It was the picture of fraternity bliss: brothers and pledges splashing in the water, the beat of a Jelly Roll playlist, the easy clink of Michelob Ultra beer bottles.
I stood at the foot of the bed in the room I’d been assigned, my Briggs Chevrolet duffel bag open like a wound. The weekend pledge retreat was mandatory. I’d spent the previous week performing the part of a dutiful pledge, my mind a scrambled mess of Luke’s freckles and the constant, low-grade panic that Adam might piece the two of us together from last Saturday.
The messages had come all week, a persistent, unnerving pulse on the S24.
bluehenginger82: last night was fun
bluehenginger82: you around this week?
bluehenginger82: or u ghosting me now frat boy lol
Each notification had been a jolt, but not of excitement. It was the alarm of a security system being tested. Clingy. The casual "lol" did nothing to mask the expectation. Luke knew my first name. He knew my dorm. Every message felt like him gently tapping on the glass of my firewall, seeing how much pressure it could take. I’d been deliberately vague, non-committal, the guardian of my own secrets. When he’d pressed about the weekend, I’d told him I’d be out of town. For once, it wasn’t a lie. It was a necessary tactical withdrawal.
My hand, buried in the duffel, brushed against the cool, hard rectangle of the prepaid Samsung, tucked into a sock. A reckless idea had simmered in my mind on the ride up: Atlanta. A bigger city, a bigger grid. A reset. But it died just as quickly. I had no car here, no means to leave. I was already managing one potential leak; I didn't need to open another spigot.
I let my fingers fall away from the burner phone, leaving it buried. The urge wasn't to escape to something, but to release the pressure Luke was putting on the world I was waiting to build at Alabama.
I needed a momentary anchor: a voice from the other side of the glass.
I pulled out my iPhone instead of the Samsung. Scrolling past the DKE group chats and Caroline’s messages about the concert we were going to next Friday, I found my sister’s name. Her last message that I hearted was: they just started boarding, see you soon wy, if you ever need me, I’m one call away.
I typed. Hey. On a pledge retreat for the weekend. Lake Lanier. Realized we’re not far from you.
The reply came faster than I expected for someone who works as hard as she does.
Macy: Oh! That’s right up the road. A DKE retreat, I’m assuming?
The one and only.
The typing bubbles appeared, lingered, then delivered her response.
Macy: Proud of you for putting yourself out there. I know that world can be a lot.
The words were right. Supportive, sisterly. But I could read the unspoken text, as clearly as if she’d typed it. Proud of you for following the script. For walking the line Dad drew for you. It was the same tone she’d used back at the stadium. A quiet, clinical disappointment that I was choosing the gilded cage, even as I rattled the bars quietly behind everyone’s back.
Before I could reply, another message came through.
Macy: Have fun. Try to breathe some real air out there, not just bourbon and ambition.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I wanted to tell her that the air out here was just as suffocating. That the "real" me was a hidden phone in a duffel bag, and spandex in a drawer in my dorm. A secret so volatile it could detonate this entire picture-perfect weekend.
But I kept those secrets.
I just typed back: Will do. If dad asks, tell him I didn’t pack a swimsuit and locked the phone.
Shoving my iPhone into my pocket, I turned and walked out onto the deck. The sun was warm on my face. Miles pressed a cold beer into my hand. Someone yelled my name from the dock. I lifted the bottle in acknowledgment, a country club smile settling automatically onto my face.
The performance was back on. But underneath, the silence from the duffel bag in the room was a ticking clock, and every tick sounded like a notification.
During the afternoon before the big party, I half-heard a conversation drifting over from the dock. A couple of the other pledges were ribbing Elliot about something: his voice, the way he dressed, the way he wasn’t chasing the girls who’d come by on pontoon boats.
“Elliot’s gay anyway,” one of them said, laughing, like it was a throwaway fact.
He didn’t deny it. He just rolled his eyes, muttered “shut up,” and kept sipping his beer. The others let it drop, chasing a football into the shallows. I convinced myself it was just frat-boy noise. But the line stuck in my head like a burr, replaying every time I looked at Elliot’s shirtless, smooth body.
That night, the party wound down in a haze of cigar smoke and slurred Morgan Wallen lyrics. As brothers began claiming the better bedrooms, Carter pushed Elliot into the bedroom with me.
“You two Legacy pledges get the king,” he announced. “Think of it as a brotherhood exercise.” He winked, a gesture that was probably meant to be chummy, but felt like an accusation.
My blood ran cold. Elliot, the nervous sophomore from the alumni dinner, son of the Withers banking dynasty, just shrugged, a faint blush highlighting his cheeks. “Sure, Carter. No problem.”
The door clicked shut, leaving us in a silence thick with unspoken rules. I’d never shared a bed with anyone, not since I was a small child. The idea of it, the forced, platonic intimacy, felt more exposing than anything I’d done with Luke or anyone else. That was a choice, a transaction. This was an obligation, a test of my ability to perform normalcy in the most vulnerable of states.
“I, uh, I can take the left side,” Elliot mumbled, not meeting my eyes.
“Fine,” I said, the word coming out too cautiously. I turned my back to him and began changing into a pair of soft, Brooks Brothers pajama pants and a t-shirt, a ritual that suddenly felt obscenely personal. I could feel his movements behind me, the rustle of his own, probably as expensive sleep clothes.
We climbed into opposite sides of the vast bed, leaving a canyon of mattress between us. The lights went out, plunging the room into a deep, pine-scented darkness. I lay rigid on my back, staring at the ceiling I couldn't see, every one of my senses screaming. I could hear his breathing, the soft sigh of the mattress as he shifted. The warmth of another body, a foreign presence in what should be the most private of spaces, was like a spider crawling across my skin.
My mind, panicked, began to spin. This is what normal frat boys do. They share beds on trips. They don't think twice about it. But I was thinking about it. I was thinking about the few inches of space between us, about what would happen if I rolled over in my sleep. About the stark, terrifying contrast between this: a sanctioned, fraternal closeness, and the illicit, secret closeness I craved.
Every rustle of the sheets from his side was a potential landmine. Was he awake? Was he as uncomfortable as I was? Did he sense the wrongness radiating off me, the sheer effort it was taking to lie still and pretend this was fine? Everyone in DKE knew about Caroline, but had they begun to suspect why I had never even been to her dorm?
The darkness amplified everything. The scent of his shampoo, the sound of his swallow. It was a different kind of exposure than a Grindr hookup. That was about revealing a curated, physical fantasy. This was about the involuntary self: the way a body breathes, the heat it gives off, the unconscious sounds it makes in the night. It was a vulnerability I had never signed up for.
I didn't dare move a muscle. I held myself in a state of paralyzed alertness, a soldier on a forbidden watch. The performance wasn't on the deck anymore; it was here, in this dark, quiet room, in the absolute stillness of my own body. And it was the hardest role I’d ever had to play. The ticking clock of the Samsung was now drowned out by the deafening beat of my own heart, thumping out a rhythm of pure, undiluted fear against the premium Egyptian cotton sheets.
Somewhere past midnight, Elliot’s breathing evened out into sleep. I lay flat on my back, frozen, counting the seconds between each inhale. The mattress shifted, barely, and suddenly the gap between us wasn’t a canyon but a sliver. His arm brushed the sheet near mine, the contact feather-light, but it was enough to send a shock through my whole body.
Did he mean it? Was it just sleep?
The rumor from the dock flared hot in my brain: Elliot’s gay anyway.
If he was, what did that mean about right now? Did he know? Could he tell?
I clenched my jaw, staring into the dark ceiling. The tiniest shift in his sleep had me wired like I had just had three cappuccino shots, terrified that one more brush would unravel me completely.
The truth was unbearable: I trusted horny strangers on Grindr more than I trusted this.
It was at least another hour later when Elliot’s breathing steadied into something deep and even, the kind of rhythm that belonged to real sleep. I clung to it like a life raft, counting out the seconds between each inhale, waiting for the current in my own chest to slow. The mattress was warm beneath me, the air stale with pine and beer, but exhaustion finally dragged me under.
When I blinked awake hours later, the first pale wash of dawn was cutting through the blinds. My neck was stiff, my limbs heavy. Elliot was on his side, turned away, the distance between us restored to a polite gulf. His arm was tucked under his pillow, the sheet rising and falling with each untroubled breath. Whatever had brushed too close in the night was gone, erased. A dream. Nothing more.
By the time we packed up and piled into Brody’s Highlander, blaring Luke Bryan back toward the Alabama state line, I’d buried the whole weekend under a fresh coat of performance. Back in my room, the Samsung stayed zipped in the duffel. I told myself the firewall was intact.
But the script didn’t wait. Caroline texted before I even unpacked:
Caroline: Don’t forget you’re driving on Friday. Jason Aldean, gates at 6.
The message pulsed on my screen like an appointment I couldn’t dodge. I thumbed back the only safe answer.
Got it. Pick you up at 4:30 in front of Ridgecrest.
Her reply was a heart emoji, a perfect stamp of the life I was supposed to be living. I locked the phone and stared at the ceiling of my single, the silence pressing in. Friday was coming, with its beer-soaked country chorus and the perfect boyfriend act.
And all the while, the other phone stayed buried in that sock, waiting for me to crack it open again.
I didn’t until Thursday. My one free night.
I left my books piled on my desk and took the Denali out, not toward the Strip, not back toward the dorms, but to the lot wedged between Mal M. Moore and Sewell-Thomas Baseball Stadium. The sun was still up, the stadium’s glass windows throwing it back in jagged gold. From the driver’s seat, I pulled out the Samsung.
The grid refreshed. One profile caught my eye almost immediately: close, .1 miles. Not caucasian. The torso shot had a different grain to it, light brown skin pulled tight over muscle, with a baseball cap emoji in the headline. Subtle, but not. My pulse jumped.
I tapped it open and typed out: hey
Blue letters blinked back at me after a few minutes.
what’s up?
The profile name was forgettable, 3810475pr. But the cap, the timing, the distance, all of it screamed baseball. Even off-season, they were in conditioning. Right here.
I just sat there for a few seconds, thumb hovering, watching the glow of the screen and the shadow of the stadium looming beside me. Thursday night was open, and I had just found my next mission.
The message thread lit up faster than I expected.
3810475pr was bolder than most. After the usual low-pressure start, he cut straight to it.
send me something. not face or just skin.
My stomach dropped and surged at the same time. I glanced around the parking lot, empty, except for a couple of campus police cars closer to the stadium. No way I could risk it here.
be right back, I typed.
I shoved the Samsung into the console, gunned the Denali, and drove straight back to my parking spot. The whole ride, my heart thumped louder than the tires on the asphalt. After running back to Riverside, I locked my door, yanked my jeans and underwear down, and angled the phone. The flash went off like a firecracker in the dark room. One quick, surgical shot.
I sent it before I could second-guess.
The reply came almost instantly.
😈 damn gringo. nice.
The approval hit like a drug. My thumb hovered over the keyboard, reckless.
u baseball?
Three blinking dots. A pause long enough to raise my blood pressure. Then:
maybe. u tryna find out or what?
The confirmation was there without being there. My pulse wouldn’t slow.
When? I typed.
Friday night, came the answer. Simple. Final.
My stomach lurched. Birmingham, Caroline. Jason Aldean. Her sorority sisters. The cowboy boots and the smiling photos she was already rehearsing.
can’t.
then never. U host came the reply.
I stared at it, blood hot in my face. He was right. Alabama vs Georgia was the next day. The whole campus would be buzzing watching the game if they weren’t at the stadium in Georgia.
ok. Friday.
The chat went quiet for a beat. Then I couldn’t stop myself.
wear your uniform.
The typing bubbles flickered, then his reply dropped.
so estás loco 😂 they keep 'em locked up. staff only.
My mouth went dry. Shut down, flat. But giving up wasn’t an option. I needed something tangible, something to tie the fantasy to the body.
Cool, I’ll let you know when I’m free I typed, but my mind was already racing.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in the Denali again, campus fading behind me as I pulled into the Dick’s Sporting Goods lot. Beside the sculpted mannequins in tight workout gear, I grabbed a red Nike Pro compression shirt off the rack. Size large. Just an estimate: big enough to hug his chest, maybe stretch across his arms.
At the register, I shoved the secondary Amex Black card tied to my dad’s account into the reader without looking the cashier in the eye. The plastic bag crinkled loudly as if it were an engine backfiring as I carried it back to the SUV.
By the time I dropped the bag onto my desk, it felt like a talisman. If 3810475pr wouldn’t bring the uniform, I’d give him a brand new one.
After my classes on Friday, I opened up Grindr to 3810475pr and then flipped open my laptop to the Alabama Baseball roster. I clicked and scrolled. A dozen tan faces in maroon polos. Dominican, Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban hometowns. I zoomed in on torsos and shoulders, trying to match the grain of muscle in the photo to the headshots. It wasn’t as easy as Track and Field or Swimming and Diving, so I just gave up my quest and started getting ready for the concert.
Following the drive with Caroline to Birmingham, we parked near Protective Stadium and boarded a free shuttle up to the Coca-Cola Amphitheater. Country music fans pressed in from every direction, cowboy hats bobbing above the crowd like buoys. Caroline was practically glowing under the neon lights, her sundress traded for denim shorts and boots, a red plaid shirt knotted at her waist.
I’d dressed for the part too: jeans stiff from the dryer, a button-down plaid shirt I’d borrowed from Miles, sleeves rolled up just enough to look casual. To anyone watching, we were another smiling couple at Jason Aldean, another snapshot in the picture-perfect college Instagram slideshow.
Inside, Caroline dragged me to the merch stand, her eyes sparkling over the racks of foam koozies, t-shirts, and cowboy hats stacked in neat rows. She picked up a white felt one, plopped it on her head, and spun toward me. “Do I look ridiculous or perfect?”
“Perfect,” I said automatically, the word rolling out with a smile that didn’t quite reach my chest.
While she preened in the mirror, I slipped my hand into my pocket. The Samsung was a weight I couldn’t ignore. Shielding the screen with my palm, I tapped open Grindr.
The chat thread was still there, glowing like a fuse. My thumbs flew before I lost my nerve.
11:45. Pedestrian bridge to Riverside.
Seconds later, the reply lit up, sharp and cocky:
that late? Better be worth it, blanco.
Heat shot through me. I locked the screen fast, shoving the phone deep in my pocket, heartbeat thumping in time with the bass rumble from the speakers.
“Wyatt!” Caroline’s voice cut through. I turned just in time for her to jam a wide-brimmed straw cowboy hat onto my head, the price tag swinging down into my eyes.
She laughed, the sound pure and easy. “Now you look like you belong here.”
I forced a grin, tipping the brim low like I was playing along. The crowd cheered as a roadie’s sound test rattled the amphitheater. Caroline grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the pit.
The cowboy hat scratched against my scalp. The Samsung burned in my pocket.
I felt the rope of both lives tightening around my neck, pulling me in opposite directions under the stage lights.
When the amphitheater lights cut out, and the crowd erupted as Jason Aldean strode onto the stage. The opening chords of Try That in a Small Town hit like a shot, and the place went feral. Beer cups lifted in the air, girls on shoulders screamed the lyrics, and the night spun into that blur of denim, neon, and sweat.
Caroline was alive in it, hair swinging, boots stomping, belting every word with her sisters. I stayed beside her, clapping where I had to, letting her grip my arm and pull me into the sway. Around us, plastic cups sloshed amber and gold, the air thick with the sour tang of cheap beer. My own hands were empty, as we were still underage.
The songs blurred, verse to chorus to chorus again, each one an anthem of trucks and heartbreak. Caroline tilted her phone up during the second chorus, angling for a video with me in frame. I leaned in, let my smile flash at the right beat, and felt the brim of the cowboy hat shadow my eyes.
The minutes bled out in neon. 8:45. 9:30. Every check of the time was a countdown. The Samsung weighed in my pocket like a ball and chain. 11:45. Riverside bridge.
By the encore, Caroline was breathless, cheeks pink, and tugging me toward the exit. “Selfies first, come on, Wyatt! Fountain shot!” She posed with her sisters, shoved the cowboy hat back onto my head, and snapped three pictures with me grinning stiffly beside her.
“Perfect,” she declared, sliding her phone back into her boot.
I laughed on cue, looping my arm around her waist as the crowd funneled toward the street. But inside, every second was agony. The shuttle. The drive back. The clock creeping closer to midnight.
All I wanted was the open interstate, the Denali, and the dark stretch back to Tuscaloosa.
Our trip back from Birmingham was a rush of taillights and Caroline humming along to Aldean on low volume. She scrolled through the selfies, choosing which to post, her screen glowing against the dark. When we pulled into Ridgecrest, she leaned over, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, Wyatt. Tonight was perfect.”
I forced a grin. “Glad you had fun, babe.”
She hopped out, boots crunching against the curb, already laughing as she texted her sisters. I watched her disappear into the lobby before shifting the Denali into gear.
By the time I parked in my usual spot in the booster lot, it was 11:28. Just enough time. I grabbed the Samsung from the console and checked the message thread. Still locked in: 11:45. Riverside bridge.
The night air was thick with the smell of sweat and stale beer from the Strip. I cut across toward Riverside, heart pounding with every step. But as I rounded the corner by the DKE house, a shadow pushed off the wrought iron fence.
“Wyatt Briggs.”
Grant. His voice was low, casual, but his posture was anything but. He stepped closer under the glow of a street lamp, his khakis crisp even at midnight.
“Caroline dragged you to Aldean?” he asked, eyes flicking over the plaid shirt, the cowboy hat still slung in my hand. His smirk curled sharply. “I was in the neighborhood looking for you, but your brothers said you went to Birmingham.”
I forced a laugh. “Yeah. She wanted me dressed up.”
Grant’s smirk didn’t fade. “Your boys will always get that the girl comes before them, especially on a Friday night. But I’m not here to see you about that.” his voice dropped, “A little bird has been telling me something. That donor pass you’ve been using at Mal M. Moore? You know Wyatt, each time you use it, it gets tracked.”
My stomach knotted. “It’s donor access. We’re donors. That’s what it’s for.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, see, there’s donor access… and then there’s hanging around. Staff talk. Athletes talk. You don’t wanna end up on the wrong side of the NCAA. It’s not a good look. For you. For your house.”
Sweat pooled at my back. “I already know,” I said, keeping my voice unbothered. “My dad made it clear.”
Grant stepped closer, gave my shoulder a little pat, like he was a coach correcting a rookie. “Good. Just… don’t embarrass where we came from. Or your old man. Clear?”
I nodded once.
Grant walked off toward the Strip, leaving me frozen under the street light, cowboy hat in one hand, Grindr phone burning in the other.
I glanced at the time: 11:35.
The arched pedestrian bridge loomed ahead, its lamps throwing long, pale streaks across the empty span. The street below was dark, save for the occasional car coming down the curve of Hackberry Lane.
My chest was still tight from Grant’s words, his hand on my shoulder like a brand. Don’t embarrass where we came from. Or your old man. I shoved it down, faster, harder, until all that was left was the pulse in my ears and the glow of the Samsung in my palm.
11:46.
A shadow leaned against the railing halfway across the bridge. Tall, broad. Baseball-cap low, shoulders squared. Even from a distance, I could tell: he filled the space the way athletes did, that casual dominance that didn’t need announcing.
The Samsung buzzed before I reached him.
you’re late.
I gulped.
Then another message lit up the screen.
what is this?
I froze mid-step. His eyes flicked up from under the brim, landing on me, the jeans, the borrowed plaid, the cowboy hat still clutched in my hand like a souvenir.
He pushed off the railing, the words low, sharp. “What the fuck are we doing, a costume party? First, you wanted me to wear my uniform, now this. Did you get lost on the way home from the rodeo, jefe? ”
The word snapped like a cattleman’s whip. My grip tightened on the cowboy hat, the stiff straw digging into my palm. I wanted to laugh it off, toss back something easy, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“I had to…..” I started, my voice cracking thinner than I meant. “Girlfriend wanted it. Concert in Birmingham.”
3810475pr’s smirk widened, eyes raking over me from boots to collar. He whistled low, shaking his head. “Damn. And I thought I was the one hiding shit.”
Sweat dripped down my collar. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it.” He leaned in just enough that his shadow folded over mine. “Plaid for her, uniform for me. You think clothes are gonna save you, cowboy?”
The bag from Dick’s crinkled under my shoulder, loud in the silence between us. 3810475pr’s gaze flicked down to it, then back up with a slow, knowing raise of his brow.
“What’s in the bag, jefe?”
I swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the plastic until I finally yanked it open. The red Nike Pro slid out, bright even under the pale street lamps. I held it up between us, like an offering.
“For you to wear,” I said, hating how desperate it sounded. “Just…just for tonight.”
He didn’t even move to touch it. His arms stayed folded, his shoulders broad and immovable, the way a pitcher stares down a batter who doesn’t deserve the plate.
“You serious?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, do you? A gift like that….nah. Not even for one night.”
The shirt sagged in my hand, ridiculous, useless.
His eyes pinned me, dark and steady. “Word’s been going around, hermano. Some rich booster kid in Riverside swiping through athletes on Grindr. Baseball, Track, and Swimming. Even heard you’ve been ghosting that redhead, Luke, right? Sound familiar?”
Luke, the name hit like a fastball to the ribs.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint bite of his cologne under the sweat and night air. “So now I’m supposed to take a shirt from you? Make it look like I’m bought? You don’t know what that means for me. For any of us.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came. The cowboy hat felt like it was burning in my fist, the shirt a scarlet flag drooping from my other hand.
"The only reason I waited around here is that they said you were discreet. But showing up like this? Looking like you've been part of some stampede? So which is it, jefe? Are you discreet, or are you just collecting us?" he rolled his eyes and shook his head.
A desperate, wild idea seized me. “I can prove it. The concert, I can show you the photos. Right now.” I fumbled for my real iPhone, my hands shaking, ready to expose the curated evidence of my other life to prove the validity of this one.
3810475pr watched me, and shook his head. Then he let out a short, sharp breath, a sound of pure exasperation. “Forget it. I don’t wanna see your little girlfriend.” He ran a hand over his face, the decision made in an instant of weary frustration. “Fuck it. Let’s just go. Your place. Now. Or I walk.”
The whiplash was stunning. One second, I was on the verge of being exposed; the next, he was giving the order. The mission was back on, but the power had completely shifted. He was now in control.
“Yeah. Okay. This way,” I mumbled, turning and leading him off the bridge toward Riverside, my mind reeling.
The walk was silent. The only sound was the crunch of our footsteps and the distant hum of the river. I was hyper-aware of him behind me, a solid, silent presence. I unlocked the main door, held it open, and we climbed the stairs to my floor, the silence stretching, tightening with every step.
Inside my room, the sterile, sanitized space felt different with him in it. It wasn't a neutral stage anymore; it was a confessional booth, and he was the priest who already knew all my sins.
Without a word, 3810475pr walked past me to the desk. He didn't look around, didn't comment on the single, the lack of personal effects. It was as if he’d expected it. In one fluid, practiced motion, he emptied his pockets onto the polished wood.
Clink. His keys.
Thud. His phone and wallet falling open.
A quiet rustle. A box of Trojan condoms, placed with deliberate finality beside it all.
My eyes were drawn to the open wallet. Nestled inside, next to a rewards card I couldn’t quite make out, was a Puerto Rico driver’s license. Miguel Fredrico Cardona. A name. A real, government-issued name. It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever voluntarily shown me in this room. He wasn't just an athlete; he was a person from San Juan, or Ponce, or Bayamón, who carried a piece of home in his pocket.
He did it to show me he was clean, prepared, and serious. But the act felt heavier than that. It was a challenge. I’ve shown you mine. Your move.
He turned to face me, his back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest again. The red Nike Pro shirt I’d bought for him was still crumpled in my hand, now a monument to my miscalculation. I tossed it toward the bathroom without saying anything.
The air in the room was thick enough to choke on. My own heartbeat was a drum in my ears, agitated. Miguel watched me for a long second, and something in his stern expression shifted. The hard, judgmental line of his mouth softened into something closer to pity, or maybe just fatigue.
“Alright, alright. Relax, cowboy,” he said, his voice dropping from its sharp edge to a low, almost soothing register. He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between us in two easy strides.
Before I could react, his hands were on me. Not roughly, but with a startling, matter-of-fact efficiency. His fingers found the buttons of my borrowed plaid shirt, working them open with a quiet pop, pop, pop. I stood rigid, letting him undress me like a mannequin, my breath caught in my throat. He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, a puddle of someone else’s personality.
His knuckles brushed against the thin cotton of my t-shirt, then his hands went lower, to my belt buckle. The metal clasp gave way with a soft click. He unbuttoned my jeans, the stiff denim resisting for a moment before he tugged the zipper down. The sound was deafening in the silence.
“Lift your feet,” he instructed, his tone calm, directive.
I obeyed, stepping out of the jeans as he pulled them down. He tossed them onto the growing pile of my discarded costume. Now I was standing in the middle of my sterile room in just my white t-shirt and a pair of fitted, Lululemon heather-gray boxer briefs. I felt more exposed than I ever had half-naked on Grindr.
Miguel took a half-step back, his dark eyes appraising me. The intensity of his gaze was different now, less about judgment, more about simple, raw assessment.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice still needy.
A fresh wave of heat flooded my face, but I turned, presenting my back to him. I could feel his eyes on me, tracing the line from my shoulders down to the waistband of my briefs.
“Let me see more,” he huffed.
My hands trembled as I hooked my thumbs into the elastic. I pushed the boxer briefs down, just enough, shimmying them over the curve of my ass until the fabric was taut across my upper thighs. The cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. I was completely at his mercy, bent to his will, with the only sign of my control useless on the floor.
For an excruciating moment, there was only the sound of our breathing. Then, I felt it, the warm, calloused pad of his thumb, pressing gently against the small of my back, right above where the fabric dug in. It wasn't a sexual touch, not yet. It was a point of contact, an anchor. A silent acknowledgment that the performance was over, and what was left was just this: two bodies in a quiet room, and a debt of understanding that was only beginning to come due.
Miguel’s thumb lingered at the small of my back, steady, deliberate. It wasn’t rough like I’d expected. It was grounding, like he was telling me without words: breathe.
I did, shallowly, but the air still burned in my chest.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost that sharp edge from the bridge. It was quieter now, lower, almost patient.
“Relax, cowboy. You’re wound so tight, you’re gonna snap.”
I swallowed, forcing myself to turn and face him again. My briefs were still tugged low on my hips, my shirt bunched at my ribs, but he didn’t laugh or gawk. He just studied me, like he was measuring what I could take.
Something hot and reckless pushed up in my throat before I could stop it.
“You too, please,” I whispered. “Strip down.”
One of his eyebrows lifted, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You giving me orders now, coach?”
My pulse jumped, but I held his gaze. “Not…orders. Just. I want to see you.”
For a second, the silence was thick enough to choke on. Then Miguel shook his head, low and amused, like he couldn’t believe me. “You’re crazy, jefe.”
But his hands moved in response anyhow. He peeled off his hoodie, slow, deliberate, folding it onto the desk instead of tossing it aside. His Chicago Cubs t-shirt followed, revealing the thick cut of his chest and the trail of dark hair down his stomach. My eyes dropped without permission, catching on the waistband of bright red Nike boxer briefs clinging tight to his hips.
The sight made my jaw drop. It was exactly what I’d imagined, except real. Not staged, not bought. Miguel.
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of his skin reached me. My breath stuttered as his fingers brushed the hem of my t-shirt, not yanking it up, just grazing, waiting.
“You wanted to be this close to a ball player,” he whispered, eyes dark and steady. “So stand still. Don’t flinch.”
He stepped back in, the red of his boxer briefs burning in my periphery, his chest brushing mine as he set one hand on my side. His fingers spread wide, thumb pressing into the soft skin just above my hipbone.
“Tan suave,” he whispered as he finally pulled off my shirt. His accent dragged over the syllables, his voice so low it vibrated against my skin. His hand moved across my stomach, tracing the line of muscle that wasn’t really there, brushing lower until my body shivered at the contact.
His other hand came up, cupping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw. He tilted my head just slightly, studying me with those dark, unflinching eyes. “Flacito.” The word dropped between us, equal parts tease and endearment.
I swallowed hard, heat rushing to my face, remembering high school Spanish. Nobody had ever said it to me before, not like that. Thin boy. Little one. In anyone else’s mouth, it might’ve been mocking, but from him, it sounded like he was naming me, claiming me.
My chest rose and fell too fast. “Don’t…..” I started, but the protest died as his thumb brushed down my throat, slow, deliberate, until goosebumps prickled across my skin.
“Shh,” Miguel whispered, his mouth close to my ear. “No te asustes. Just let me feel you.”
His hands moved with careful intent, smoothing over my ribs, circling my waist, down across the back of my thighs. Every touch was steady, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing me one palm’s width at a time. I stood still because I couldn’t do anything else, caught between fear and the raw relief of being seen this way: not for what I was supposed to perform, but for the body I couldn’t hide.
“The bed,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument.
I moved on unsteady legs, the world narrowed to the space between the desk and the mattress. I climbed onto the cool sheets, my heart ready to jump out of my chest. Instinct, a lifetime of curated fantasy, took over. I started to lean down, my mind already scripting the next scene, my mouth already anticipating the salt and heat of him.
A firm hand on my shoulder stopped me.
“No,” Miguel said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “The other way.”
The words didn’t compute for a second. Then, they did. A cold, sharp thrill shot down my spine, so intense it was almost fear.
He saw the understanding and the hesitation flash across my face. A slow, challenging smirk touched his lips.
“Unless you’re scared, jefe.”
Scared. The word was a spark on gasoline. It burned away the last of my resistance, my overthinking, my carefully constructed walls. This is what the condoms were for. The thought wasn't frightening; it was the final, exhilarating click of a lock. This was the real currency. This was the price of admission to the top of the temple, and I was more than willing to pay.
I didn’t resist. I moved, turning myself over on the bed with a capitulation that felt more powerful than any control I’d ever wielded. The thought, bright and searing in my mind, was this: My virginity. Taken by him. An athlete.
I heard the rustle of the condom box, the tear of foil. I didn’t look back. I pressed my face into the pillow that smelled of laundry detergent and my expensive shampoo, the scents of a life that already felt a thousand miles away.
Then I felt him, the solid weight of him settling behind me, the heat of his skin against the backs of my thighs. His hand, calloused and sure, smoothed over the curve of my ass.
“Respira, flacito,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. Breathe.
And as the world narrowed to this single, sharp point of feeling, to the terrifying, exhilarating certainty of being about to be unmade and remade by a very god I’d spent my life worshipping from the bleachers, I realized I had never been more alive. The performance was over. All that was left was the truth of his body claiming mine.
His final, deep thrusts were a punctuation mark to the end of my old self. It was a claiming, yes, but in that searing, breathless fullness, I found a shocking clarity. The frantic thoughts, the constant performance, the aching envy: it all pressed out of me, leaving behind a raw, singular consciousness that existed only in the places our bodies joined. My vision swam, the Roll Tide flag on the wall a bloody smear as I gasped against the pillow, my body no longer my own but a vessel for this overwhelming, transformative sensation.
Miguel’s rhythm stuttered, his body locking into a final, deep thrust that pressed the air from my lungs. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, a raw sound of release that vibrated through my own body as he held himself there, shuddering, his full weight collapsing onto my back for one breathless, suspended moment.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by our ragged panting. I expected him to pull away, to roll off, to break the spell.
He didn’t.
Instead, after only a few seconds, his hands were on my hips again, turning me over with a quiet, practiced authority. I went willingly, my body pliant and buzzing, the world still a blur of sensation. Before my back even hit the mattress, he was moving down, his dark head dipping between my legs.
I gasped as his mouth found me, the heat and wetness a shocking contrast after the intense, pounding fullness. My hands, which had been clutching at the sheets, found nothing but air for a moment before they landed on his shoulders.
And there they stayed.
His shoulders. They were still sheened with a fine layer of sweat, the skin hot and smooth under my palms. In the dim light of the room, I could finally trace the powerful, rounded slope of them, the dense muscle that coiled and shifted with every movement of his head and jaw. This was what I had wanted from the beginning, from the first cropped photo on a screen, not just to look, but to touch. To feel the living, breathing reality of the athlete’s body, I had fetishized from a distance.
My thumbs pressed into the hard ridge of his trapezius, feeling the sheer, solid strength of him. It was like holding onto a force of nature. He groaned against me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine, and his hands came up to grip my thighs, holding me open, anchoring me to the bed as he worked me with a single-minded focus that was both devastating and reverent.
This was different from before. This wasn't about being claimed or taken. This was a gift, given without hesitation. And as my own climax built, a tight, screaming coil of pleasure, my fingers dug into the sculpted marble of his shoulders, my only anchor in a world that was dissolving into pure, white-hot sensation.
The world, already narrowed to the heat of Miguel’s mouth and the feel of his shoulders, shattered into a blinding, silent white. My back arched off the bed as I came, a broken, wordless sound torn from my throat. It was a release so total it felt like an exorcism, every pent-up ounce of performance and fear and desperate want expelling itself into that consuming heat.
For what felt like an eternity, there was only the sound of my ragged gasps and the faint, humid scent of sex in the air.
Then, Miguel pulled away. He didn’t look up at me, didn’t offer a tender glance or a post-coital kiss. The intimacy was over, switched off as decisively as it had begun. He simply rose to his feet, turning his back to me as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bright red Nike briefs and pulled them up in one smooth, practiced motion. The slick fabric clung to his skin for a moment before settling, hiding the powerful curve of his ass from view.
He didn’t ask to use my bathroom; he just went in and washed his face.
I just lay there on the ruined sheets, propped on my elbows, gawking. My mind, wiped clean of thought, could only process the sheer physicality of him. The sweat-sheened landscape of his back, the perfect V-taper that narrowed to his waist, the dense muscle in his calves that flexed as he walked to the desk where his clothes were piled. He was a sculpture in motion, and I was just the audience again.
Miguel pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric swallowing the magnificent shoulders I had just been clinging to. As he stepped into his pants, he finally glanced back at me, his expression unfaltering.
“You know,” he said, his voice casual, as if commenting on a game, “I’ve got a friend. On the football team. He’d probably be into you.”
My eyes shot up. A football player. The pinnacle. The supreme gods I had watched from the skybox.
Miguel zipped his pants, a sharp, final sound. He looked me dead in the eye, a flare of something hard in his gaze.
“Just a heads up, though,” he added, a slight, almost warning smirk playing on his lips. “He’s not as gentle as I am.”
With that, he scooped up his wallet, phone and keys from the desk, gave a short, two-fingered salute, and opened the door. It clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden, deafening silence.
The scent of him, of us, still hung in the air. My body ached in ways I’d never felt. And all I could see, burned onto the back of my eyelids, was the retreating form of Miguel, and the terrifying, tantalizing promise of a football player who was not gentle. The inner sanctum temple doors had been thrown open, and I was already stepping toward the final, darker altar.
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