5. Hotaru
Finally, a buzz zips through my veins. I’m alive. It’s been ten long weeks of nothing but fucking misery and utter boredom, mixed in with a healthy dose of self-loathing thanks to my suitemate. Finally, there’s light at the end of the gloomy tunnel.
Today, I get to toss some guys around the mat. The wrestling season is still a few weeks from starting, but I overheard some of them chatter about rolling around before tryouts. So I asked them if I could join.
They probably only agreed for the chance to pin my ass to the pad. I don’t care. Let them try.
I crack my knuckles, stretch my neck, and grin for the first time since Mr. Judge scampered into my life. Before that guy, everything made sense. After him, I haven’t quite regained my balance.
“Heard you were going to help me up my riding time.”
The whisper comes from behind me a few seats to my right. He’s a year above me, as I discovered most are in this math class. The guy sports a full beard, neatly trimmed because of school standards. He’s also huge. His British accent is different. It’s a little twangy, like rolling fields and a rusted-out utility truck.
“Hope you have more than hot air in your gas tank.” I shrug.
He smiles. It’s smug. “Conference champ two years in a row.”
“That so?” I grin. It’ll make tossing this guy on his back even better.
“I’m Nate.” He offers his hand.
“Hota.” I shake it.
“You’re not scared, are you?” Nate’s brow is up, and his smirk is in full effect.
I straighten in my seat with a smirk of my own.
“You should be.” There’s no malice in his tone. “I outclass you.”
“In weight.”
“And skill,” he adds.
“We’ll see,” I chuckle. The professor glares at me, and my small laugh turns into an all-out belter. He turns back to the board without saying a word.
Nate joins in. Another big guy on the far side of him does too.
A lightness I haven’t experienced in too long eases the breaths in and out of my chest, and then I self-destruct, as I have for the past ten weeks. My gaze slides left, and then down one row.
My laughter dies and then rots in my throat.
The brittle and bony guy I’d saved from getting his guts stomped out has been replaced with a wall of fucking muscle. He eats at all hours, bulking like it’s his job. He lifts every single day, adding weight each time, pushing harder than any of us, like his life depends on it. He seems to think it does.
I can’t say I don’t believe him. Still, he could have said thanks. He could have realized how much fucking guts it took for me to stand up to that demon made flesh.
But no.
He knocks me on my ass, scurries away, and doesn’t even look in my direction for ten fucking weeks…until now.
His gaze is locked on mine. There’s a crinkle in his brow that’s asking a question, but I don’t understand it. He won’t dare utter it. The entire school thinks he’s a mute.
Only I know better.
We share a fucking bathroom, and I haven’t seen or heard a peep out of him in seventy days in the tight confines of what is our only safe haven. Maybe that day was a fluke. A miracle that he spoke. It was also one of the worst days of my life.
Word of the new kid and his muteness traveled fast in these hollow halls. But no one fucks with him. It’s no fun when he can’t talk back.
I pull my gaze away and manage not to flip him the bird.
Fuck that guy.
The prof finally pulls down the second whiteboard and allows us to get to work. I’m the first one done every day. Every day my fucking suitemate is the second.
His gaze slips my way again. I see it because I’m staring at him as I’ve taken to doing over these cursed weeks. I roll my eyes and stare down at my paper. I cross my arms and wait for the bell to ring.
When it does, I rush down the steps.
“See you in the gym, new kid,” Nate calls out.
I flash him a peace sign and find my smile again. Judge has a way of smothering it on my lips. No, that sounds all wrong in my head. My dick twitches in my pants, contradicting me. I turn in my assignment with a huff, then head to my next class.
For whatever fucking reason, the school duplicated my schedule and gave it to the actual new kid. So not only do I have to watch him go in and out of his room—damn near my room—all the time, I’m also forced to endure his presence in every inane class. At least this is the last one of the day and the least brain numbing.
Biology.
Nothing is more amazing than the human body. It’s awe-inspiring. What it can do. What it can endure. What it can overcome. The pleasure it brings. The pain.
My dick jerks. Blood rushes south. Pleasure and pain. Not the things I should be thinking about right now. I take a notebook out of my book bag and slide it on my lap.
It’s not cool to pop wood in a room full of dudes.
“You actually going to take notes today?” Phillip, the eternal idiot, laughs as though he’s said something funny.
“No,” I deadpan. During my second week, after Judge pissed me off, Phillip learned not to fuck with me. It’s been a minute. It seems he might need a reminder.
“What are you going to do? Journal?” Phillip sits two rows down with his pretty friends and laughs. “Dear Diary, I love cock. I love looking at it. I love sucking it.”
“Yeah, actually.” I nod, and he looks over his shoulder with pursed butthole lips and wide eyes. His friends’ laughs are soft and tentative. They know he’s outmatched.
“I am going to journal.” I grin. “Dear Diary, Phillip’s mom is as ugly as her son. She gives great head, though. I close my eyes, imagine a Victoria’s Secret model, fuck her mouth, and manage to shoot my load all over her face. It makes her prettier.”
His friends’ laughter explodes.
“You fucking prick!” Phillip’s face goes red. The sheen of sweat that constantly clings to his upper lip grows instantaneously. It glitters over his cheeks and brow. “I’m going to kill you!” He launches himself at me.
Phillip is a big guy, but he’s all fluff. Gravity works against him. His initial burst only gets him halfway over one row of chairs and damn near in some guy’s lap. He roars, and I swear I can see the vein expanding and contracting in his temples.
Our professor walks in. I respect this guy. He’s one of the few in this stupid school who knows what the hell they’re talking about, who treat us like people, and who doesn’t take shit from us.
Phil’s friends grab his belt buckle and reel him in.
Catch of the day.
Market value? Minimal. Toss it back.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” our professor asks while tapping his computer and revealing a diagram of the endocrine system behind him. His gaze is on Phillip and his friends.
The collective douche group grumbles their negatives and apologies, and so the class carries on as though nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. We’re a minute in, and I feel a set of eyes burning me.
I know who they belong to before I look. I shouldn’t bother with even a glance, but I fucking can’t abstain, and I hate it.
When I find his gaze on me, dark and curious, I arch a brow. He says nothing. He does nothing, except study me with his intense eyes. I flip him the bird this time. He earned it. I listen to the lecture, try to ignore my throbbing cock, and urge the minutes to pass quickly.
Again, the moment the bell rings, I’m up and moving fast. I feel like I’m running from him. I have no reason to, but I am.
“That’s right, kiddo. Run,” Phillip whispers as I pass by.
If he’d said it louder, I’d have stopped. As it is, the guy is all talk. A lot of it. He hasn’t been able to get a rise out of me. So he can keep ending up the idiot. It’s fun, with the lack of anything better to do.
Today, I have something better to do. I head straight for the gym, grab my stuff out of the locker, and then change into shorts and a T-shirt. Over the next fifteen minutes, guys file in and do the same. There’s excitement in the air. A few of them talk quietly to themselves about last year’s team and some of the upsets they endured. They’re hopeful for this year’s team.
I can’t fight my grin. I don’t try.
Endorphins trickle through my brain when I work out. Right now, they’re a rushing river. I’m so ready.
Nate, the older guy from my math class, enters the room already dressed and looking set to make the podium. “Let’s go, gentlemen! What’s taking you so long?”
Twelve of us filter up the stairs and onto the wooden gym floor. Two mats that weren’t in here earlier during our physical education class are spread out now. Nate runs everyone through a warm-up, and it’s foreplay. I’m amped. He knows what he’s doing, which helps a lot.
“Who wants to go first?” Nate wipes the sweat from his brow and bellows.
I for sure want to, but I don’t volunteer. There’s a hierarchy in the room, and I respect it. The first two guys move to the start lines.
“We don’t have ear guards or singlets. I don’t want to see any cauliflower ears or pasty white asses. Keep it classy,” Nate orders.
The guys tap knuckles, and then they’re off. It’s tap checks and leg grabs. There are mounts and tosses and back doors. I’m high as a fucking kite. It ends with one winner and one loser. That’s match.
Everyone cheers. I cheer because if I don’t, I might explode.
Winner stays in and so it goes. Round after round, someone is knocked out. No wrestler has won more than one match. We’re four in, and I can’t take it anymore. I jump to the start line.
When you’ve wrestled for as long as I have, it’s no longer training. It’s nature.
I loosen my limbs, tap some knuckles, and win. I win. I win. I win again.
Winning isn’t the goal. It barely registers. What I focus on is my opponent, my speed, and my technique. This is just practice.
My muscles burn, and my insides sing.
This is my place. The only one where I feel like myself. Where I feel seen and respected.
“You’re slick, new kid,” one of the guys I beat a couple of matches ago admits.
I nod my thanks and wait for my next opponent.
“Sure you don’t want to sit out a round or two? Catch your breath?” Nate asks with his head cocked. “You’ve soaked through your shirt.”
“I’m sure.”
Nate steps into the circle. “Okay, but when I beat you, you can’t use exhaustion as an excuse.”
“He can use the fact that you’re in a different weight class,” someone hollers. The group laughs.
“What will your excuse be when I win?” I knock knuckles with Nate and get into my neutral position.
“Won’t need one.” He comes in hard and fast, grabbing for my legs. With all the other guys, I’ve won with throws and flips. I love tossing guys. But Nate is big. I don’t even think about moving his weight. I let it come to me. I grab his arm and pull him close at the same time I launch myself up and on top of him. In a flash, I ride the momentum, latch onto his tricep, and yank with my whole body while driving my hips into his.
I flip him, and then flatten, holding for all I’m worth. Every muscle coiled and strained.
“Win by fall,” someone yells.
Less than fifteen seconds into the match, I win. The guys around us erupt. They jump and yell and hang onto each other, screaming into their hands. I flop onto the mat, completely toasted. All the matches and the time since training catch up to me.
“Fuck!” Nate scrambles to his feet. “Great move.” His fingers are doing the around-the-world motion. “Again.”
“Sure.” I roll onto my hands and knees and get neutral once more. “Last one. Better make it good.”
This time Nate is slower but much more calculated in his offense. Even though my body quakes with exhaustion, we end up in a stalemate time and time again with him at my back and me at his. There’s little riding time to speak of. I get his ankle once, but he gets out of the attack quickly, earning him a point. That’s how he wins. One fucking point. I can’t be mad at it.
“Good match.” I slap his shoulder.
He slings his arm around my neck. “You’re good, Hota.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ll be wrecked tomorrow.”
“How long have you been wrestling?” He settles the arm around my neck over my shoulder and walks me off the mat. A few of the other guys grab towels and dry the surface so another matchup can get underway.
“Five years. Almost six, now.”
“No shit.” He punches my stomach playfully. The weight of his big arm holds me close. “I’ve been at it for six.” He looks down at me with a smirk. “I bet you’re annoyingly good at everything you do.”
There’s a rasp in his voice that wasn’t there before. A mischievous sparkle in his amber eyes. His bulk is touching me from shoulder to thigh. My entire body keys in on the subtle flirtation.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak.
If I make the wrong assumption, if I make the wrong move, I could end up with my ass beaten or worse, off the team before the season even starts.
“Go hit the showers.” He grabs both my shoulders and shoves me toward the locker room. “You’re sweaty as hell.”
“Yeah.” I walk that way because a shower sounds fucking good right now.
“Hey, great job, Hota,” another one of the guys hollers.
I look back and give a wave, mostly to make sure Nate is staying topside with the others. That’s when I see him .
Fucking Mr. Judge is on the top tier of bleachers. His elbow is propped on the low wall like he hasn’t a care in the world. His white shirt is slicked with sweat and stuck to his body, revealing every newfound plateau and ridge of muscle.
And now I have a full fucking boner.
Perfect.
I’ve found guys hot before, sure. I’ve watched gay porn. Who hasn’t? Curiosity and all. Did I get off to it? I mean, yeah. Again, not a big deal. It’s hot bodies and holes. I’m not bent on who they belong to like some people. Not that I’ve done anything about it. Not yet anyway.
This thing with Judge is next-level. Like to my belly button, maxed out steel pipe, cock-up situation. For a guy I don’t even like. A guy who hates my fucking guts.
Why him of all people?
Is it the sadness in his eyes? The intensity?
Maybe it’s his pretty lips, the way he fills out his plain white tees, or the cut of his jaw. That’s part of it for sure.
Really, I want to protect him. No one protected my mom. Not even me. But maybe I can help him.
I don’t know, but whatever it is, it tears at my usual calm.