Chapter 14 BALLS Charity Calendar Photo Shoot #3
The final shot is pure sex appeal: Rhett leaning against a folding chair, one boot hooked on the seat, the jacket falling off one shoulder, biting the corner of his lip. It’s indecent and iconic. And it’s going on every locker door in BALLS before the week is out.
Later, when no one’s looking, Riggs walks past Rhett, and says low in his ear, “You were a little too into that for my liking.”
Rhett doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You can punish me for it later.”
And Riggs… does not say no.
Mr. October:
Stiles doesn’t walk onto the October set—he glides.
The fog machine’s already working overtime, curling around his boots like dark intentions.
He’s wearing tight, low-slung black latex pants, a long flowing cape lined in blood-red satin, and a delicate trail of lipstick bite marks painted across his chest and neck.
His lips are stained deep wine, his eyeliner is smokey, and his smirk could get a nun excommunicated.
“You look like Dracula's hotter, drunker cousin,” Nash says from the snack table.
“I am,” Stiles replies, baring just a little fang as he tips his head back to let the light catch the glitter on his cheekbone. “I’m Stabcula.”
McCormick is somewhere off-camera, slowly collapsing into a folding chair with his face in his hands. “I’m gonna pass out.”
“Oh, he’s gonna do more than that,” Rhett mutters, fanning himself with Stiles’s cape packaging.
The set is full gothic castle—candelabras, black silk sheets, strategically scattered rose petals, and one very questionable prop coffin.
Stiles lounges across it like it’s a memory foam chaise, one knee bent, fingers trailing lazily over the lip of the open lid like he’s waiting for someone to crawl inside with him.
The photographer, clearly flustered, can’t stop whispering "Oh no, he's hot. "
Margaret Anne wipes a tear from her eye. “This one’s for the dark hearts. I can feel it.”
The best shot? Stiles straddling the coffin lid, cape draped open like wings, latex gleaming, fangs bared mid-laugh. It’s half Halloween thirst trap, half villain origin story, and all trouble.
Later, when the proofs are being passed around the locker room, McCormick snatches one and stares at it like he’s just seen God.
“I want to see you straight on my bike like this,” he says.
“I’ll straddle you over that bike,” Stiles vows.
Mr. November:
Brewer doesn’t talk much during his shoot.
He shows up in worn flannel, open down the front to show off a lightly freckled chest, abs tight and understated, and a pair of perfectly faded jeans that ride low on his hips.
No puffed-up bravado. No trying to “out-thirst” anyone else.
Just calm, quiet competence—and a heavy-handled axe slung over one bare shoulder like it belongs there.
“I didn’t know they made lumberjacks in lean,” Rhett mutters, watching Brewer pose beside a stack of firewood and a faux-cabin backdrop complete with vintage lanterns and fake pine.
“That’s not a lumberjack,” Riggs says gruffly. “That’s a damn forest nymph who knows how to swing an axe.”
“I promise you, Brewer has never swung an axe,” Nash swears with a chuckle.
Brewer’s smaller than the other guys—tall, yeah, but lithe.
Agile. He’s not built like Pharo or Mandy or Riggs, but he moves like someone who’s used to lifting heavy things and not making a fuss about it.
There’s a subtle flex in his biceps when he adjusts his grip on the axe handle, a little twist of muscle in his back when he bends to split a log.
Margaret Anne fans herself with a turkey-themed napkin. “If this is the main course,” she whispers, “I’m skipping dessert.”
They snap the winning shot just as Brewer wipes fake sweat off his brow with the hem of his flannel, revealing a perfect V-line and a glimmer of sawdust in his stubble. It’s not over the top or ultra cheesy, it’s just him. And that makes it devastating.
Later, when Nash teases him—“You know they’re all gonna call you the Twig Daddy of November, right?”—Brewer just shrugs.
“If it raises money,” he says, tugging his shirt back on, “they can call me whatever they want.”
And judging by the crowd Margaret Anne’s organizing for the calendar launch party, they will.
Mr. December:
The theme was supposed to be cozy.
Tex said, “Absolutely not.”
So now he’s dressed in the same outfit he wore to the BALLS Christmas party—if you can even call it an outfit.
It’s more like a couture violation involving red velvet and someone’s Pinterest search for slutty elf lingerie.
A pointed green hat perched on his blond waves, suspenders clipped to nothing but high-cut booty shorts, and knee-high socks that say “HO” in glitter across the back.
His cheeks are rosy. His smile is lethal.
His jingle bell necklace jingles every time he moves.
He flounces onto the set and strikes a pose against a fake chimney.
“You look like the reason Santa drinks,” Stiles calls out.
“That’s the goal,” Tex chirps. “I’ve been naughty, and I wanna talk about it.”
Enter Mandy—bearded, broad, and brooding, wearing the red velvet Santa suit jacket open, no shirt underneath, chest hair peeking out, pants tugged low over combat boots.
A black leather belt is slung low around his hips, the thick buckle gleaming under the lights.
His burn scars catch the soft glow in places, but there’s no hesitation in him now.
He’s not hiding. He’s not shrinking. He’s holding a candy cane in one hand like a weapon and Tex’s jingle bell leash in the other.
“Smile, sweetheart,” Margaret Anne says. “Give us sleigh daddy realness.”
West palms his face and shakes his head, wondering where Margaret Anne picked that up.
Tex practically purrs, “Yes, Santa,” and Mandy nearly breaks character.
The photographer captures it all: Tex in Mandy’s lap, tugging on the leash with one gloved hand; Mandy towering behind him, one eyebrow raised like he’s about to punish the North Pole, or whoever signed him up for this.
There’s a shot of Tex bending over a pile of presents, blowing a kiss at the camera while Mandy stands behind him, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to revoke everyone's holiday cheer.
It’s chaos and camp and pure, filthy Christmas magic.
Later, while reviewing the proofs, McCormick mutters, “This is why Jesus doesn’t return our calls.”
“Pretty sure that’s not the only reason why,” Mandy mutters.
Tex leans over Mac’s shoulder and whispers, “You’re just mad because I look better in fur trim.”
Margaret Anne simply wipes a proud tear from her eye and declares, “This is going on my mantel next to baby Jesus.”
And so December closes the calendar with jingles, joy, and exactly the kind of holiday spirit that BALLS was built on.
Calendar Release Party
The BALLS gym has never looked this fancy. Which is saying a lot, considering last month the locker room caught fire because Rhett tried to microwave a protein bar wrapped in foil.
But tonight, the basketball court has been transformed. Twinkle lights are strung from the rafters. There’s a red carpet (donated by the local theater, still slightly sticky), a sparkling cider fountain, and a huge banner that reads:
“brAWN FOR A BETTER TOMORROW: The Official BALLS 2025 Charity Calendar Launch!”
Each of the calendar photos is blown up to poster size and mounted along the walls like a museum of crimes against modesty.
West’s satin ribbon smolder. Jax’s deranged Cupid cosplay.
Pharo’s furious leprechaun. Stiles’s latex Dracula.
McCormick has already autographed his with a Sharpie and the words “Relish Me.”
The guys mill around in slightly nicer versions of their usual clothes.
Mostly. Brewer outclasses everyone, as always.
Mandy’s got on a Santa hat. Brandt refuses to take off his aviators.
Rhett brought a sharpie and is signing random people’s collar bones.
Valor the cat is here in a velvet vest, sleeping in a box labeled “Donation Raffle.”
Margaret Anne floats through the crowd like the queen she is, hugging necks, crying at everything, handing out laminated bookmarks made from rejected calendar proofs. “Look at my boys,” she sniffles, dabbing her eyes. “My beautiful, courageous boys.”
The calendar sales table is a war zone. People are buying three, four copies. One woman offers to trade her Honda for a signed December page. Another faints in front of Riggs’s thighs. Stiles helps her up and whispers, “It’s the oil. He’s greased like a Christmas ham.”
Mandy walks past Tex’s life-size cardboard cutout and mutters, “That outfit is why Santa started screening his letters.”
Tex beams. “You loved it. I saw the way you looked at my elf ears.”
“I was wondering how much you paid for them.”
“Lies,” Tex says. “You lusted.”
Mandy leans in and whispers, “I wasn’t looking at your ears, Dynamite.”
In the corner, McCormick is standing under a balloon arch with his arm around Stiles’s waist, grinning at a poster-sized version of October. “I’m framing this,” he announces, gesturing to Stiles’s vampire smirk and glittery bite marks. “It’s going over our bed.”
Mandy walks by, sipping spiked eggnog. “What is this new trend of framing shit over our beds? It’s got to stop.”
By the end of the night, they’ve raised more money than any of them expected. Enough to fund gym scholarships for teens, new equipment, and a community outreach program Margaret Anne wants to call “Sweat Equity: Redemption Through Thirst.”
No one argues.
The guys linger after the crowd thins, lounging across gym mats and leftover tinsel. “You know,” Margaret Anne says, slipping one final calendar into her purse, “next year’s theme could be ‘BALLS in the Wild.’ You know—outdoor adventures. Wilderness. Less clothing.”
McCormick bolts upright. “YES.”
Everyone groans. But no one says no.
Because somehow, against all logic, all shame, and all fashion standards, the boys from BALLS have created a calendar that’s not just hot—it’s heroic.
And next year?
They're only going harder.