Chapter 4 Brody #2
My smile is more of a gritting of my teeth than anything else.
My jaw ticks as I watch him go. As much as I want to wring my wet shorts out over his expensive leather loafers or shove the empty can down his throat, I don’t move.
I don’t follow him. I don’t call him out in front of the team. Not yet.
After two years of feeling free to just live my life, I once again find myself in a situation where I’m going to have to keep my guard up. I’m not happy about it, but it could be worse. None of this is anything new. I can handle it.
I can handle it.
I keep repeating those words to myself, as I look down at my ruined clothes to decide if getting to practice on time is worth wearing the smell that’s clogging the back of my throat. My nerves might be too raw to pretend.
Fish and Aaron come to my rescue. They save me from having to sprint back to the dorm by lending me gear, which is nice of them.
Unfortunately, they’re both built very differently than I am.
The shorts I borrowed from Aaron ride high on my thighs and cling everywhere they shouldn’t.
And Fish’s tank is tight enough that I’m one deep breath away from ripping a seam.
I feel ridiculous the second I step onto the main floor.
Some guys whistle. A couple laugh. I’d rather eat glass than let anyone see that it gets to me, so I throw my shoulders back, do a slow little turn like I’m on a runway, and spread my arms.
“Try not to faint, gentlemen,” I announce.
They howl, and I grin like it’s all part of the joke. Like I’m not hyper-aware of how much ass is hanging out and how hard I’m working to keep everything—my nerves and my junk—contained.
Only Lincoln Beckett’s face makes the humiliation worth it.
He’s staring so hard he might actually detach a retina. His jaw is clenched so hard, I worry for his molars. His gaze snaps up the second he realizes I caught him looking, and the scowl he hands me is hot enough to sear through what little fabric is clinging to my skin.
“Staring is only going to make these pants tighter,” I say before I can stop myself.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it, coughing like he swallowed a fly.
Then he practically teleports to the far side of the room to correct a freshman’s stance with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. Anything to stay as far from me as possible.
When he finally stalks back, he seems to have gathered himself together. He’s calm on the surface in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I try not to smile but fail.
“Let’s just do the drills,” he says, clipped.
“Sure thing, Captain.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, and his face grows visibly redder.
“Do you not like that either?” I ask, cocking my head
He seems to think about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Can you just keep your mouth shut for once so we can get through these drills.”
Once we start, we go through the motions jerkily while barely touching one another.
He won’t look directly at me, but it gives me a moment to examine him.
The crisp technical precision of his form and posture.
The almost automatic way he moves smoothly through the motions.
His practice uniform looks pressed, and there isn’t a hair out of place, even though his skin is shiny with a light sheen of sweat. He’s perfectly poised in every way.
Except that every time my hand touches his arm, or my chest brushes his shoulder, his breath stutters. He covers it well, the hitch barely noticeable. But I feel it. And every time it happens, heat pools low in my stomach.
I try not to think too hard about it. Seriously, these shorts are dangerous enough without the added pressure of excess blood flow. And I’m not trying to tease him or make him uncomfortable. Not after yesterday.
But something about our bodies moving in sync and the way he’s pointedly trying to pretend he isn’t affected sends a thrill through me I can’t control. It’s honestly the perfect distraction, and I barely even think about Pierce’s little prank.
“Quit smiling,” he snaps when he catches my stupid expression.
“It’s practice,” I say lightly, brushing him off. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
“No, it’s not. Wrestling isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“Says who?” I laugh.
“Says me.”
“Oh, right. And you’re the captain. The top dog,” I say in a forced tough-guy impression. Then I wink and nod. “Got it.”
“Brody,” he warns, and I feel my grin stretch wider at the sound of my name broken down into so many slow syllables.
I lift my hands. “Okay, okay. No jokes. But could you, like, pretend this is enjoyable even once? What’s the point if you’re not having fun?”
I’m not even trying to get a rise out of him. He looks like he’s one wrong move from imploding, and I want to take the edge off. Because before I came in here and started joking around with him like this, it was me who felt like I was going to lose it.
He ignores me, not appreciating my attempt at levity. We move into counter drills, and it’s more automatic movements, like an over-rehearsed dance. He shoots, I sprawl. I shoot, he defends. Our bodies collide again and again, sweat slick between us, breaths mixing.
I don’t know what sets him off this time, because I feel like I’ve been half-lulled into a trance, but something between us shifts again. He goes too hard. It’s nothing harmful, but it’s definitely not light.
It feels like he’s trying to prove something. Or punish one of us, maybe both of us.
My ribs ache when his elbow catches me.
“Easy,” I say.
“I am being easy.”
“You sure?”
“You’re just being a little bitch.”
I raise an eyebrow. He launches into me again, faster and harder, until I have to ground my weight to keep my balance. Luckily for me, I have a pretty low center of gravity, so I’m not easy to take down. And unlike yesterday, I don’t let him have the win so easily.
For whatever reason, he’s pissed. At me or himself, I’m not sure.
At everything, maybe. Perhaps he’s feeling overstimulated in the same ways I am, and there’s too much tension bubbling beneath the surface for it to not result in an outburst. His angry little display is kind of cute, despite the really shit afternoon I’ve had.
So I laugh. Because that’s what I do when things go sideways.
He stops dead. “If you’re not going to take this seriously,” he grits out, “why are you even here?”
Before I can answer or attempt an explanation at how uncomfortable I am, he lunges.
Unlike yesterday, it’s a calculated move, probably meant to show he has more control than he displayed yesterday.
He catches my thigh, pulls, and takes me down in one motion, driving me into the mat with a thud.
Pinning me with a clean, flawless technique that I could respect and appreciate if not for the personal vendetta to show me up.
I make a move to flip him, but then I see it.
There it is again. That flicker of something behind his eyes. The faint tremor that runs through him and causes a chain reaction in me.
Oh, damn.
His eyes widen and his throat works like he’s struggling to swallow. His fingers curl as if he’s resisting the urge to grip me, either to shake me or pull me closer, there’s no telling.
He’s trying so hard not to feel it. But I know he does.
I know it because I feel it too. I suck in a sharp breath at the way my entire body reacts to his, blinking up at him to try to focus on the bigger issue here.
Not his body, or the way it’s pressing into me, or the way we’re hardening against each other.
Him, and his obvious fear over his reaction to me.
Has this never happened to him before? Coach is right, boners do happen.
Especially in middle and high school. But even now, too much rubbing against each other is going to stimulate some nerves.
Add in whatever this tension is between us, and it’s a recipe for a stubborn, hard dick.
Without thinking, I open my mouth. “You don’t have to worry,” I say, my voice low.
His breath hitches. “W-what?”
He tries to pull back, but I hook his leg like I’m trying to flip him. Really, I’m just trying to keep him close, so he has to hear me out.
“I’m not here to upset your spot on this team,” I say. “And I’m not here to out you.”
All the color drains from his face. His eyes bug out. And then something inside him snaps.
He makes a choking sound, then shoves off me so he’s on his knees, looming over me.
He’s breathing heavily, bent over me like he’s two seconds from wrapping his hands around my throat and squeezing the life out of me.
In the moment of stillness, I cut my eyes down to where our dicks are less than six inches apart, both of us straining in our gym shorts.
He can’t miss that he’s not the only one, because Aaron’s tiny shorts are doing nothing to help mask my situation.
The whistle blows, calling for the end of practice.
I reach down and adjust myself so I’m not in danger of flashing the whole team, hoping that the waistband of these shorts and the stupid tight shirt will at least help disguise the issue.
We both stand slowly. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, watching me warily until he realizes we’re the only ones still standing on our mat.
Everyone else is heading towards the locker room, slowing when they pass us to watch the way we’re squared up to each other.
Lincoln sneers. “You smell like a goddamn brewery, Miller. Clean yourself up.”
There are a few snickers around us as he turns on his heel and heads to the locker room. I don’t miss Pierce looking smug and laughing with his little cronies. A hand lands on my shoulder. Jay, looking down at me with concern. I shake him off, flashing one of my signature fake smiles.
“It’s all good,” I tell him. “Let’s just go.”
The rest of the team watches me like I did something wrong. I swallow and force my shoulders loose, widening my grin and making a joke about my circulation in these shorts.
Because if I stop smiling now, they’ll see what it cost me not to snap. And I refuse to give Pierce Jamison or Lincoln Beckett one more victory today.