Chapter 6
I claimed the bed closest to the door out of pure survival instinct. If Evan snapped in the middle of the night and decided to murder me, I wanted a head start.
He dropped his duffel on the far bed without a word, unzipped it halfway, pulled out a toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of Colgate, and disappeared into the bathroom.
As soon as the door clicked shut, I changed into my white tee and boxers and sat down at the foot of my bed.
I peeled off my socks, letting my bare feet press against the carpet.
My toes curled into the rough fibers. Three hours on a bus had turned my feet into damp, suffocating prisoners, and the cool air was nothing short of relief.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled. Hunter had sent me four texts—a meme, a follow-up meme, a question mark, and then a single eggplant emoji. I was halfway through composing a reply that involved several creative uses of the middle finger emoji when the bathroom door opened.
Evan walked out and, in one fluid, devastating motion, pulled his shirt over his head.
I’d seen him shirtless before. The broad planes of his chest, the cut of his obliques disappearing into his waistband—this was survivable. Familiar territory. His socks came off next, kicked into a pile by the wall.
And then his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his sweats, and he pushed them down, along with his underwear.
The phone slipped out of my hand when he stood up straight, completely and beautifully naked. My eyes were glued to his cock.
It hung between his thighs—thick, soft, and absolutely massive.
The head was broad and smooth, the shaft a shade darker than the rest of his skin.
It rested over a pair of balls that matched the promise the Jumbotron had made—full and low-hanging.
Put together, they were the size of my fist. A dense bush of dark blond pubic hair framed the whole arrangement.
Evan’s penis was a monstrosity that had no business existing outside of a genetics lab or a very specific category of website I’d visited more times than I’d ever admit.
I was staring. I knew it and couldn’t do a damn thing about it. My brain had abandoned the control tower entirely.
“Shit,” Evan muttered, rifling through his duffel with one hand. He tossed clothes aside—a batting glove, a rolled-up belt, a protein bar. “Forgot to pack shorts.” He said it as if it were a mild inconvenience.
I saw the exact moment it happened—the slight turn of his head, the flicker of blue. He caught me.
“Keep staring like that, Jenkins, and something’s gonna happen that neither of us can take back.”
His voice was low, and the words were either a warning or an invitation. I couldn’t tell which one he meant. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Evan turned to face me fully and squared his shoulders. He dropped his hands to his sides. Was he letting me look?
And then the strangest thing happened. Or maybe it was the hottest.
His cock twitched and began to fill, the shaft thickening, the head swelling as blood rushed in.
It lifted away from his thigh in slow, inexorable increments, like watching a drawbridge rise.
Inch by inch, it grew heavier, harder, angling upward as it stiffened.
The shaft darkened, veins rising to the surface, the skin stretching taut over the girth.
It had to be nine inches, at least. Thick as a soda can. Standing at full mast, bobbing with his pulse, the head flushed a deep pink and glossy at the slit.
I couldn’t breathe. My eyes were so wide they ached.
“Always does that,” Evan said, and his voice was huskier now. He glanced down at himself with a detached amusement that bordered on arrogance. “If someone stares long enough, it wakes up. Girls. Guys in the locker room.” He paused, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Your dad, once.”
My brain short-circuited on that last detail, but before I could process it, Evan’s gaze dropped. Traveled down my chest and landed between my legs. His eyebrows rose a fraction. “Looks like it’s contagious.”
I followed his gaze. He was right. It was contagious.
My cock was sticking straight out through the fly of my boxers. Six inches of pent-up desperation pointing directly at the ceiling as if to say Thank you, Lord.
The funny thing was, I hadn’t felt it happen. Hadn’t registered the blood leaving my brain, the fabric shifting, the elastic giving way. My body had made its decision without consulting me.
My penis throbbed. Across the room, Evan’s cock answered with a bounce that sent a drop of clear fluid sliding down from his slit, tracing the ridge of his head before hanging suspended in a thin, glistening thread.
The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning unit and the sound of my heart trying to evacuate my chest through my throat.
My cock throbbed again. His throbbed back.
A conversation I wasn’t part of, happening between two organs that had apparently decided diplomacy was the way forward.
“Your dad’s did the same thing,” Evan said conversationally, as if he were discussing the weather or tomorrow’s lineup. “Throbbed a hello, just like that. Little wave, right before I put it in my mouth.”
Every molecule of blood in my body reversed direction.
My face went from flushed to corpse-white in the span of a heartbeat.
The room tilted sideways. My cock, traitor that it was, stayed exactly where it was—hard, throbbing, oblivious to the fact that my brain had just been fed into a wood chipper.
“You—” My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “You sucked my dad’s—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. The words physically would not leave my mouth. My father’s cock was once in Evan Brock’s mouth. The same mouth I’d been fantasizing about for three seasons. The same mouth I wanted on me so badly it kept me up at night.
My face must have been doing something spectacular because Evan’s composure shattered. He doubled over, one hand bracing against the dresser, and laughed so hard his entire body shook. His cock bobbed wildly with the force of it, slapping against his abs.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “Your fucking face.”
I sat there, frozen, my erection still pointing at the ceiling while my soul departed my body. The horror and the arousal were occupying the same space in my chest, and neither one was willing to yield.
“I’m kidding.” Evan straightened up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His grin was wide and crooked, showing those slightly uneven front teeth. “Jesus Christ, Jenkins. I’ve never touched your dad. Never seen his dick hard. Relax.”
The relief hit me so hard I nearly passed out. “You’re a psychopath.”
“Probably.” He was still grinning. “But your dad did see mine.” He gestured down at his erection, which had not flagged in the slightest during his comedy routine.
“Last season in the locker room. He looked at it, then looked at me, and said, ‘Might want to take care of that before we head to the hotel.’ Then he walked off.”
“That’s—” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “That’s my father.”
“He’s a pragmatic man.”
My cock pulsed. Evan’s answered, another bead of precum sliding down the underside of his shaft.
Evan sat down on his bed and leaned back against the headboard.
He spread his legs wide, his thick thighs falling open, and rested his hands on them.
His cock stood straight up from the dark blond thatch, flushed and rigid, the veins a map of roadways along the shaft.
His balls hung heavy between his spread thighs, resting against the comforter.
He reminded me of a king on a throne. A naked, erect, insufferably confident king.
I was still sitting on the edge of my bed, my cock jutting through my fly, my bare feet pressed into the carpet, toes curled into the fibers.
The distance between us was maybe five feet.
Close enough to see the slight sheen of sweat on his inner thighs.
Close enough to watch his pulse beat in the thick vein running up the left side of his shaft.
“Earlier today,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I expected. “Your balls.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “What about them?”
“Were you embarrassed? Like, at all?”
Evan stared at me for several seconds, his blue eyes steady and unreadable. He shook his head. “I really didn’t give a shit.”
“Fifteen thousand people saw your testicles in high definition.”
“And?” He tilted his head. “I know my cock is big. I know my balls are big too. I’ve known since I was fourteen when the school nurse did a double take during a physical.
” His hand drifted absently along his inner thigh, his fingers trailing close to where his balls rested.
“Shit like that is gonna happen sometimes. Cups shift. Pants are tight.” He lifted one shoulder. “Might as well embrace it.”
I stared at him. At his spread legs. At his erection standing proud and unbothered between them. At the easy way he discussed his anatomy, as if his cock was occasionally disruptive, always impressive, entirely beyond his control.
And then the full absurdity of my situation crashed over me.
I was sitting on a hotel bed in my boxers, my erection visible and throbbing, having a casual conversation with my three-season crush about the size of his cock and balls.
While he sat naked and hard across from me, his nine-inch dick pointing at the ceiling.
And neither of us was acknowledging that this was insane.
My cock throbbed. His throbbed back. The diplomatic summit continued.
“So,” I said, grasping for any conversational thread that might restore some semblance of normalcy to this situation. “The bar fight. That’s why I’m here, you know. That’s why my dad—”
Evan’s jaw tightened. The ease drained from his posture, replaced by something harder. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You were about to.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Your dad put you in this room because he thinks I need supervision. I don’t.”
“You put two guys in the hospital, Evan. One has a shattered nose.”
“They started it.”
“That’s not really the—”
Three sharp knocks sounded on the door.
We both froze. My head whipped toward the interruption, and my hands scrambled to shove my cock back inside my boxers. Evan swung his legs off the bed and stood up.
“What are you doing?” I hissed as he walked toward the door with his rigid cock leading the way. “Evan. You can’t—”
He opened the door. Reed stood on the other side, one hand raised to knock again. “Yo, Brock, the guys are heading to this bar down the—”
His eyes dropped, and the shriek that came out of his mouth was not a sound I’d ever heard from a grown man. It was high-pitched, involuntary, and loud enough to echo down the hotel corridor.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Reed stumbled backward, his hand flying up to shield his eyes. “What the fuck, dude! That’s a Louisville Slugger! That’s—why are you—put that monstrosity away!”
Evan stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, completely unmoved. “What do you want, Reed?”
Reed was peeking through his fingers, his face a mess of horror and fascination. “Bar. Down the street. The whole team’s going. But—bro, why are you hard? Wait—why are you answering the door like that?”
“I can’t go,” Evan said. “Gotta stay in with Coach’s son.”
The words ripped through my chest with a vengeance. Coach’s son.
I was a job description. A condition of his curfew.
Reed craned his neck, spotting me on the bed. I gave a weak wave, praying he couldn’t see the outline of my erection through my boxers from that distance.
“Alright, man.” Reed was backing away down the hall, still half-shielding his eyes. “But seriously—put some pants on. You’re gonna give Tommy a heart attack with that thing.”
“Night, Reed.”
Evan closed the door and locked it. He turned around, his cock still hard, still bobbing with each step as he crossed back to his bed.
He settled into the same position—back against the headboard, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs.
His eyes found mine across the five feet of charged air between us. “Where were we?”