Red zone. Tight windows. Speed compressed to quick jumps and jagged side steps. Jackson and I build a little rhythm as we try to synchronize our vision, but I can tell there is hesitation in his throws, that he doesn't trust me like the best bros we used to be. We get through red zone adjustments without a misread. On the last rep I shake free in the back corner and toe-tap the pylon, to haul it in by the nicks of my feet. The whistle cuts to end the play.
Touchdown!
“Great catch, Schmidt! Everybody make sure to hydrate, we don't need any sunstroke victims today,” Coach Rourke yells. “Then jog to recovery for your respective assignments.”
I strip off my helmet to let the sweat evaporate from my skull, jogging inside to the weight room. Fuck, it's a hot one today.
I'm sweating balls, but not nearly as much as the O-line. Sweat is pouring down their backs like a gentle waterfall, their jerseys and pads entirely soaked with small puddles forming beneath them.
As I'm catching my breath, Nora from the training staff is handing out the tailored assignments to each of the offensive players. "Hicks, straight to the bath room. Jenkins—massage for your neck. Schmidt—" she pauses, scanning her clipboard, "—we have a special trainer in a collaboration with the Ice Devils. Head to the stretching room."
That makes me raise a brow. TheIce Devils? That's interesting… Since when do we share staff with the hockey team?
But it sounds hell of a lot better than running more routes under the sun. "Yes ma'am," I say, trying not to sound too grateful.
She points to the door. "Down the corridor, third room on the left."
I make my way out of the weight room, the fluorescent lights greeting me. I guess I'm getting a special one-on-one today. Pretty nice of them considering I'm a rookie. Maybe this organization isn't so bad after all.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. But I don't bother to look at it, a nice stretch session sounds pretty enjoyable.
Then I remember what Drew texted me earlier:Work the hips today.
I shake my head, I bet Drew was half-drunk when he sent it, chuckling into his phone before blacking out. I push the thoughtto the back of my mind and continue my way to open the door to the stretch room.
The door creaks open as I enter the dimly lit room. The smell of aged sweat and bleach penetrates my nostrils.
"Aye take, a seat on the mat and I'll be right there," a man with a deep voice and slight accent mutters from one of the side rooms.
"Okay…" I murmur, my stomach performing a slight knot. How many British men could there possibly be in this state? There's no way the one I'm avoiding could have slithered his way inside our training facility.
Crossing the room, I take a place on the mat, stripping down to only my shorts and my jockstrap. It'll be a bit easier for us to get to work this way. Make sure we use all of the time properly stretching. And plus I can't wait to go home to see Charlie. The sooner, the better. My nerves are too much today, sparking on overtime but ready to fizzle out.
I look down at the dried streaks of salt on my abs. Gross. My nose catches the aroma of my musk, an embarrassing smell, like aged ethanol fermented for a few weeks.
Whatever… it's not like you are fucking this trainer.
From the side room, my ears hear the man shuffling back and forth, muttering inaudible sounds to himself. What's taking him so long?
The growing minutes begin to unsettle my nerves. I roll my neck in a few circles to ease my anxiety, stretching my arms to my toes, embracing the sting of the stretch.
My mind ruminates on Drew's words:how’s it feel catching passes from dear old step-dad…
What an asshole he is, no wonder Charlie never mentions him. A cheeky bastard that's full of himself in the most dreadful way. At least Charlie's cheek is served on a golden platter of glazed crumpets.
"Oi, coming lad," the man hisses, the silhouette revealing himself at last. The snakes on his arms are unmistakable. "Heard from a little birdie you needed the assistance of a proper bloke."
My cheeks burn with an unrivaled heat. But I keep my eyes focused down. I don’t scream for bloody murder. But maybe I should before it's too late…
Instead, I inhale, channeling my focus on the mat, on my knee, on the line of my foot, and pretend the world isn't about to turn upside down from the chaos thumping in my gut.
I nod my head as his fingers circle around my calves. His touch radiates through me like an exquisite burn. My nerves are on fire, but in a strange and novel way. A honey glazed inferno. My heart races from the excitement, scared yet curious to see what I'll feel next.
"Good lad, let me take away your tension, your ache. You deserve to be loose and ready to go," he murmurs, as he works his way up to my knee and then to my exposed thigh.
This feels like the start of something I won’t be able to walk back from. I told Charlie no other man would touch me. I should shut this down. Even if it’s just supposed to be a stretch of the hips. Or a massage of my quads.
It's his fucking brother for heaven's sake…
