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The Clifton Jocks: Nick

By CallMeCrazy and Aardvark

Nick still wasn’t sure why he had agreed to this. Meeting with Coach Thornton just because he had started writing an article about the proliferation of head injuries among football players, particularly at the high school level, while provocative, wasn’t exactly a big deal. The local student paper would likely run it, everyone would have feelings and then it would be forgotten in a week's time. That was how school went. That was how teenagers were. In and out, new and better. Wasn’t his whole generation supposed to be ADHD empaths with no ability to concentrate or do anything? So why did Thornton care?

Nick hadn’t actually seen the “Coach” since the opening day assembly. He’d moved into this town with his father, a water law attorney, because apparently there was some big lawsuit and whatnot. It was big enough that his father’s hesitations about abruptly moving across the country to a small town were squashed. So, here was Nick, stuck in a small, rural community where everybody knows everybody and nobody ever left.

Thornton was a big man, probably the biggest man Nick had ever seen. And not like fat big. Like, barrel chested strongman from an old film. All that muscle stuffed into a royal polo shirt with a Spartan on it.

“So,” Thornton eyed the student across from his desk, “you’re Nick Dombrowski?.”

“Yup.” The two sat in silence for a few more moments. “Am I in trouble?”

“Trouble? No, I just heard about your article and wanted to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity. Usually the ones who write these things are little pencil necked men. You’ve got that real cornfed look to ya.” Nick rolled his eyes. True, he wasn’t one of those nose-in-a-book nerdy stereotypes, nor the wears black all day angsty teens, and he had been on the wrestling team at his old school for a few years but it just wasn’t his thing.

“It’s not personal.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“I doubt anyone ever reads the student paper.”

“You might be surprised.”

“And it’s nothing new. There isn’t some scandal. Just summarizing the findings that high school football is having some negative health consequences that the sport seems to be ignoring.”

“And you just wanted to put that out there?”

“Okay, is this an intervention or some kind of threat or something? Because I’m bored.”

“No, it’s not a threat. I was just thinking, your article really might benefit from a more experienced touch.”

“What, you wanna edit my story?”

“No, why not come to football practice. See what it’s really like.”

“I’m not playing football.”

“I didn’t say that. I said come to practice. You wanna talk about risk of injury and dangers to athletes. Why not sit in on a few and get a hands on experience? I bet you aren’t versed enough about football to really talk about it.” Now that was an interesting idea. Nick’s old school didn’t actually have a football team. His knowledge of football was pretty much limited to whatever teams were in the Super Bowl each year. He knew who Tom Brady was. A little field knowledge really might be impactful. If you don’t sound like you know what you’re writing about, no one will listen.

“And I’m not gonna find myself being punched by some meatheads?”

“Not while I’m watching. And if you do have any problems with my boys, you tell me. I don’t need them getting in trouble with our season opener getting close.”

“Deal.”

--------

Nick knew the school was well funded. The buildings were clean, the desks were new, and the computer lab wasn’t a collection of hell’s Dells. He had expected the locker room to be some sort of wide, beautiful dressing room so seeing the tight lines of lockers, crappy benches, and dingy lighting was a bit of a shock. There were pads crammed into each locker along with pants and jerseys along with a helmet sitting on the bench in front. Each locker had a number taped over it. Thornton had asked Nick to meet him here before practice actually began so he wasn’t in the way during prep time.

“Nick!” The big man cheered upon seeing the boy. He offered his gruff hand and gave the boy a hard manly shake. “Just on time too! I like punctuality.”

“Oh sure thing, Mr. Thornton. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“None of that Mister stuff in here, son. It’s Coach.”

“Oh… um… okay,” Nick did his best to not roll his eyes. Even his old wrestling coach had been Mr. Uchtdorf. But Nick didn't want to get in the way. He had no problem with the football players, even if it didn’t interest him. “So, where is everybody?”

“Weight training. They’re on the floor right now. They’ll change and head out to the field in about thirty minutes.”

“Doesn’t that cut into period time?”

“Football practice goes after school. We’ll all be here pretty late tonight.”

“Oh, well, I take the bus home.”

“No problem. I’ll make sure you get outta here right on time.” Thornton had slowly guided Nick towards a small office with a computer monitor and some paperwork.

“So, figure this is a good way to start. I make the team watch some of these videos before games and such. Hype videos, might get you in the spirit!” Thornton laughed. “Oh and since you’re gonna be on the field you need to sign a release. Same as the players.”

Nick eyed the release. It was standard, he’d done them for other sports. Basically saying injury in the line of athletics is normal. Everyone who played a sport had twisted an ankle or something. It was normal. And schools didn’t want to be sued just because of an accident. He signed it quickly and handed it to Thornton.

“Excellent, now I’ve queued up some films. Short things, like I said hype videos and stuff. Just watch for a bit. I’ve got some prep work to do before practice but this is as good a start as any.” He used his watch to make a video start playing and left the room. There was only a small chair, an old fashioned recliner, in front of the monitor. Sighing to himself, Nick sat down.

The royal blue and white Spartan logo appeared over the screen. A marching band song began to play over as game footage began to play. Some big throws, a touchdown catch, cheering crowds, tough tackle, all caught in a combination of crappy school cameras and newer digital technology. There was an array of uniforms highlighted, from the older baggy jerseys and bulky pads, to the sleeker, modern look with bright white pants and crisp jerseys. It switched to the national anthem and did a shot showing the row of players, hands over their hearts, looking at the flag. Next came school shots, smiling students, pep rallys, a blur of student support.

The video increased in intensity, the marching band music replaced with heavy rap beats intermixed with metal. It was game footage. Whereas the start was a TV approved highlights reel, this was serious stuff. Hard hits from the linemen, a deep sack on a quarterback, a group of players jumping up and down in the endzone. Faster and faster the images relayed over each other, more players, more hits, and more wins.

Nick wasn’t really sure how long he watched the videos. It all just ended up being a haze. It wasn’t until the door creaked open that he even realized the films were over.

“How’d that treat ya, kid?” Thornton asked while ruffling Nick’s hair.

“Umm, good,” he sort of slurred in response. “The, uh, the production quality was really good.”

“Thanks! Yeah, we definitely put some time into those. It takes dedication to succeed.” Nick nodded. He listened as hard as he could but it was pretty difficult to focus on much. When they arrived back in the locker room, Nick’s brain came back in focus. The formerly orderly, if small, room was torn asunder. The football equipment was gone but now discarded backpacks and clothes were strewn apart. Some lovingly hung in lockers, others left to rot on the floor.

“Woah,” Nick said, surveying the mess. Thornton laughed in response.

“I gave ‘em five minutes today. Good to keep on their toes. Teenage boys get distracted too easily. So, let’s head out on the field. I figure you can just watch today. I’ll try and get an assistant to coach to come explain things to you if there’s a chance.”

“Thanks Coach,” Nick replied.

“No sweat, kid.”

--------

It was hot and there was zero shade. The players had all donned helmets and pads, along with various arrays of exercise clothes- from shorts and jerseys to cropped t-shirts and tights. The coaches all matched in khakis, polos, and ballcaps. The players were getting talked through some stretches on the field while coaches talked to the different players.

Then a whistle blew. The players scattered into rows across the field and Thornton called out “Jacks!” The players each began doing jumping jacks on the field. After a minute, another whistle and this time “Drum Majors!” Instantly they shifted, performing a goose step walk forward. A cycle of warm ups continued, bear crawl, bunnies, tapioca, carioca with the players shifting quickly and seamlessly through. Nick, sitting on a metal bench closest to the bleachers, wasn’t even sure he was hearing the words right. And the changes happened so fast. A few minutes after the warm ups and the players were doing some sort of clapping drill, then in line position being corrected by coaches. Next was ramming into some padded object and more tackling.

Despite not understanding much of what was going on, Nick was fully absorbed in the process. It was a well oiled machine, the players never standing around waiting for more than half a minute, getting multiple passes at every drill. His attention diverted back to reality by the first water break and the massive herd ambling towards the benches. He stepped aside, giving space to the team.

“Dombrowski?” one of the coaches approached him,

“Ah, umm, yes,” he turned towards the broad man whom up close Nick could see was rather young. He offered his hand, a raw, massive thing that practically engulfed Nick’s own.

“I’m Coach Knight. Special teams. Thornton wanted me to give you a rundown.”

“Oh, awesome! Thanks.”

“So, that was a standard practice stretch and warm-up. We alternate the exact drills but it follows the same layout. Stretching, warm-ups, stance and tackling drills. Basic skills that every position needs. Any questions?”

“No, I mean yes, I guess?” Knight looked at him sternly. “I couldn’t quite understand the names of all the plays you called out.

“No plays were called.”

“Oh, ah, the warm-ups? I heard bunny and drum major, but some of the others weren’t familiar to me.”

“I’ll get you a form of our drills. All our players get one at the start of the season. We change what we do everyday so players are expected to have them memorized and not require instruction.”

“Great, great!” At that, another whistle blew and the players and coaches returned to the field. Knight offered him a nod and headed off as well. Nick resumed his position on the bench.

Next was a series of more team oriented actions, the players all lining up and performing the same task over and over again with a little variation. First, the ball was handed to a few players who ran short distances while the guys on the other side tried to stop him. Then there was a series of passes. At another water break, he stood off the side, trying to listen to the various chatter from the coaches. Most of the players were relatively quiet, chugging water and breathing heavily.

“You still here?” Nick turned to see Thornton approaching, a clipboard in hand, a tiny smirk on his face.

“Uh, yes. It’s pretty interesting.”

“Glad you think so, kid. But, I thought you took the bus home.”

“Shit!” Nick felt a base instinct to run but instead looked at Thornton for guidance.

“We’ll talk tomorrow. Knight! Let him out the side gate.”

--------

Nick barely caught the bus. Even with Thornton pushing him away from the field, and Knight practically shoving him onboard, he kept finding things to be distracted with. There were drills, plays, team traditions, not to mention the ins and outs of every position. Everytime he tried to focus on something else, his brain warped back to football. Knowing plays would be good for his paper. Knowing positions would be good for his article. It makes sense that he should really absorb this stuff. Nose to the grindstone. Or pigskin. Something like that.

Nick’s father, Bill, wouldn’t be home until late. The new job had some serious hours. Nick was usually a fairly studious type, focusing on a dozen tasks and projects and making progress on all of them simultaneously. While he intended to sit down with some math homework, he found himself slumped on the couch instead of at his desk. After a few minutes he decided that some background noise would be great. And the television was right there. He flipped it on.

It was left on some news station, something his father had been watching late last night. Nick watched for a few minutes, but found it vague and dull. Too much information and switching between topics. He began flipping through the channels, catching weirdos fighting and reality TV programs before he stopped as a well built man in a suit ranted at length about the current state of the rookie quarterbacks in the NFL. More football, this was good. This is what he was interested in learning about. Nick focused on the TV for a bit, listening to the commentators explanations of various players' potentials and pitfalls with training camp footage cut in. The information came fast and furious, this wasn’t an educational program, this was for the die-hards. This was the kind of information that separated chaff from wheat.

He left the TV on and tried to go back to his homework. It wasn’t hard stuff, it was the very beginning of the school year. Heck, this was mostly review. He could blast through it all in like an hour, then maybe get on with his paper, heat up some leftovers for dinner. It wouldn’t be so bad, really, if he just focused on the show host for a bit. Nick kicked aside his homework, plopped his feet on the table and devoted his attention to the TV.

Within a few minutes, Nick realized how little he knew about football. He’d overheard stuff over the years, touchdown, quarterback, quarters, but this was a whole world of terminology being listed off without so much as a moment’s explanation. This was stuff the casual viewer was expected to know. And this was just quarterbacks. There were ten extra players just on offense! Not to mention the defensive guys. A single play was incredible. So many people working together.

Nick had gotten through another program when he realized how late it had gotten. He ran to the kitchen for some leftovers, taking one container and shoving it in the microwave. He felt his stomach gurgle and had a strange desire to order some pizza, probably from all the ads during the past couple of shows. Once it was done, Nick took the food to the couch to continue watching. Within a few minutes, the food was gone and Nick had gone back to grab the rest of the leftovers. He’d have to text his dad and tell him to pick something up for himself on the way home.

Once the major networks had turned their focus to other sports, Nick turned back to his homework. The first problem continued to befuddle him, so he moved to the next. It wasn’t until the third when he finally found focus to scribble down an answer. It was a particularly easy question but Nick still felt he needed to reward himself for answering it. He switched back to the TV, and after a few minutes of watching some show about buff dudes living on the beach he landed on a local access channel that showed old high school games. And lo and behold, this was last year's Clifton Spartans.

Two things immediately stuck out in Nick’s mind. The first was just how fucking cool the Spartans were. Second, almost none of the players mentioned were still at school. He quickly realized it was because every player seemed to have been a senior last year. Even the announcers commented on how next year (Nick’s year) would possibly be a rebuilding year for the behemoth Spartans. A shot of the sidelines showed a row of buff teenagers in hypermasculine armor, only differentiated by the numbers on their chest, and buffer and older coaches. Nick picked out Thornton easily and he recognized a few of the other teachers as well. He also identified a bench warming Adam Griffin, but none of the other players looked familiar.

Nick’s brain clicked back to reality. That would be an interesting question for Coa- Mr. Thornton. Had he had trouble recruiting? Maybe the increased conversation around the risks of football had led to some gaps in recruitment? It didn’t seem exceptionally likely, the number of oversized brutes strutting the hallways only seemed to be increasing everyday. But still, wasn’t it odd that literally none of these guys were on the team last season?

A lateral handoff with some good blocking from the offensive linemen snagged Nick’s attention back to the screen and his focus didn’t fade until halftime. It was late. Nick’s father was usually home by now. Either way, Nick needed to sleep.

=Tuesday=

Nick had been jittery all morning. He’d woken up unnaturally early, fully rested and ready to go. After a restless hour of trying to fall back asleep, he decided to pick up the homework that he hadn’t gotten to last night. He read over the directions and began trudging through the problems. Each one seemed like a boring chore, with him taking breaks to check the internet or browse instagram or read through the rosters of NFL teams. It took him much longer than it should have to do, and he was pretty sure he’d gotten some wrong, but he just really didn’t care. Reviewing this stuff was boring. He’d probably be more interested once it was new material. That was it. His brain was obsessing over football because it was entirely new.

He decided to get back to his paper, figured he’d probably change some terminology to match what he’d learned. The whole paper seemed oddly unfamiliar now. He knew he had written it. But the wording and grammar seemed foreign. And the topic too. There really wasn’t much football in this paper that was ostensibly about football. It was all just sort of vague generalities. Maybe he’d need some more specific examples? Like, which players are most at risk? That idea made Nick’s whole brain light up. Which specific players and positions, that would be the best follow through. He could look that stuff up. Heck, Coach Thornton might even keep records of player injuries. It might be possible to use his high school team as an example in the paper.

That piece of emotional high, knowing he’d get to talk to Thornton about football, helped his brain focus. He turned to those math problems and blasted through a few of them. Nick imagined the problems like those tackling dummies and him one of those big ole dudes he saw crushing them yesterday. Well, not crushing, but hitting at least. And that kind of focus was good, a perfect target to line up and knock out. And occasionally you missed a few and…. That was not okay. Sports may be a fine metaphor for a lot of things but school, and life, demanded a sense of concentrated effort and excellence. At least that’s what Nick believed. It’s certainly what his father believed. Still, his momentary focus had gotten him through most of the problems and he resigned himself to simply asking his teacher about them later. Glancing up at the clock, he realized he had consumed all the extra time he had and hurried off to school.

--------

School got Nick right back in his rhythm. Classes at Clifton were a strange affair. There seemed to be an unusual amount of shuffling among the students as they found their correct fit. He could remember when first period had originally had an equal split of boys and girls, but now he realized he was one of a few boys. He recognized two in the front row, Diego and Harry, both of whom had the modern nerd look, a little greasy and everything out of style. Nick had never really spoken to them, but he heard the teacher call their names enough time to process it. There was also a collection of girls, the blonde cheerleaders on one side, another the oddballs and the mix in the middle. The few other guys had never registered or even spoken as far as he could remember.

“Hmm, my AP history course gets smaller everyday,” Mr. Grant muttered as he walked in while shaking his head. It was a smaller class. Supposedly teachers preferred smaller classes but Grant’s annoyance lingered in Nick’s mind. A dweebish hand shot up.

“Mr. Grant?” The voice was nasally. “Does that mean the school might cancel the class?”

“No Diego, I highly doubt it. Schools don’t like dropping AP courses due to lack of interest. Anyway, let’s continue.” Nick, determined not to give into the weird distractions he’d been experiencing the past day, focused on his energy and attention on the topic. And he found himself easily absorbed, studious and intelligent, a model student once again. The fear and confusion waned, this was familiar, clear, a devout student and model of diligence. He’d always been a hard worker with a tendency to join a few too many clubs or take a few too many extra projects on. He loved it.

When class was over, Nick darted out of the room. He had decided to swing by his math class to catch Mr. Kazmi and ask him about the assignment. While he had mostly finished, he was still annoyed with himself for being unable to simply blast through the refresher material. Scampering down the hall during passing period, he caught his teacher unlocking his door.

“Hi, Mr. Kazmi, do you have a moment? I wanted to ask you a few questions about our last assignment?” Umar looked at him with a bit of confusion. Only after surveying the boy for a minute did he speak.

“Domdowski? Nick? Fourth period?” He rattled it off with a shortness of breath. Nick could see traces of sweat on his brow and a touch of shaving cream behind his ear.

“Dombrowski. Yea, I was having trouble and I didn’t want to get the year off to a bad start so I was hoping to maybe get some answers before class…”

“We’re going to cover that all in class today. It can wait.”

“Yeah, but it’s been bothering me. I feel strange, having trouble with old material.”

“Well, moving to a new school is disorienting,” Kazmi said as he walked over to his desk and chugged an energy drink he pulled out of his bag. He swallowed nearly the whole thing while Nick continued.

“It’s just a terrible start to the year and I really don’t want to add this as another distraction and I understand if you don’t have time, I was just trying to swing by. Also, you have shaving cream on your neck.”

“Oh,” Kazmi reached up and touched it. He pulled a tissue off his desk and wiped it off. “Rough morning, I don’t think two a days ever get easier.”

“Sorry, but do you have time?”

“Nick, you need to chill.”

“What?” The advice was literally anathema to Nick’s very identity. Chill was what lazy dudes did watching TV and eating pizza in someone’s basement.

“Chill out, dude. You’re making me stress and I’m the teacher! Take a couple breaths, relax, we’re going over the material in a bit, why get stressed out now.”

“Why… get stressed out?” Nick found the concept confusing. But he suddenly found talking confusing. His tongue felt heavy.

“Yea dude, go to second period. Take a load off, math will come later. Nobody’s gonna die because you had trouble on a math problem.” Nick felt a deep conflict. True, no one would die. His brain felt like it might die. But then, maybe it needed to relax. It needed to relax. That thought permeated his brain, ate away at some tiny piece of his psyche. His breathing slowed just a bit and for a brief, exhilarating moment, Nick’s mind was totally empty.

“You good?”

“Umm ... yeah… yeah, I’ll just… chill,” the words were slow and felt like ice stuck on his tongue. Uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant.

“Cool, I gotta get ready for class, so…” Kazmi trailed off and guided Nick to the door. “If you’re late to your next class, just tell them to call me. I’ll vouch for you.”

“Sure, thanks Mr. Kazmi.”

“No sweat, kid. Now get going.”

--------

Nick ambled down the hallway, his steps slower than usual, his breath heavy. He ended up stumbling between two big meatheads in letterman jackets.

“Hey, watch it, douche!” the one with the slightly longer, tousled hair said.

“Chill bruh,” the high and tight said, grabbing his arm. Nick turned and eyed the pair. They were huge, really too big to be in high school. And they looked almost like clones minus a few small differences in their clothing and different hairstyles. Long hair got up close to Nick, towering over him and pressing against his chest.

“You got a problem?” He sneered and his nostrils flared. Nick knew that normally he’d just retort and walk off, but today it all seemed… dumb. He started chuckling to himself.

“Nah, sorry man, didn’t mean to get in your way,” Nick turned and wandered off while the other guy tried to talk smack and his friend just pulled him away. That was weird. Weirder still was their size. They probably played football. He’d probably seen them yesterday. If they didn’t, he was sure Coach Thornton had already snatched them up and got them on the field. He couldn’t imagine any other reason a high school kid would be that big.

--------

Environmental Science occupied the second period slot, and Nick already had reservations about it. Senioritis being a real thing and science being his least subject made this tedious class worse. And today, Nick might as well have taken psychotropic drugs because the overly colorful slideshow combined with the teacher's monotone voice made his brain feel like it was going to explode. He tried to take notes, but the words seemed to mutate as he wrote, forming vague incoherent sentences that contained a variety of words in a nonsense order without rhyme or reason. Blinking his eyes, he tried to regain composure only to slip into a weird pink flower and find himself writing out the lyrics to the school fight song in big cursive letters. Honestly, and he felt inclined to be honest with himself, he really didn’t want to take this class. He didn't need the credit, didn’t like the material, and didn’t want to do it.

He smiled. Not a big picture selfie smile, but a dim contented curve of the lips. Dopey. It felt good to admit. He didn’t want to take this class. Nothing was going to change that and suffering through it for however many days wasn’t going to be worth it. No, he’d drop. He sighed. There was a strange calmness that overflowed. He would drop this course, so this stuff didn’t matter. He didn’t need to pay attention or take notes or plan study sessions. Instead, shockingly, nearly impossible to imagine, he could relax. Chill.

His mouth hung open just a bit. The bright colors were kind of pretty now. The words a meaningless jumble of technical terms that would never mean anything to him not. Not even for a single school year. They were the lyrics to a Katy Perry song, vapid, meaningless, easily ignored and forgotten. Slumping back into the plastic chair, he let his legs hang open wide and tilted his head towards the ceiling. The tiles were white and had little black specks around them. If he squinted, he could imagine them as the Xs and Os on a football play. Just like the ones he’d seen at practice and on TV. The quarterback was the one just behind the lines of Os, the offensive line. And across from them, the Xs were the defensive line. Nick was quite proud. He knew it was sort of vague generic knowledge, but it was knowledge he didn’t have yesterday. And it was way more interesting than this crap.

The next few periods went similarly. Nick didn’t decide to abandon the course altogether, but he found himself focusing on something different: spinning a pencil in his hand, tapping his foot to the beat of the air conditioner, counting the number of guys in letter jackets. Every time his brain threw a fit about something, about some important fact or raising his hand to answer a question, a new feeling pushed out from his core. A cold, chilling feeling to just sit and relax. There would be other lessons, other questions, for once he could just let it all slip past him.

He found himself in a sort of sleepwalk as he pushed his way through the lunch line, loading his tray up with the same things the guy in front of him did. It wasn’t until the checkout that he even glanced up and realized it was long hair from the hallway earlier. And it wasn’t until the cash total was read to him that he even glanced at his tray and realized the mountain of food he had. He paid, embarrassed, and found a table off to the side by himself. Maybe he could save parts of it? No, it was mostly the fresh stuff, pizza, burgers, fries, and milk. He put a few of the fries to his lips and began eating.

“Nick? Nick Dombowson?” Nick’s brain suddenly focused. The food in front of him was half eaten, a mashed up mess of half eaten pieces mixed together in a demonic looking porridge. And over him stood a chunky, brown boy with greasy hair. Nick eyed him suspiciously, tiny dregs of food slipping out of his mouth.

“Yup,” he said, swallowing his food and chugging down the last of the milk.

“I’m Diego Sanchez,” his voice was whiny and sour. “We have a few classes together.”

“Okay,” Nick replied while wiping the food remains from his face. Up close, he could see that the kid was a late bloomer with an oddly shaped body. Thick around the middle, his gut nearly hung out of his anime t-shirt, but narrow in the shoulders and a bit bowlegged. It all gave him the appearance of a wobbly toy that might fall over with the slightest push. After a few moments of silence, Nick spoke again. “Is there something you need?”

“Oh, yes, umm, well I’m actually in the school newspaper class with you and I heard you were writing a story about football injuries…” Nick’s mind snapped for a moment. His paper that he’d already put so much time into, he wanted to ask Thornton about a few points in it. His paper about football! God, the word just made his brain sing and that happy little chilling shock went down his spine again.

“Yeah man! I’m working on a paper about football. And C-, the coach has offered to help me learn a bit more about the game for the paper.”

“He’s helping you write a paper about the prevalence of injuries and lifelong disease risk as a result of playing football?”

“Yeah! Well, I mean, when you say it like that,” Nick’s brain started churning up again, a few thousand thoughts running through his head: how he could tolerate environmental science if he gave it a better attitude, how he needed to focus more on math, how his paper might not really need the technical football additions- football made his brain stop again. Football was easy, fun, and a good way for him to relax after a long day. And he needed to relax more. He was far too young to be so stressed.

“So, anyway,” Nick’s face adopted a dopey smile and heavy lids as he tilted back towards Diego. “What did you want?” It wasn’t rude, but there was a curtness that even the slow, lax tone of his voice couldn’t hide.

“I, ah, I wanted to help?” Nick wasn’t sure if it was a question or his Diego lost his breath just asking the question.

“How?”

“Well, I mean, I could help research stuff or edit your writing. I feel passionate about a school’s preference for sports over academia.”

“Clifton seems like a bad fit.”

“Ugh,” Diego sat down at the table and helped himself to a few leftover fries. “You have no idea. My dad just randomly decided to uproot my whole family and move here on a whim like two weeks before school started! He always talked about how much better it was to live in a diverse, vibrant city and suddenly he wants me to be the only brown kid in a small town.”

“Weird,” Nick’s brain turned slightly, the chill receding for a moment. “My dad moved us here right before school started, too. Something about water law?” Is that what his dad did? Lawyer? Water rights? He hadn’t even explained what exactly was so important.

“Mine talked about wanting to invest in land,” Diego snorted at the end of his sentence. “Suddenly he’s thinking of playing farmer! He was a programmer and translator before. Mid life crises are stupid.” Diego sulked for a bit, filling his sadness with food. Nick felt a pang of sympathy. It was overridden almost immediately with annoyance. And he was saved by the lunch bell.

“I’m meeting Coach Thornton during sixth period to ask him some questions. You wanna come along?”

“Thanks!”

--------

Nick realized he should have made more concrete plans with Diego. Here he was, waiting outside the newspaper classroom, bouncing from foot to foot and rapping his fingers against the wall, unsure if Diego would be heading straight to the gym or if he thought they would meet up here first. Nick needed to get to the Coach’s office as quickly as he could. His brain raced with thoughts and desperately struggled to maintain the questions he had for Thornton as they fought for space in his brain with football players and player positions. Which was important information… for injury stuff. Yeah, injuries. That’s what he was asking about. One minute until the bell, Nick decided that Diego had gone straight ahead to the gym and he needed to catch up. A strange heat burned inside him, the idea of Diego getting to Thornton first made him almost panic. What if he said something stupid? Or what if he pissed the coach off and he wasn’t willing to help anymore? And worse, what if this was a race and he lost? Nick started sprinting through the school.

The locker room was already filled with discarded clothes and axe body spray. Thornton was thankfully in his office. Despite the open door, Nick knocked on the door frame before entering.

“Well, hello there Nick. And just in time. A little later than yesterday,” he eyed Nick as he spoke.

“Yeah, sorry, this guy from newspaper, Diego, was interested in helping so I tried to meet up with him but I haven't seen him.”

“Oh yes, he was here a few minutes ago. I got him started watching the hype videos I showed you last time. Figured it’s as good a start as any. Now, I have the boys doing film work before practice today, so, what’s on the agenda?” He gestured for Nick to sit down in one of the metal chairs before the desk.

“So,” Nick began slowly. He thought it seemed rude to just jump into injuries. “How’s the team shaping up?”

“Fine, start of a season is always tough. Lots of new guys who need to conform to standards. I’m sure they’ll be ready once the season starts. Always are.”

“Cool, cool,” Nick trailed off and stared at Thornton. The salt and pepper hair and close shave gave him a very drill instructor vibe, as though he might bark out an order at any moment.

“Did you want to ask me about injuries?”

“Oh, huh, yeah! Yeah! Sorry, I dunno, I thought it seemed too shitty to just jump into that. So, how many players get injured in a season?”

“Probably all of them.”

“Wait, really?”

“Well, what do you mean by injury? A bruise? A minor cut? Not every injury is a player's brain being knocked against the skull. Plus, weight training and practice can sometimes result in strains or overuse but we try to avoid that. Still, it’s hard to find the balance between giving your all and overexertion. Especially among teens.”

“Yeah, I mean, that makes sense. So, like… umm what positions get injured the most. In a game.”

“Running backs. Smallest guys usually, the ones who run the ball. They tend to take the most tackles, thus have the highest probability of injury. Defensive tackles have the same problem, they spend a lot of time stopping the running back. Guys who have the most physical positions.”

“Oh, so, what positions have the lowest injury?”

“Quarterbacks, assuming the offensive line does their job. Kickers and punters if you count them. Cornerbacks and tight ends get off pretty easy too.”

“Okay.” They sat in silence for a minute.

“Is that all Nick? I put Knight in charge of this session so you’ve got about twenty more minutes to ask questions.”

“Oh, sorry Coach, umm, I get kinda nervous around you I guess.” Nervous? Did this big hulking adult make him nervous? Nick wasn’t someone who naturally bowed to authority. And he never really had trouble standing up for himself. But something about this man made him want to shut up and listen. Thornton just kind of smirked.

“Most injuries aren’t brain injuries either. Lots of hurt knees. We try to teach good form for tackling and diving, but it can be hard in the heat of the moment. Especially our linebackers, we emphasize how important it is to lead with the shoulder, not the helmet. But sometimes you can’t control the angle well enough. And sometimes, you just gotta make the play and deal with the repercussions after.”

“I guess that makes sense. So, how is practice organized?” Nick wanted to talk about more than just injuries. It would help, something, if he had a more rounded knowledge of football. If he really understood the ins and outs, at least a loud part of his brain kept telling himself that.

“We start with basic warm-ups and universal drills, line formations. Run a tackling circuit cause everybodies gonna have to tackle eventually. Position drills, then play varieties switching offense and defense focus. Then cool down, notes, etc. 2-3 hours depending on the day.”

“So, do they finish early some days?”

“Ha! Well, maybe. Tuesdays and Thursdays we do two a days, 90 minutes in the morning and 90 minutes in the afternoon, full pads. The other days it’s full pads in the afternoon only. We do other drills and training in the morning instead.”

“And weight training?”

“Fit it in at different times. Technically it’s fifth period, but it’s good to switch things up.”

“You said you had lots of new guys,” Nick’s brain was finding its rhythm again. “I watched a game on TV the other night and….”

“What game?”

“Oh, umm, I don’t remember. It was from last year. The other team had black jerseys.”

“Gold stripes on the helmet?”

“I think so.”

“Oakane. Good team, second or third best in our league. After us, of course.” Thornton almost smiled at that statement and his chest puffed out. That swelling of masculine pride and energy made Nick smile and let out a tiny giggle. Thornton stared at him but didn’t have any visual reaction.

“So, ummm, Oakane…”

“Yeah, Oakane got a new coach a few years back and really amped up the program. Getting some good wide receivers over there. Course, they don’t have the quarterback to match yet, but you never know.”

“Are, are all of their players new too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I noticed that pretty much every starter last year was a senior.”

“Yeah, seniors tend to be bigger, more training, plus gotta show off for college!”

“But like, every guy was a senior. Except Adam. Like, did everyone just move to Clifton and show up like that? Is that normal?” Thornton stared at the kid, his sharp eyes narrowing into a laser. Nick nearly shrunk back but found that little piece of confidence he’d always had with confrontation. It was a good question. And good questions deserve good answers.

“You know, son,” Thornton began, his voice low and steady. “Things change year to year. Especially in a town like Clifton. Lots of people move in. You’re new, after all.”

“But I’m not a starter on a historically dominant football team.” The corners of Thornton’s mouth twitched upwards into a sneer for a second before becoming flat again.

“Fair enough, lost a lot of good players last year. Means there’s a lot of work this year training new starters. No time for rebuilding when you can be winning.” Nick stared at the coach for a moment. He wanted to press further, his mind told him that this was a very interesting topic. Instead, his brain snapped as the big man barked at him.

“You gonna write any of this down?” Thornton said, leering down at Nick. Nick gasped and started digging through his bag for some paper when Thornton tossed him a tiny pad of yellow sticky notes and a pencil. Nick started jotting stuff down quickly, his usually precise handwriting replaced with a large bold font. Thornton leaned over the desk and watched, reminding him of various positions and suggesting appropriate shorthand.

Coach Thornton walked Nick through the technicalities of offensive linemen until a swift rap at the door announced Coach Knight. The sculpted teacher was smooth faced and groomed to perfection, his upright posture highlighting his big chest and his large steps causing the bulge in his pants to sway from side to side.

“Coach, you’re needed on the field.” His smooth voice was like a 40s jazz singer opening on ladies night. Nick practically swooned himself. Thornton stood up and Nick followed.

“Well, son, that’s all the time we’ve got today. Gotta get those newbies in shape!” He let out a sharp laugh. “We’re doing some serious position work today. I think you’d benefit from staying with the linemen today. Really see the down and dirty of the sport. For your paper.” Nick nodded and shoved the collection of annotated post it notes into his bag as quickly as he could, hustling after the coaches who wasted no time marching towards the field.

--------

Practice started the same as yesterday, stretching, laps, tackling, and technical drills. When Thornton blew a whistle and yelled out “Positionals” the crowd of shoulder padded hulks and polo stretching coaches dispersed and set up in groups around the field. A big black man with a shiny bald head and the most pristine white polo Nick had ever seen introduced himself as Coach Wright and directed him towards an endzone. That’s where some of the big boys were gathered around a set of tackling dummies he recognized.

“Washington! Rose! You’re up first.” Wright blew the whistle and the two took a stance in front of two sleds. Wright blew again and the two charged into the foam pads, slamming their arms upward while keeping their feet balanced and moving. This repeated with the other players. Then it switched so they started between two sleds. Then from the side. The rotations were quick, each guy went twice, two others stepped in and performed before being replaced again. Within five minutes they’d all done the drill about ten times.

Next four players got on their knees in front of sleds and on the whistle had to use their upper bodies only to thrust the entire piece backwards. It wasn’t just a strength builder, it was a timing drill, getting all the linemen moving immediately. Making the most of the snap, getting right up against the defensive linemen, hopefully knocking them off balance. The synchronization helped make the offensive line an impenetrable wall for the quarterback. There was a tempo, a cadence, to the whole affair that Nick found astounding.

Wright yelled out “Board drills!” and called another set of players who were instantly running towards him carrying a set of giant seat cushions. The coach and players formed a line and the others players got in a three point stance before charging towards the cushion holder. Once they got within arms reach, they slowed and the board holder simply took a few steps back. Those players replaced the holders and the line continued. The quick, steady pace, nearly wordless and thoughtless in its hasty repetition, held every inch of Nick’s mind in its thrall. It was a beautiful, well-oiled machine. He had no idea what was going on.

The players rotated through several more drills before a loud whistle signaled a water break and the players and coaches hustled to the sidelines where a line of water coolers sat. The players ripped their helmets off, revealing a horde of square-jawed, stern faced high school meatheads, who began chugging water. Wright sipped on some water and explained the fundamentals of what Nick had just witnessed. His mind absorbed the information quickly, giving him time to admire the playful interactions among the players. One told some kinda joke, leading to a few busting out in deep, vapid laughs while they all tugged at their spandex bound crotches. Another poured water on his face while the guys around him flexed their biceps at each other. Wright continued on, explaining how these drills combined teamwork, strength, and footwork to keep the players pressing back against the defensive line. Even though these were some of the biggest guys, that didn’t mean they could slouch on speed or agility. They needed to react quickly to the defense and not let themselves get knocked around or the play would be over before it even started.

Another whistle signaled another round of laps while the coaches had a chat. Left alone, sipping some of the water now that the players were gone, Nick realized someone was staring at him. Turning to his side, Diego was there, his shirt sticking to his body and his ratty hair pinned to his forehead, all from sweat.

“Diego! I forgot about you.” Diego kinda shifted his feet and his eyes darted around the area.

“Yeah, hey Nick. So, like the Coach had me watch those videos and then let me come watch. It’s hot out here! But like, this is cool!” Diego’s voice cracked as he finished his sentence and he spent a second half choking on his throat before letting out a few big coughs. Nick offered him his water, which Diego chugged quickly.

“Thanks man. Yeah, I got to watch the running backs and wide receivers do some footwork drills. Man, those guys may be dumb, but they’re quick! Like, I always thought football was just hittin’ dudes but they got some like ninja ability, too!” Nick smiled, glad Diego was enjoying this and wasn’t going to cause him any problems with Coach Thornton. They chatted for a few minutes more, exchanging notes on football mechanics when Thornton ran up to them.

“Boys, you’re gonna miss your bus. Where’s Knight? I told him to get you out of here,” Thornton glanced around and spotted the usually stoic man blushing and subtly adjusting his crotch while talking to a pretty little blonde lady. “John Knight! Get your ass back here or you’ll be doing suicides with the late comers!” Knight jumped and immediately ran to the Coach while the woman giggled and went on her way. “Now scram kids, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” Thornton winked at the boys. Nick and Diego both nodded as they grabbed their bags and ran out to the buses.

--------

Nick couldn’t do homework. He couldn’t read. The entire contents of his backpack dumped across the coffee table didn’t help to motivate him at all. His mind was a jittery, excited ball of energy. Instead, he was glued to the TV watching every damn football show or program he could find. ESPN, Fox Sports, and then on to local access. He switched channels the moment they talked about anything other than football. The only time he moved was grabbing food from the kitchen. He was cracking open jars and cans without thinking, consuming anything he could. His mind idly thought of that joke, about teenage boys eating you out of house and home. He’d always hated those comments. But if his walls were made of bacon, he wouldn’t have a damn roof to sleep under tonight.

At nine pm, Nick realized he had wasted another evening. Another chance to catch up on math. Or get ahead on a project. Or work on his football paper! Coach Thornton would probably want to read his football paper. For accuracy. Or something. He laughed to himself as he took off his clothes to shower. His teenage body was lean and strong, but slim and short. He imagined himself as a big dude, hulking and tall and built like a brick house. Nick did a double bicep flex and narrowed his eyes and pushed his jaw forward. Yeah, one of those dudes. Turning the shower water on, the steamy heat reminded Nick of practice. Too hot, he turned it cooler and stepped in. He soaked himself up, paying special attention to his groin and pits, idly imagining how hard it would be to scrub your back with those deep muscle tracks of Coach Wright.

He dried himself off, grabbed a textbook and decided to knock out some reading. Within a few moments the book was closed on his lap as his eyes began drooping. Before he knew it, he crawled into bed and fell asleep within moments.

=Wednesday=

Nick made up his mind right after waking up. He dreamt of football. I formation runs and shotgun quarterback fakes had followed his every sleeping moment. He saw offense, over and over again. Passes, runs, fakes, all in a progressive series marching down the field. His vision of everything was off center, hearing calls from the quarterback just over his shoulder. The hypercharged bodies on the line waiting to pounce. Nick’s teenage morning wood was pressing itself out like he’d never experienced before. But it was strangely non-sexual. He felt alive. And he knew it was weird, to discover something new and have an overwhelming obsession with it. Or at least, it was a very teenage gen-Z stereotype. Nevertheless, he couldn’t remember wanting anything else so badly in his life.

Coming downstairs after a masochistically cold shower that had done nothing to aid his aching manhood, Nick saw the remnants of his father’s morning. A discarded plate with bread crumbs… and tomatoes? That was odd. Opening the fridge, Nick saw two pizza boxes. Had his dad ordered pizza? He must have picked them up on the way home, he hadn’t heard a doorbell or anything last night.

One was his family's usual margherita: tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil. His stomach rumbled just looking at it. Opening the other box, Nick was shocked to find a pizza covered in meat. Meats he couldn’t even identify. It looked like the overdressed pizzas from a TV commercial that he imagined no one ever ordered. Certainly, it was something his father, the alternating veg- and pescatarian, had never, ever called up before. But there it was, in all its meaty glory. The cheese could hardly stick to the bread, it was so loaded with filling. Nick pulled out a piece and put it up to his nose; it smelled like heaven.

Before he knew it, the cold, meaty glory was being shoved into his mouth. His tongue was assaulted with the savory goodness and he felt a desperate hunger well up from every part of his being. He moaned slightly as he shoved almost the entire piece in, chewing rapidly, bits of food flying from his open mouth, and swallowed. Another slice soon entered his maw, and he found himself choking down the dry bread with vigor. He noticed two gallons of whole milk in the door, another surprising addition, but he grabbed one and began chugging without another thought. It took only a few minutes for him to finish off the remaining meat pizza and half the gallon. He let out a large burp that startled him back to reality. His eating the past two days was astounding! Sorely out of character, Nick imagined he’d inflate like a balloon if he kept it up. But another part of him suggested he needed to eat even more if he really wanted to grow. That sounded good, and even as his brain tried to protest, he found that refreshing wave of relaxation again soaking over his brain, letting the stress and anxious and curious thoughts be soothed away by calming, cold bliss. He scratched himself, enjoying the connection between his heads and looked at the clock. It was a little too early to get to first period, but football practice would be well under way.

Nick spent a minute debating how to get to school, if it was possible to bike there in time, when he noticed something on the kitchen table. A coarsely written note and a set of keys. His dad had apparently been picked up by some real estate agent who wanted to show him some properties and offered Nick the car. Was this about the water stuff? It seemed pretty odd. But Nick wasn’t about to look this gift horse in the mouth. Grabbing his bag and abandoning the homework left on the coffee table, he scrambled for the car.

--------

As he pulled into a parking lot filled with pick-up trucks and used sedans, Nick realized he chose a fairly poor time to attempt to speak with Thornton. After all, right in the middle of practice was probably not the ideal time to bother a Coach, even with a request like this. Oh well, he figured at worst he could hang around and watch and maybe catch Thornton at a water break or after practice was over. Nick’s brain reminded him that practice overlapped with first period, but a deep breath and a yawn let that negative thought freeze away.

Nick stood outside the stadium, enjoying the view with a newfound appreciation. It wasn’t until he approached the locked gate that his hazy mental plan suddenly hit the cold hard pang of reality. He really had no idea what he was doing. Was he seriously going to march onto the field during practice and just demand something of Thornton? There was probably something to be said for boldness, but not stupidity. At least not this kind of stupid. Still, the players started in the locker room so getting into the locker room should be the goal? His whole head felt woozy and out of focus. Trudging along the side of the stadium towards the lockers, he heard not a peep on the field. Of course, Coach said that they only did morning practices on T-days, so maybe they were inside.

Finally, he located an unlocked side door that led into a small hallway that connected to the lockers. It was the same chaos as usual, normal clothes discarded with haste. He could hear the deep clanking of weights, guess it was weight day. Moving silently, he shifted through the room towards the noise. The heavy metal clangs began matching his heartbeat, or rather his heart synced to the weights. The pulsing of metal and meat throbbed inside his body and brain, driving him mad. He arrived at a set of closed metal doors, the pounding coming from inside. He stopped for a moment, considering what exactly he was doing. Why was he doing this? What on earth was he hoping to accomplish?

The doors burst open and Thornton, dressed in short shorts and a CLIFTON t-shirt burst in. His face pulled back in shock for a second before the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a dark sneer.

“Well, well, Dombrowski. A little early for our chats, I think?” Nick’s mouth hung open as he stared at the hulk. Thornton filled out his clothes well, but seeing him like this, sweat pouring from his forehead, his shirt clinging to the meaty pecs of his chest, the smell of aged testosterone, any doubt that was clinging in his head was beaten down and melted away.

“I, uh, I want to join the team,” Nick sputtered. The words felt cold and challenging to say. But correct. His brain was hit with a beautiful, intense ray of relaxation and his mouth hung open. Thornton’s face twisted into a bit more of a smile.

“Really? You mean, for a practice session?”

“I want to play football,” the response was quick but his voice was dull and the words came out slowly, making his voice deeper.

“You aren’t worried about those injuries or your paper?”

“I want to play football.” This time, it was direct. Harsher but still slow. A bit of bassy resonance echoed through the locker. His brain felt the hazy resolution that formed in his mind solidify into a firm, entrenched desire. He felt a tingling sensation emanate throughout his body, focusing on his dick. Thornton smiled.

“Well, kid, I’ve already got weights underway today. But we can get you fitted out during fifth and sixth period, how ‘bout? I’ll have to rearrange your schedule to accommodate practices. Need your first, fifth, and sixth periods free. You got a problem with that?”

“Umm, no.”

“No, Sir.”

“No, Sir!” Nick forced himself more upright, shoving his small teenage chest out and back straight. He felt a heaviness in himself, all that food probably, gurgling around his stomach, searching for a purpose. And that purpose was going to be football very soon.

“Great, so, you go to your normal classes: First, second, third, and fourth. Then, come here for fifth period. I’ll get stuff in order, don’t worry. And make sure to eat a big lunch.”

“Yes, Sir!” Thornton sneered again and turned Nick out the door.

--------

Nick bounded into his history class. He wondered if he should tell Mr. Grant that he wouldn’t be able to fit it into his new schedule or if he’d simply deal when he stopped showing up. He quickly stopped caring, after all, his schedule was about accommodating football, not classes. Slipping further into the back row, Nick took a seat, reclined over the back and let his legs spread wide. He watched the others filter in, admiring a few choice gals and giving the guys the once over. The ginger nerd stirred a strange feeling of animosity inside Nick, different than the usual indifference he felt towards other students. This had a fire in it. He pushed it down, feeling his body constrained by clothes. Mere seconds before class started, Diego hustled in, his clothes ruffled and his eyes heavy. He sat down and almost immediately put his hands over his head to block his eyes. The other nerd tried to say something to him, but Diego swatted him away and shook his head.

Mr. Grant stormed in, more exasperated than usual and went straight to work. Nick sat in the back, opening and closing his legs, mouth open, and stared at the ceiling. He recognized the words, but they had lost most of their context. Something about India developing rice water to create swimming pools in ancient Greece. His brain snagged on that sentence, noticing how wrong it was, but a deep sigh and a nearly silent giggle let it slip away into folds of his brain. He heard Grant ask Diego a question and peered over at the struggling nerd. Diego lifted his head from the desk and looked at Grant before shaking his head and setting it back down. Ginger nerd answered the question instead. Nick snorted.

Nick blasted out of the classroom the moment the bell rang. He felt himself standing a little taller as he strutted out of that room for the last time. It was like graduating, except in reverse. He wondered what history class Coach Thornton would get him into instead. Coach said not to worry, and Nick didn’t.

He did however worry about his next class. The idea of even sitting through one more horrendous EnviSci lecture made his brain hurt and his dick feel bad. So, in order to delay, he ducked into the bathroom off a side hallway. Nick walked up to the mirror and just kind of stared at himself. He smiled in the mirror, admiring his big, white teeth. He let the smile fade, and stared intently at his new image. A solemn tight lipped man stared back. Then he narrowed his brow and pressed his jaw forward. He looked thick, square-jawed, and angry. It was good.

His posing was interrupted by the sound of a loud fart coming from a urinal. He turned around to see one of the big brutes on the football team scratching his ass while taking a piss. The meathead let out another fart that smelled meaty and rotten. Nick almost gagged for a moment before he let out a soft chuckle. The beast turned to look at him.

“Oh, shit bruh, didn’t hear anyone come in. Gotta get that out ‘fore class. Don’t want to turn the chicks off, right?” He let out a deep, vapid guffaw before flushing and walking to the mirror. He flexed his biceps, causing the muscle to push the tight sleeves of his polo even further up his arms. Nick felt his dick getting up.

“You’re on the football team, right?” Nick asked.

“Yeah, dude. Starting defensive end. I’m Slade,” he offered Nick his big, calloused paw and shook with a grip that could bend steel. He eyed Nick up and down.

“That’s sweet… dude,” Nick awkwardly finished the sentence. “I told Coach Thornton I want to join the team! I get to start this afternoon!” Slade eyed Nick more intensely. Nick suddenly felt very small. Watching the behemoth’s body heaved up and down with every breath, and the pulsing of his big veins, Nick wondered again if this was a terrible mistake and gigantic cretins were going to be tearing him limb from limb. Then Slade smiled and let out another deep laugh.

“Aww, fuck yea bro!” He slapped Nick on the shoulder so hard he nearly fell over. “Bro, that’s totally aces. Team always needs new bros. You got a position yet? You ever play before?” Nick felt himself pressing out his chest again, staring at the hard slabs that threatened to rip Slade’s polo apart any minute.

“Umm, no… bro.” The word came out like a cough. “I, umm, I used to wrestle.”

“Oh, fucking tight dude. You gotta get a lot bigger for football!” Slade did a most muscular pose, showing off the striations in his deltoids and rise of his traps. For a brief moment, Nick thought Slade looked ridiculous, like some sort of cartoon bully. But then his brain told him to chill out, relax, and have fun. Slade was cool, obvi.

“Yup! Can’t wait.”

“Fuck yea, bro! Oh, shit dude, I gotta get to class. Coach says if we’re late too much we gotta do extra stuff. I fucking hate suicides!” Slade reached down to adjust himself in his tight khakis. Nick found himself mimicking the motions, grabbing a hold and pushing away, giving his masculinity some breathing room. Slade gave him a fist bump and zipped away faster than a man his size had any right to. Nick had a big goofy smile on his face as he just sort of trotted around the bathroom. He had never ditched before. But he didn’t want to go. And it really wouldn’t matter if he went. He wasn’t going to be in this class tomorrow. But, was he really going to just sit on a toilet stall for an hour?

Nick started scrolling through his phone. First, he tried to read through some news articles but quickly found them boring. He swapped to sports news which was better and led to him watching some clips on his phone. That led to a link for a professional’s instagram, and Nick followed it immediately. That led to a rabbit hole of workouts, motivational quotes, religious quotes, and an army of interconnected internet jocks. He followed them all en masse, liking pumps and plays and quotes. And somehow, he found himself on the pages of his fellow high schoolers. He flipped through guys he recognized, but couldn’t name, his soon to be teammates, but stopped at a blue eyed stud in full pads tossing a football up and down. A big number 9 graced his chest and his long hair was styled perfectly. Nick knew who this was, Adam Griffith. He’d gotten a warriors welcome at the first pep rally of the year. Nick stared into those digital blue eyes and felt a connection. This guy, this QB, was gonna be HIS QB. And that was awesome. A dumb smile crossed his face and Nick let out a deep laugh as he got himself sticky.

Nick felt dumb. Like absolutely ridiculous. He had just skipped class to sit in a toilet stall scrolling through the internet and making himself nut looking at football players on instagram. For the first time in nearly 24 hours, Nick felt no need to relax. This was absolutely bizarre. Had he really just asked to join the football team? Like, attending practice for the experience would be good… his paper! He hadn’t even thought about the paper. And here he was salivating over some armored bros in spandex getting primordial on each other. Something was definitely amiss.

First things first, he needed to get back to class! Then he could figure out what to do. I mean, he still wanted to finish this paper. And he was supposed to meet with Thornton during fifth period. He’d just tell him it was a mistake. Maybe he’d still do a practice or two. You know, just for the experience.

--------

Class was more challenging than Nick anticipated. He was still charged up and fidgety, constantly twitching about. Worse, his earlier mess made his trunks oozey and he constantly found himself adjusting his crotch to find a comfortable spot, only to quickly feel globs of stickiness connecting his prick to his underwear. The humiliating experience only increased his distraction.

After a restless hour during which Nick somehow seemed to only increase his discomfort, he seriously debated whether or not he would go to math class. His normal brain told him to suck it up and go, while another thought he should ditch again, and still another thought it would be disrespectful to skip Kazmi’s class. He itched his crotch again, giving the hefty weight of his manhood a few choice bounces that caused some leakage. Hell, at this point he’d have to throw these shorts away anyway. At least Thornton was likely to have something he could use during practice. Which he was only going to for a bit of reference and to tell Coa… Mr. Thornton that he had made a mistake.

Umar Kazmi greeted Nick with a big smile and a fist bump. “Hey kiddo! Thornton told me you were signing up! Can’t wait to see you on the field.” Nick blinked a few times, staring at Kazmi. Had he known that he was a football coach? Looking at the tan man with his bulging arms and oversized quads that were literally stretching the seam of his pants, it seemed kind of obvious.

“Yeah, well, just for a few practices I think.”

“Oh,” Kazmi looked visibly downcast. The disappointment in his eyes made Nick uncomfortable. “Well, you never know how you’ll like it! Say, you ever get those questions answered? I forgot to ask you yesterday.”

“What? Oh yeah, the questions… about the math homework. And you told me to chill?” Nick felt a delightful wave of calm travel from the base of his skull straight to his dick. His mouth sagged open a bit.

“Yeah! So, what’s on your mind? We've got a few minutes.” Nick stared at Kazmi’s big brown eyes and for a moment caught a glimpse of the man as a peppy, young stud. A lady-killer athlete with a classically handsome face and a body deserving of magazine covers. He wasn’t much older than Nick, probably not even thirty yet. Young enough to still feel a connection to the students, but old enough that the students see him as an old man.

“Nah, uh,” Nick’s mouth hung open as he thought. “I, uh, it’s no big deal. It’s not due til Friday, right?”

“Yeah, well let me know. And see you at practice!” He gave Nick a fatherly pat on the shoulder and turned him back towards the desks. Nick snagged one in front, feeling a deep sort of connection to Kazmi suddenly. He was an alright guy. Definitely the kind of teacher he was glad to have. Someone who still remembered what it was like to be a hormonal teenager. The kind of teacher who always remembers how great it was to be a jock. Nick spread his legs wide, allowing his sticky bulge to breathe and focused on Kazmi’s lecture.

--------

Lunchtime saw Nick mindlessly stacking a tray with every conceivable food he could. The only section he skipped right past was the prepackaged sweets, although that wasn’t much of a change. Dunking a plate covered in potatoes and meats with gravy was outside the norm. He snagged a couple of bottles of milk before hustling himself over to a corner table and slumping down. As the first mouthful of sludge slid down his throat, another body plopped itself down at the table.

Nick looked up to see Diego, droopy eyed and flushed, shoveling food into his mouth like only a fat kid knows how. He gave Nick a short nod as he snorted more food into his maw. Nick glared at Diego, annoyed to have someone invading his space. He wasn’t a friend guy and this second lunchtime intrusion was insulting. Chomping away, giving him the stink eye, Nick finally swallowed and spoke.

“So… what are you doing?” His voice came out deep and slow.

“Lunch,” came the quick reply muffled by the insistent chomping.

“Why this table?” Nick shoveled another helping of thick gruel into his own mouth, rolling it around and enjoying the deep umami flavoring.

“Dunno,” Diego seemed deeply uninterested in conversation. Nick thought about pushing it further when another presence slammed it’s tray on the table.

“Hey bruh! Looks like we got a new jock table!” Slade gave a dopey smile as he sat down in a chair. A nearly identical looking man with pursed lips sat down next to him and began eating silently.

“This is my boy, Stone.” Stone grunted while shoveling slop into his mouth. “He ain’t a talker.” Nick once again found himself giddy hanging out with Slade. He was the sort of loud, domineering, and dumb football player that made cartoon villains seem normal; the brash, cocky stud who was a walking, talking stereotype. And rather than his normally detached and impersonal persona, Nick wanted Slade to like him.

“You start practice this afternoon?” The question hit him like a towel snap. Practice? Football practice. Nick’s grin grew bigger as his legs spread wider and began swinging his knees in and out. That would make Slade like him, if he played football. Hell, that would literally make Slade like him, a teammate. Wasn’t there something wrong with that? Some bubbling ember inside his brain that wanted him to push up from the table and just walk away.

“You’re gonna be in practice? Not just observe?” Nick and Slade both turned their heads to the slurring voice of Diego who spoke while chugging down a brown, viscous liquid before letting out a small burp. Stone laughed and slapped him on the back nearly knocking Diego into his food.

“Umm yeah…,” Nick trailed off. “I, uh, wanna get a hands on experience.”

“Little bro here’s joining the team!” Slade pumped a fist into his chest that let out a dull thud as it hit hard muscle. Diego looked at Nick curiously.

“Just for the day, maybe,” Nick’s voice meandered. “I may not be any good.”

“Shit, bro, you totally got this. Gonna rock this!” Slade’s bubbly energy made Nick smile wider. Diego stared for a bit longer, chugging another glass of the liquid.

“That’s cool.” Slade stood up and walked behind Diego, grabbing his shoulders.

“Fuck yeah it is!” He drove his fingers into Diego’s traps. “Hey, you’re that little dweeb who was at practice yesterday! You coming back?”

“Hey, dude,” Nick interrupted. “Leave Diego alone, he’s cool.” Slade laughed.

“Nah, bro, I’m just joshing. Maybe you should sign up, too? Burn off some of that fat and get some big muscles instead!” Slade leaned in and flexed his bicep in Diego’s face. Eyes wide, Diego burped again, a little louder than last time. Stone laughed louder before chugging a drink of his own, banging his chest like Tarzan and ripping out a large belch that echoed through the cafeteria. The boys all laughed.

As lunch ended, Nick instinctively grabbed his bag and said good-bye to his new friends. Stone shook his head and Slade looked confused. Diego sat at the table, watching the scene unfold.

“Bro, that ain’t the way to practice, yo!”

“What?” Oh shit, this was fifth period. C-C-Coach Thornton said to come at fifth period. “Oh yeah! I gotta meet with Thornton.”

“Huhuh, yeah dumbass!” Slade gave Nick a playful push. “Come on, Coach’ll ream ya if you’re late. You coming, Eggo?” Diego rolled his eyes but also stuffled a small laugh.

“It’s Diego, you moron.”

“Huh! Yeah bro, “de eggo”!” Stone smacked Slade on his butt so hard it made him jump. “Fuck!” His deep bass reverberated through the cafeteria, making the table feel like it was shaking.

“Eggo’s a stupid nickname,” Stone’s voice surprised Nick. He expected the quiet one to have a low, even tempo but instead it was a rather loud, bombastic voice, the kind that yelled naturally without trying.

“Shit, dude, fine,” Slade said, rubbing the prominent muscle of his glute. He grabbed Nick by the shoulders and led him towards the gym, the whole time talking about fucking cool and awesome it was that he was gonna join the team. Behind, the clomping footsteps were the only indication that Diego and Stone were still with them. Nick found it really hard to focus with Slade incessantly hyping him up. It felt good. Nick had been a loner his whole life, but the way Slade instantly buddied up to him gave him all kinds of strange feelings. He knew the way to the gym, but it was easier to just chill and go with the flow and let some other guy lead the way. He could just follow. And Stone was cool too, even though he didn’t say much. Nick bet most of the other guys on the team were cool. He’d spent years avoiding them, and here he was, at a precipice about to jump in and join them in their masculinity. He felt a huge, cold wave of relaxation that started in his balls well up his body and smash into the walls of his brain, blowing apart any concern other than practice. No matter what happened, right now, he wanted to go to football practice.

Walking into the locker room, escorted by Slade, Nick felt an entirely new feeling. The dark, dingy place was simple, efficient, and effective. It wasn’t supposed to be some beauty parlor, it was manly - metal and sharp angles. Slade and Stone went straight to their lockers, again mentioning Coach’s punishments for tardiness. Nick trudged to the office followed by a silent Diego. He questioned again why he was doing this, his hand mindlessly reaching to knock on the closed door. He could just turn around and walk away. Whatever this bizarre adventure he’d gotten himself into, this felt like an out. It could all be over.

Before his hand hit metal, the door swung open and Thornton, dressed in a flattering navy polo, opened the door. He flashed a dark smile at Nick and glanced at Diego and Nick felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he saw the predatory gaze in the coach’s eyes.

“Sanchez,” he started curtly. Diego seemed to force his squat body up straighter, which only highlighted his bizarre form more.

“Umm, yes Mr.-,” Diego didn’t even finish before a menacing glare from Thornton stopped him. “C-c-c-c-coach Thornton?” he finished, his voice wobbly and meek.

“You’re going to go with Coach Rapp today,” Thornton jerked his hand and pointed down the hall. Diego scampered off without another word. Alone with the towering hulk bearing over him, Nick felt something between fear and adoration. Coach Thornton just emanated manliness. Like a testerone wet dream.

“So, Nick, ready to become a football player?” The way Thornton said it, part threat, part offer, part religious conversion, Nick boned up and blew a juicy load straight into his underwear. The orgasmic tingle mixed with his growing obsession with football and resulted in him, mouth agape, pawing desperately at his crotch, nodding furiously, letting out a loud roar, meant as affirmation but rather than form words he simply cheered like a moron in the office. Thornton smiled, sincerely.

“Atta boy! I always thought you had it in you. Boys like you love sports and teamwork, right?” Nick didn’t reply, his head just sort of bobbled as the coach wrapped an arm around Nick’s shoulders and guided him past the lockers to a large storage room. Inside were rows of helmets and pads and uniforms and all sorts of accessories.

“Now, son,” Thornton looked directly at Nick as he spoke. Nick found himself unable to look away from the coach’s big eyes. Something about them, so cold, so solid, so strong, he got dizzy letting them soak in. “We need to get you a uniform. So, go ahead and take off your clothes.” Thornton turned around and grabbed a few close items off a shelf. Nick threw off his shirt, socks, and shoes but hesitated as he grabbed the waist of his pants. This had been an unusual day to be sure. Humiliation welled up inside him as he thought of the sticky stains that would be prominently featured on his underwear.

“You got nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before,” Thornton said, facing Nick again. “Unless you’ve got two dicks!” Thornton’s laugh was loud, a harsh barking sound that filled the space. Nick let the pants slide off his body. Even though he’d been manhandling himself all day, he hadn’t actually seen it. A crusty white mess poured over the waistband and out the leg holes of his trunks. But the biggest surprise was the prominent bulging of his dick. It stood out from the underwear, showing off its glorious head and thick, veiny shaft. It hadn’t been this big before. This throbbing piece of manhood twitched excitedly, greeting its new owner fondly. Nick gave his cock a choice bounce and giggled deeply. Thornton laughed, this time with a smirk.

“Drop trou, son. And throw those things away. We’ll get ya fixed up after practice.” Nick pulled down his shorts and Thornton threw him a towel. Sheepishly, Nick wiped himself off, doing his best to clear the bits and crusts that had formed. He’d known it had happened but seeing the resulting mess impressed him. The soiled undies were tossed into a metal barrel and landed with a soft splat.

Even as Nick began moving to hands to cover his unmentionables, Thornton was tossing him some items. The first was a pristine, white jockstrap. Embarrassed, he slipped it on even though it seemed silly and useless. As he pulled it up, he noticed the tag had “81” written boldly in sharpie. Thornton tossed him a navy blue spandex top with Clifton Spartans emblazoned in white on the chest over the Spartan logo. It was quite oversized for Nick so it went on quickly. His head popped through the neck just in time to see another item being thrown at him. Nick snagged it out of the air clumsily, letting the balled up fabric billow around. It was a pair of white tights with a tiny Nike logo on the side. Relieved to no longer have his ass exposed, Nick thrust into one leg while the other flopped over his back. He stumbled a little as he struggled to pull it up before getting the other in. Once again, they were quite baggy. In fact, the waistband pulled up almost to his nipples. Guess he was the smallest guy on the team.

Thornton pointed Nick over to a hard metal chair and threw him a pair of white crew socks. Nick slipped them on without a word. Finally Thornton brought over several shoe boxes with the Nike swoosh on them. Inside were identical pairs of blue and white cleats.

“These are game cleats. You’ll have other stuff for practice but we’ll fit ya on the good stuff. So, what’s your size?”

“Ten.” Thornton kind of frowned and surveyed Nick’s feet.

“Hmm, well, you’re still growing. And you’ll definitely need some extra space. Guy’s usually get some swelling down there. How about we start at 13?”

“Thirteen? That seems too big?”

“No such thing as too big, son.” Nick wanted to protest, he was certain he’d trip over such oversized shoes. But Thornton was already slipping the ankle-covering shoe on. Nick squirmed as the material engulfed his feet. It was strange, there was so much pressure for a shoe that was supposed to be loose. The way it constricted his ankle and supported his feet made Nick quiver. He flexed his toes inside the shoe.

“See, son, that’s why we go up,” Nick looked down to see Thornton pressing his finger in the gap between his big toe and the tip of the shoe. It was a great fit. “You might have to go up eventually. Men your age often grow without realizing it. I bet your foot will shoot up another size or two now that it’s got space!” Amazed, Nick shifted his foot around as Thornton slipped the other on.

Coach had gone for some more items while Nick laced up the shoes. As he stood up to go find him, he found himself slightly off balance. The cleats changed how he moved a little, his legs stomping down on the cement floor, making him step a bit wider for some reason. He felt powerful.

Slightly wobbly, Nick made his way towards the coach. The echoey taps on the floor sent cold shivers down his spine. Thornton had pulled out some shoulder pads. Nick knew that football players wore pads, it was obvious and he’d been watching a lot of football. But seeing them up close, molded plastic in imitation of a hypermasculine form, broadening the shoulders to superhero levels, Nick felt his increasingly over active manhood rising to the occasion. He wanted, no he needed, to put them on. As soon as possible.

“You’re gonna grow into a pretty big guy, I can tell,” Thornton was adjusting some straps and tinkering with the pads. “You’re still kinda small now, but I know teens. You’re gonna hit a huge growth spurt. So, we’re gonna set you up with multi-position pads. Sturdy, heavy, a little slow.” He lowered the pads over his Nick’s head and set them on his body. Nick had expected them to feel heavy and clunky, but they were pretty light. The only thing he noticed immediately was a small reduction in neck rotation.

Thornton pulled the straps tight and locked them in place. He commanded Nick to lift up his arms and checked how the pads moved. Then he twisted and rotated, making sure the pads stayed in place and covered everything as he moved.

“Here we go,” Thornton was already wrapping a measuring tape around Nick’s head. As Nick opened his mouth to protest, a full mouthguard was shoved in.

“Bite down on that for a bit. I think it’ll fit but you might need a different size.” Nick felt saliva pooling around his mouth and swallowed while keeping his mouth sealed. He could still breathe through his mouth just fine, but his teeth desperately clamped on the plastic mold. Thornton proceeded to hand Nick a shining white helmet with pads inside. Nick stared at the helmet and admired it’s gleaming exterior. He was so distracted, the bowl of cold water dumped on his head caused him to squeal out.

“Sorry, kid. Gotta do it wet. You’ll sweat a lot. Gotta make sure the helmet fits that way.” Nick could only nod as Thornton helped guide the helmet over his head. His vision was mildly obscured for a bit before his eyes peered out over a metal facemask. Everything felt different. Sound was a bit dull, and his peripheral vision was slightly limited. And his head, it felt so heavy and dull. He felt a hard pressure on the helmet as Thornton pressed down firmly. Next, he grabbed the facemask and gently shook the helmet from side to side and up and down.

“Gotta make sure it doesn't move too much,” Thornton was dissatisfied with the fit and had him try another helmet. The process repeated. Nick noticed his hearing was significantly better in this one. And as the helmet was jerked around it didn't shift as much on his head.

“Much better. See, teenagers really can be hard to measure. And safety is important. Can’t play ball if you get hurt. And I want my boys ready to hit the field.” The fatherly pat on the shoulders made Nick’s stomach churn. This felt so correct. This gear belonged on him, it was his body's natural state, it’s preferred form. And he wanted to make Coach proud.

Nick stripped down to get ready for practice. The game cleats replaced with generic white ones. Thornton had shown Nick how to put hip, thigh, knee, and tailbones pads in and gotten him suited into some practice pants. The jersey got put on the pads before Nick, who then needed help pulling the tight combo on his body. Finally a helmet was affixed and he was ready to go.

Just in time, it turned out. His new teammates were already on the field and suited up. Nick tried to look for Slade or Stone but couldn’t identify them among the agitated throng of adolescent meatheads. Some guys were on the sidelines doing push ups or jumping around or just kind of chatting. Then the whistle blew. It was like someone stopped time. The players all froze and silenced. They marched onto the field forming a series of long lines across it and facing the same direction. At one end was Coach Knight with a whistle. Once again it blew, the players clapped in unison and bent forward and tried to touch their toes. They held until another whistle, another clap, and then a wide leg stretch. This repeated through different stretches with new clapping patterns integrated in and occasionally a few chants or cheers. Nick tried to keep up. He didn’t know the stretching pattern, so he just had to follow along with whoever he could see. The basic claps were easy, but he felt silly if he got off on the longer cadences. Still, a voice in his head told him to chill out, go with the flow, and just do it. So he did.

A double whistle signaled the end of stretches and again the horde of muscled jocks marched towards the edge of the field and began running. The order of the players quickly changed, as faster guys swiftly outpaced the slower, bigger guys. Nick found himself struggling in the back of the pack. He wasn’t a terrible runner, but he hadn’t done it in awhile, and had never done so with extra weight on his body. Lungs gasping for air, he did his best to let his mind go and just focus on the guy in front of him. He couldn’t tell who it was, not that he had probably even spoken to the guy. He was big, thick, a little fatty around the middle. And he was already sweating profusely. His white pants were damp with sweat right down the middle. The guys had already been doing weights for an hour, so they were probably already on fire. But they pushed on, pressing their muscles to the limit. So Nick relaxed, focused on his breathing and just kept ambling forward.

Another double whistle signaled the end of laps, some guys having barely made one, others almost finished with the second. They went back to lines and at the whistle began tapping their feet back and forth. Another whistle and they all dropped to the ground, got back up and repeated. It was hard, physically challenging to keep up, and emotionally draining watching even the biggest guys easily keeping the pace. Everything was about pace and tempo. The team moved as a unit, worked as a unit, and every piece had to work. Nick pushed himself even harder.

Eventually the player split off again and Thornton made sure to direct Nick towards a diverse set of men. There was an antsy chatty boy, a couple of silent stalwarts, and a few smaller ones. The Coach, a tall, dark, and handsome man named Beaumont, introduced this as a simple deep ball drill. The other players seemed to already know what was going on, so Beaumont stared directly at Nick.

“Get on the line, you’ll hear the snap and charge downfield about twenty yards. Griffith will throw the ball. You should just have to turn a little and catch it. Alright, let’s crush it!” The players clapped and grunted, taking a small line to the side. Adam Griffith, quarterback and high school stud, had a bucket of balls by his side. He called a snap and talkative player streaked down the field. The ball was already coming down by the time the player turned around and snagged it right in his arms. He continued running for a bit, cockily bouncing as he slowed over the next ten yards before heading back.

The play was already continuing with another jock charging down and a ball sent flying his way. Then another and another until Nick realized he was up. His brain came crashing into reality. He had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do. When did he run, what exactly was the snap, how was he supposed to be standing? Tugging at his increasingly obscene bulge, Nick’s brain shut itself down again and allowed a calming chill to hit. No big deal, no need to stress, just relax and whatever happens, happens.

Nick had half expected it all to just magically happen. Somehow, he’d ended up going from writing an article about football injuries to joining the team, suited up and attending practice. Why would things stop working now? But as he turned around to catch the ball, it sailed over his head. He was several yards short. There was a loud obscenity from Griffith and Coach Beaumont yelled for Nick to grab the ball and get back here.

Now, he was really anxious. The deluge of calm he’d been experiencing was tripped up by the harsh reality of failure. He imagined it happened, the ball got dropped all the time. But he felt a heavy, dank aura around him as he got back. Another cycle, another chance to do his best. This time he touched the ball, but Adam had thrown it like a rocket and it burned his hands, causing him to drop it. Another cycle and this time Nick had fallen over in an attempt to grab it.

Adam was fuming, screaming out murderous words best reserved for internet comment sections. Trudging back to return the ball, Nick saw the distorted, angry face of the seemingly immaculate quarterback. And he couldn’t help it, but he started laughing. A big, dumb, stupid laugh.

“What the fuck, you cocksucking cumsock?” Adam grabbed Nick’s jersey at the collar and practically lifted him into the air. “Is this a fucking joke, you pathetic little shithead?” He tossed Nick to the ground and got right in his face.

“Uh, dude, I… I was just trying to chill ...,” the words came muffled and slow, the mouthguard sticking to his suddenly dry mouth. It occurred to him that Adam’s muscles weren’t just a teenage vanity thing, he could seriously knock his lights out if he wanted.

“Chill in your fucking house. Or your fucking classroom. Out here, on MY field, I want you pushing yourself so hard your children feel this pain! You hear me, dick for brains?” Nick nodded quickly, his eyes wide. “Alright, Beaumont, dumb fuck here and I are gonna do this again. And this time, you’re gonna catch these balls or I’m gonna rip your balls off and feed them to a dog, got it?” Nick got it.

As he took his place, Nick focused differently. His anxiety was replaced with fear and adrenaline. He wanted to succeed. He wanted to win! Suddenly, the calm he’d been experiencing was replaced with a passionate, burning fire that made his lungs feel hot and his heart like it was about to explode. Here, this moment, this is what he wanted to do. Everything about being calm and chill and relaxing was about getting to his point and fucking crushing it. The field felt quiet, despite the plays and whistles, his body ready to attack. He felt a strange twitch in his legs, they were ready to pounce.

A snap, a throw, Nick found his running stride longer, gaining extra feet every step. The heavy weight of the pads seemed to ground him into the earth through his cleats. He felt the motion of the field, his brain counted the rhythm of the play. He kept his hips forward facing, twisted a bit, and snagged that ball right into his chest.

It felt glorious. Like a volcano erupted in his mind and removed the constant doubting and distraction and jumping to and fro his brain had always experienced. This feeling, this ball tucked into his arms, this open field in front of him, it was the only thing that existed. Nick ran back, tossed the ball to Adam, and went again. And again. And again. Letting the ball come to him, tucking it safely between his arm and chest. Luxuriating in the intense heat of the moment and letting it all fade away once it was done. He felt whole.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about! Fuck yeah, bro!” Adam slapped Nick’s ass, hard. He felt the muscles ripple between the spandex pants. He felt his dick chub and bounce excitedly. He smiled at Adam, his eyes empty and his mouth wide, a touch of saliva hanging out.

“Uh… yeah, thanks..., bro,” Nick’s mouth still felt chalky, and not just from the mouthguard. He didn’t really need to talk right now, so his body didn’t worry about it.

“Sometimes, you just gotta put the fear of God into someone, right?” Adam slapped his helmet. Nick felt proud of himself. Proud that made his QB happy. Proud that he caught the ball. Proud that he did his job.

The rest of practice went better. Even though he knew nothing, Nick found it easy to focus deeply, intently, on what he was supposed to do. Drills, plays, breaks, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, watching others and listening to his coaches.

Practice ended with all the players taking a knee around Thornton. Helmets off and mouths shut. Aside from some sniffling and heavy breathing, it was deathly silent. Nick felt the air, hot and sticky, frozen around them.

“Good job today, men. This is where it begins. From here on out, this is the grind. It’s about getting up every day and doing your job. At the end of this season, someone takes home the trophy. And that team, that team is the one that kept up the grind. The one that pushed passed being tired, hungry, or bored. It’s the guys who show up to practice, who give their all every practice. The ones who get in the weight room and bust their tail, who eat right, who sleep right, who watch the films, and listen to the coaches. Coming out here and not taking it for granted. Those are the players who are going to take it this year. Those are the players who are going to take it every year. Cause at the end of the day, the only thing that matters, it's what’s on that scoreboard.” Thornton stepped aside and Adam stepped up. Helmet off, his blonde hair matted to his head, the Hollywood looks replaced with something more akin to a warrior king.

“Alright, alright. Season’s almost here. And this year, it’s our year! This is our game. We are the team to beat! Right?” There was a decent response, but clearly everyone knew this was about ramping up.

“When Spartans hit the field, what do we do? We win!” More cheers. “We fight!” Louder cheers. “We play like this is our last damn game! And why? Because we are Clifton Spartans!” Rambunctious cheers, loud, deafening roars from the deepest most bestial place inside every player and coach on the field. Nick had let himself get swept up in the tide as well.

“Spartan!”

“Strong!” Came the vibrant response from the team.

“Spartan!” “Pride,” they roared back.

“Spartans!”

“Win!”

“Spartans!”

“Win!”

“Spartans!”

“Win!” Nick joined in at the end, feeling confident he knew what was happening. It felt like blasting himself in the face with cold water at 6 a.m. He felt alive. Blood surged through his body so fast he nearly passed out. And he felt a connection to the team, to the other players. A single minded focus, doing their jobs, to help the job achieve its goal. To win. To give the school pride. By proving their strength! Nick’s exhausted dick gave a weak thrust in his pants and produced a single tiny glob of semen.

“Alright, hit the showers!” Thornton blasted out, somehow louder than the raucous of energized football players. And that was it. The players, Nick included, hustled off the field, following the orders of their commander. The coaches stayed, cleaning up and chatting about practice.

--------

As Nick entered the locker room, there were already several players nearly undressed. Some were horsing around, still mostly geared up, while others stripped quickly and rushed to the showers. Nick suddenly hesitated. The other guys were going to their lockers to change and he didn’t have one. He wasn’t even sure how to get all this stuff off anyway.

“Dumdumski?” came a harsh voice.

“Yup,” Nick spat out his usual reply.

“Coach Rapp,” the short, stocky man with a flattop replied. “Coach Thornton asked me to get you. We need to get some things in line and might as well do it now.” Rapp turned and marched away, leaving Nick chasing his tail. Once they arrived at Thornton’s office, Rapp told Nick to take a seat and wait.

Sitting down on the cold metal chair, Nick felt the weight of his shoulder pads. When he had been moving about, running, sweating, gasping for breath, the molded plastic on his body was the least of his worries. Now he felt it move up and down with each breath, the straps clasping tightly, holding his armor firm, broadening him, masculinizing him. It forced him upright, his thighs spread wide, his helmet resting on his crotch. Nick’s mind blanked out. Before, he would use quiet times like this to plan, arrange tasks and go over his goals. Instead, he vegged, heaving from his mouth, letting his mind flicker like television static.

When he heard the door open, Nick’s mind regained focus. He found himself standing from the chair and turning to greet Thornton. He couldn’t see him, but he knew it was him. His body knew it from the forceful presence behind him, knew it from the astringent aftershave, knew it from the cold pit in his stomach.

“At ease, son,” Thornton laughed as Nick sat back down. Behind his desk, Thornton began grabbing some papers while chatting politely. Nick noticed the deep sweat in his armpits and around his collar.

“So, how was your first practice?”

“Good, Coach!” he barked in reply.

“Great! So, is this a one time thing? Or are you going to play ball for me?”

“I want to join the team, Coach!”

“Excellent! Well, fortunately, we’ve got plenty of open spots! Now, there is one matter to discuss. Your class schedule. See, at Clifton, football is a priority. Not just to me, or even the players, it’s a priority to the school district. And everyone has to get in line, you understand me, son? What I’m saying is, you’ll need to change your classes. Maybe take some easy ones so you can really focus on football? Any problems?”

“No Sir!”

“Great, well, I drew up a mock schedule already. So, we’re gonna have to move you out of AP history, first period is football. Also, we’ll need to move your fifth period English and sixth period newspaper. You can just drop history and newspaper, you don’t need the credits, but we’ll have to move English. I was thinking second period with Coach Rapp.”

“I was going to drop Envi sci anyway Coach.”

“Good! That class would be far too much work with football. So, football, English, third period you were in…”

“Can I drop that, too?”

“Sure you can son. How about you work as a student aid? I think Coach Kazmi still has a spot. And then you can go straight to AP Calc, lunch, weightlifting, football again. Sounds good to me. What do you think?”

“Umm, AP Calc, I, umm, I don’t think I’m doing so hot in that class.”

“Nonsense, son. I’m sure with a little disciple you’ll find it easy. With a lot of these bullshit classes gone, I bet you’ll excel. Besides, it’s good to have some variety in your scheduling. Plus, Stanford, Minnesota, Ohio State, all have good football programs and good math programs. I think it’s a good fit for you.”

“Okay,” Nick acquiesced. Coach was probably right, Nick was probably overthinking it. With a simpler schedule that really let him focus on football, he would probably excel at math. Sure, the start of the semester was rough but that was probably just jitters from a new school and a new team. Especially a team as prestigious as Clifton.

“Good son, now shower and change! You smell like a man. That’s fine for a locker room but I guarantee your parents don’t want you coming home like that!” Thornton brushed away Nick, who trudged back to the lockers. He found Coach Knight waiting for him.

“Dombrowski,” he greeted. “Your number is 81, and that’s your locker number as well. We’ll get some clothes for you, but for now, undress and use the towel. Oh, and here, a lot of the boys wear them. Thought you might want one too. But you didn’t get it from me.” Knight winked as he handed Nick a small gold chain with a cross attached. While normally he was as apathetic about religion as he was socializing, Nick shrugged and slipped the chain around his neck and let the metal cross hang between his pecs. He struggled out of the uniform, finding it hard to pull the jersey and pads over his head, leaving it all in a pile in front of his locker. The towel was short and could barely wrap around his waist. Nick found himself holding it in front of his crotch as he walked barefoot across the cold floors of the locker room to the shower.

He appeared to be one of the last. Even though there were only a few stragglers who seemed to be finishing up, Nick slipped into a corner and turned on the faucet. The water that spurt out chilled him, but after the initial shock, felt calming and soothed his worn muscles and sun soaked skin. There were body bars stuffed around, and he scrubbed himself up with one. It smelled like spice, leather, and had a slight sting to it. Part of Nick wanted to get the hell out of the shower, standing around naked in front of a bunch of swollen monsters made him self conscious, but another part took Coach’s words to heart and scrubbed himself thoroughly. The filmy soap stuck to his skin even as he pushed harder and harder. He found himself concentrating especially hard on his crotch and pits, letting the ripe areas of his developing manhood soak in the scent.

Practice really took its toll on his body. Everywhere Nick massaged the soap felt tight and tense and sore, as though the muscles had never been used so vigorously. He gripped the bar tightly, watching huge veins shoot up from his knuckles into his newly prominent bicep. It looked good. He thought of Slade and Stone, square faced meatheads with pec shelves and boulder shoulders and how good and manly it must be. To take up space, to be wide and strong and tough.

He did his best to towel off with the tiny rag he had been given, but mostly found himself dripping as he hustled across the cold floor. At his locker was a fully dressed Adam Griffith holding a large towel and a bag.

“Sup, Dumbroski,” he nodded as Nick approached. Nick gave a small head nod at the other student. Even though they were the same age, Adam looked like he had a good decade on Nick, all the chubbiness of childhood and acne of puberty was gone, and instead was a pristine, glowing vision of athletic masculinity. His pecs proudly resisted the fabric of his plain white t-shirt, the sleeves tucked up tightly against his shoulders, bicep giving them no room.

“Here,” Adam tossed Nick the towel, who was forced to drop the cloth in front of his crotch. As he pawed himself off silently, Adam continued talking. “You know, first day on the field can be tough. I know I got an attitude, but I really want the best from us. And from you! I can totally see the potential there, ya know? No hard feelings, bro.” He offered Nick his fist and Nick bumped it with an eye roll.

“Woah dude, not cool. This is brotherhood. I take this shit seriously. If you wanna play on my time, get in line, bruh.” Annoyed with Adam’s scolding, Nick quickly nodded in assent. Adam smiled as he dropped the bag on the floor.

“Got some new clothes for ya! Mostly old shit of mine, but don’t worry, the skivvies are new.” He tossed Nick a pair of large white briefs that looked like they’d been ironed. Nick scoffed and laughed at Adam.

“You kidding? I haven’t worn whitey tighties since pre-school. Where are my usual clothes?”

“Ain’t gonna fit, dude. Trust me, bet you’re all swollen after today. Plus, your muscles probably have grown just from today. I mean, you’re looking swole as fuck!” Nick smiled and flexed a bicep. He was looking pretty vascular. He giggled stupidly.

“If you don’t like it, take it up with Coach. But if you want my advice, your BVDs ain’t the hill to die on.” Adam adjusted his crotch aggressively. “They got more than enough for the jewels if you know what I mean!” He slapped Nick on the shoulder and turned to leave. Nick couldn’t help but notice how Adam’s overdeveloped glutes threatened the seams of his Levi’s. Shrugging to himself, Nick began to slip on the clothes.

“Besides bro,” Adam turned around again. “Thornton’s got a lot of rules about clothes. He’s got a lot of rules about everything. But he wants us unified as a team on and off the field. So, here are your semi-approved clothes.” Nick responded with a cock-eyed stare.

“Semi-approved?”

“Yeah dude,” Adam shrugged. “Look, it’s some of my old shit. Wasn’t sure, so I just snagged some stuff. It’ll be fine. Coach’ll really get you fitted out tomorrow. Anyway, I gotta scram, I got a date with Bethany Harper tonight!” Adam made an obscene gesture and hightailed it out of the lockers. Nick just stared at the briefs in his hand. They were simple, plain, cotton, white underpants. This whole thing seemed ridiculous. Why couldn’t he have his own underwear, for God's sake? Still, he didn’t know what was in the rest of the bag, so Nick picked his foot up and sliced it through a leg hole, then the other, and pulled the entire thing up over his package.

Nick’s balls felt enormous. That was his first impression. He’d expected embarrassment, or a crushing reduction of his cock and balls. Instead, they felt supported, lifted, and quite frankly, impressive. He gave them a couple of gentle bounces and laughed. Out of the bag, he found a plain, white-shirt just like Adam had been wearing. He pulled it over his head, finding it slightly difficult to move around the mounds of his deltoids. It was a slim fit and fell long over his briefs. There were a couple of crew socks like he’d worn at practice. They went on without another thought. A pair of simple Nike sneakers sat beneath a pair of Levi jeans. Nick knew the brand, but honestly wasn’t sure he’d even worn them. They looked bulky and wide. But as they moved up his legs, Nick found his muscles straining against the jeans, forcing their curvature on the tough fabric. He had to give the whole thing an extra tug to get them over his ass. Shoes added, Nick almost left before realizing Adam had left his bag. He slung the athletic bag over one shoulder and figured he’d return it tomorrow. A tiny voice hinted that maybe he had a bag here, somewhere, that had stuff in it he wanted. Nick was too tired to care. The soreness and exhaustion from practice kicked that thought aside. At this point, he just wanted to get the hell out of here.

He was nearly out of the locker room, passing by the sinks and mirrors when he noticed another boy was still there. His back resembled a marble sculpture, wide laterals and a deep valley along the spine. His underwear was sitting low, letting the top of his perky behind stick out. His hands guided a phone around in the air, apparently trying to capture the ideal angle for a selfie.

“Wassup, bro!” the blonde giant smiled, making eye contact in the mirror. “Hey, you’re one of the new dudes, right?” He dropped the phone for a minute and turned around. Face to face, Nick saw the glowing visage of an angel, a magazine coverboy with beautiful cheekbones and just enough chin to look vibrantly masculine without a touch of neanderthal. “I’m Dayne,” he said, offering a rugged but smooth hand. “Return specialist, but I do running back stuff, too. Coach put you at tight end, right?” He was jittery, constantly shifting legs and looking around. Plus, he talked a mile a minute, unlike all the other players Nick had met.

“Umm, I, uh, don’t know. He gave me number 81, I think?” Nick sort of trailed off.

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! That’s a tight end number. Definitely bro, that’s why he had you doing receiving drills today. Bet tomorrow you’ll get line work. Man, you got a lot of roles to fill. Coach has a lot of confidence in you!” Dayne turned back to the mirror and shifted between smiling, grimacing, and giving duck face.

“What do you think?” Dayne asked. “I gotta get some good shit for the Gram, you know? Can’t decide if I look better smiling or if I look tough like this?” he said as he pressed his jaw forward. As far as Nick was concerned, Dayne might as well take a photo shitting, he was so beautiful.

“Umm, might as well smile… dude. You got, umm, nice teeth.”

“Yeah man!” Dayne smiled and showed off his gigantic, artificial looking pearly whites. “You look pretty pumped too! I need some photos with new guys! Get in here!” Dayne grabbed Nick to the mirror and got him lined up. Looking in the mirror, Nick noticed that he was a bit taller than Dayne. He must be really short, Nick reasoned, since he wasn’t very tall at all. After a couple of attempts, Dayne shook his head and grabbed some stuff on the sink.

“Nah, bro. You insta? Man, you gotta figure out how to pose! You got all those big muscles… and that ratty hair. Maybe, if we just tweak it?” Nick grabbed some hair product and rubbed into Nick’s hair. “Now, try smiling, maybe? That big chin of yours might make this work.” Looking in the mirror, a stunned Nick looked back. He wasn’t an unattractive guy, but the mirror image had light brown hair flecked with specks of shiny blonde. The whole style was tight on the sides and brushed up and back down the middle, like an elaborate mohawk. Plus, his chin, as Dayne mentioned, was gigantic, jutting forward and a touch round, making him look like a 1950s rowing poster. He smiled, and the mirror image smirked back. The confident reflection, traps rising up towards the neck, the broad chin, pearly white teeth, and the overstyled hair represented someone else. It couldn’t be him. But when he raised his hand, the confident reflection followed. When he flexed his biceps, the reflections bulged with vascularity. When he sneered, a cocky, confident smirk graced the hunks face.

“Damn dude, you look fucking ace! Gotta snap this shit! Fuck, gonna get so many likes. Bet the girls are all over you, huh?” Dayne smiled and Nick couldn’t help but return it. Girls paid him some attention, but he was generally focused on school. But the guy in those pictures clearly loved the ladies. Nick felt a chub growing and for a moment wondered if his dick could fall off from overexertion. Instead of thinking, he turned back to the mirror and wrapped his arm around Dayne.

“Let’s do some more!” he squealed and Dayne obliged.

=Thursday=

Nick woke up before his alarm. Only a few moments before technically, but he was ready: wide awake, hypercharged, blood pumping through every extremity. He gave a few cautious strokes to his teenage rod, firm and thick and aching for release, but he went no further. Coach encouraged the men to focus on football and only football. And though he didn’t say it, he was firmly against sexual release before football. Any aggression was good aggression. And Nick wasn’t going to disappoint. This wasn’t his first practice, but it was his first day. Morning, noon, and night, he was a football player now.

That thought made him leak a little harder and he got up. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. It was too important. He scrounged around his dark room collecting his things. Jockstraps, tights, two Clifton FOOTBALL shirts, those dorky briefs Thornton insisted on them wearing, a couple of pairs of shoes all tossed into his Nike duffel bag. After putting on some jeans and a white t-shirt, taking care to tuck the gold necklace underneath, he nearly sauntered out of the room before rummaging through his old notes and textbooks. He scanned over them, his eyes scrunched together as though he was about to throw a punch. Instinctually, he knew these were important. He knew he had written this all down for a reason. But why on earth he’d put so much time and effort into copying down some math stuff wasn’t coming to him. Also, he had a bunch of football notes scribbled on some post-its. Something about player positions and injuries? Fucking weird, he’d just ask Thornton at practice. He dumped it all into his bag without another thought.

Dayne had offered to pick Nick up the next morning, he lived close by and Nick hadn’t considered how he’d get to school. The busted Camry glimmered in a metallic blue that made the sun launch lightning bolts from it’s waxed exterior. Inside, the back seat contained a wealth of clothes, grooming products, and protein powders. Dayne’s perky, bubbly energy was on full display even this early. Nick found his usual tepid personality drawn out by the dizzying man and enjoyed his hyperactive companion.

They arrived midway through the torrent of players and coaches filling the parking lot and zipping inside. Some kept their heads down, hoodies pulled tight over their faces, clearly half asleep. Others darted around, laughing, already primed with energy. The coaches all looked remarkably pristine, steaming coffee mugs held by each one. Nick followed the pack inside.

The locker room was already being torn asunder, some players nearly dressed and taping ankles, while others stripped down brazenly and began pulling on jockstraps and girdles. Adam, half dressed in a cutoff SPARTAN FOOTBALL shirt and Nike hyperstrong tights, stood around a horde of bulky players, recounting his adventures from the night before. Seeing Adam, Nick realized the bag, filled with a horde of sports gear and his schoolwork, actually belonged to the quarterback. The boys all laughed as Adam told a story, giving Nick the chance to interrupt.

“Hey,” he nodded and Adam gave him a stiff reply.

“Sup, bro,” he didn’t turn to face Nick.

“So, uh, you left your bag yesterday.” Nick plopped the athletic bag on the floor with a sort of defiant apathy that seemed overly fake. Adam shrugged his shoulders.

“Nah, dude, those are yours. Told you, Coach made me get ya a bunch of duds. Bag too, figure you need something to hold it all.” He gave Nick a slap on the shoulder and he turned towards his bros and continued talking. Nick smiled, thinking of all the cool shit in the bag that he couldn’t wait to put on. He turned away, preparing to amble towards his locker when a booming voice absorbed his attention.

“Dumbroski!” Coach Thornton addressed him, causing the young man to snap into a nearly military posture.

“Yes Sir!” he snapped back, afraid to start his first day on a bad note.

“What are you wearing?” Thornton eyes the player up and down, and Nick felt a desire to shrink away.

“Well, I haven’t gotten a chance to suit up yet-” he was instantly cut off.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. The jeans, the t-shirt. Where are the clothes Griffith gave you?” A faint desire in Nick told him to stay quiet and cover for his QB. Another part knew that lying to the Coach led to immeasurable pain.

“These are the clothes, Coach,” Nick replied meekly.

“Griffith! Get your ass over here! You’re free to go, son, can’t wait to see you on the field.” Thornton’s entire demeanor adopted a strange, fatherly tone, complete with a strong pat on the shoulders. Nick continued to his locker as Griffith received a verbal berating about team spirit and following rules. He felt bad, but no one else was paying any mind to Adam being chewed out and he decided it was just part of the process. Coach gave orders; players followed orders.

Nick hesitated for a moment as he pulled up to his locker. A strange urge knocked on his brain, asking him to run the heck out of there. Onto the field. That last part got tacked on by some powerful force, like a lineman pancaking a defensive end. A force so prominent and study it practically sent the old thought into a muddled wreck.

Instinctively, letting both his tired teenage brain and his amped up body relax, he stripped off his clothes mindlessly, even the cotton briefs, leaving him butt ass naked. Digging around in the bag, he fished out a jockstrap, slipping it over his legs and onto his crotch with the familiarity of deodorant. He had done this before, in wrestling. And maybe here. It felt familiar here. He found some navy blue spandex shorts with built in pads and pulled them up next and added a matching sleeveless top with the Spartan logo on it. Nick felt better, bigger, tighter. The compression on his body squeezed things into place. The body felt warm and ready, the brain felt smooth and focused.

The locker contained his helmet and pads, along with a jersey hanging on the wall. It was different from yesterdays, a little shorter and made of cheaper material. He pulled the jersey on the pads, forcing the bulky plastic and metal through the tight opening. Once it was finally on, he pulled the package over his head and struggled to line up his arm and begin pulling the tight unit onto his body. Someone walking by and, not missing a beat, tugged on the back of his jersey, letting the pads slide over him, before slapping Nick’s buttocks and ambling out of the locker room. Already, the space cleared out as more and more uniformed athletes began proceeding to the field.

Nick struggled as he attempted to pull the white pants up over his padded thighs. These seemed way tighter than the ones yesterday, that or his legs had exploded in size overnight. Which was totally unreasonable, so the only good explanation was different pants. Struggling to yank them up, Nick jumped around a bit as Coach Kazmi walked by. “Hey dude, better get out there! Coach Thornton has no patience for late comers. Never has.” Kazmi sort of twitched as he added that last park, seemingly remembering a similar incident.

“I can’t, they’re so tight!”

“‘course they’re tight! Need to keep things in place. Plus, you don’t want extra fabric. It’s easier for guys to grab onto you. Let me help,” Kazmi pulled up Nick’s jersey and began fascenting the straps and tightening the pads around him. Nick, meanwhile, continued his squirming dance, inching the pants up further and further before they finally settled over his rump and against his abs. Nick laced up shoes while Kazmi smacked the helmet onto his head and both rushed onto the field.

--------

The team valued timeliness in everything, players, coaches, and during the game. Nick still had plenty of time. But getting their early showed dedication, drive, effort, things that separated a middle-of-the-run team from a pack of future pros. Thornton and his staff drove that message so deep into the skulls of their players, it melted into the autonomic nervous system. It gave Nick time to stretch, jog in place, shoot the shit with some guys. Then came the whistle.

The opening routine was the same as yesterdays, a series of stretching and cadence drills this time led by Adam. Nick fell into it easier this time, his brain absorbed the early cadences so the clapping came naturally as he limbered up and moved around. He struggled with some of the later and more complicated ones, but the improvement and integration of the team’s behavior and tradition into his own made him happy.

Another whistle led to laps, then taps, then tackles. Each time, his brain turned off sections of fear, embarrassment, confusion, and tapped into pride, energy, anger, and determination. He wanted to do better for his own sake, but he needed to do better for the team’s sake. The team needed his strength, his obedience, his complete devotion to be the best.

Yet another whistle signaled a water break, where Coach Wright snagged Nick and told him to come with next. It was time for some offensive line drills, which meant the beefy boys, the center, guards, and tight ends had work to do.

“Alright boys, this is fundamentals. Stance work. Three point first, two at a time. Washington, Rose, you’re up.” The same two guys Coach picked yesterday. Nick wasn’t sure if going first was priviledge or punishment, but it seemed good to be the ones Coach picked. They both got down, ass up, legs tensed, one arm supporting the body. Wright and Kazmi walked around the guys, commenting on their legs and back, making small adjustments and checking their balance. It swapped to two more and then again.

“Dumbroski!” Nick heard his name reverberate through the field. His turn came up so quickly, he felt totally unprepared. And so he hustled up to the coaches and tried to get in the position he’d seen the other guys do.

“Flat back, butt down, head up, son,” Wright briskly instructed. Nick tried to adjust his body, sinking down like sitting in a chair and nearly falling backwards. In a rush to stop, he tilted forward pressing his weight into a shaky hand.

“Flat back!” Wright barked again. Nick did his best but found himself falling forward on his hand which the coach swatted swiftly away. Nick anticipated this being hard when he’d watched the other guys do it, but wasn’t prepared for the cerebral nature of the exercise. One foot here, back and butt down, head up, arm ready, Nick thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t bothered to try and read up ahead of time. He might have confused himself so badly he’d have just given up.

“Hang on, bud,” he heard Kazmi say behind him. Suddenly a strong hand pressed on his back and another reached between his legs and into a very private area. He felt his back pushed forward at the same time his hips were tilted downward. His legs settled in, the soles of his feet pressing into the earth, his uneasy sway subsiding as he found himself rooted into place. Gingerly, he reached his hand forward and let it sit on the ground.

“Much better, son!” Wright knocked on his helmet playfully. Kazmi smacked his buttocks and told him good job. Nick got up, his body feeling heavier and sturdier than moments before. The weight of his legs sank into the grass as he walked, his gait fast but sturdy. When he got to the sideline, Washington gave him another butt slap and promised him it gets easier with practice. Nick smiled dumbly and nodded. The fear and trepidation that consumed him only moments ago faded into devotion to improving himself for the team. And the team supported him back for improving. A fulfilling cycle of hard work and hard payoff. Making him one of them, one of the players, one of the jocks. “Two points stance!”

--------

Thornton managed time the way a military barber measured a flattop. Every minute counted in making the team the very best they could be. Which meant the players rushed to clean themselves up for the school day. Jerseys and pads were ditched by the door, and guys rushed to their lockers, stripping off pants and base layers and shoving them into mesh bags with their numbers printed on the side.

A similar bag sat before Nick’s locker and he found himself disregarding any sense of embarrassment or discomfort as he yanked the sweaty lycra off his body and shoved the various components into the bag. His balls hung low as he trotted with the rest of the pack to the showers, admiring the wide-spread of the laterals of the guy in front. A couple of guys surreptitiously swatted their hands around, errantly smacking a guys junk before declaring “no homo” loudly. The recipient laughed and usually smacked back. Here, the awkward embarrassment of the teenage years faltered before the arrogant confidence of raw masculinity.

Nick took a spot under a shower and let the cold water blast across his worn out body. He jerked against the cold before allowing the water to relax his muscles, providing relief against the hard work of the morning. He grabbed the generic body bar hanging from the nozzle and soaped himself up. The fuzzy soap swam in the newfound crest of his pectorals and clung to the prominent cut around his hip bones. Lackadaisically, he played with his abs like strings on a guitar, momentarily wondering where the hard muscles had come from. But it made sense that he had them. He needed them on the field, core support guided the whole body after all. The cold water chilled his muscles as he anxiously scrubbed the bar into his sun-soaked skin. Cuts and curves carved out his muscles, veiny biceps and forearms, bulky quads, and a delightful arch from his lower back over his buttocks. It took more time to cover this body than he thought it should. But thinking really wasn’t his strong suit. Not around the team.

Before he knew it, Nick stepped out from under the water and scurried back to the locker surrounded by other muscular jocks. He snagged the briefs and thrust them over his hips, feeling the cotton fabric stretch over the mounds of his ample booty and struggle to contain his package. He gave it a hefty bounce and giggled. The t-shirt was gone, replaced with a white polo with the spartans logo over the left chest. It smelled like it had been sealed in plastic only recently. Pulling it over his shoulders, admiring the way his body spread as his arms lifted up, Nick was reminded of the tight pads. He had to squirm a bit, allowing the fabric to expand and stretch over his wide deltoids and getting caught under the prominent cleft of his pecs before fanning around his hips. The jeans were still there and Nick hefted them up, the harsh denim resisting the bulges of his body at first, before conforming to his masculine shape. There was something about that, a giddy ping in his heads, about making things conform to his masculinity. About being such a manly creature the world around him bent to accommodate him.

Polo tucked in, shoes slipped on, and Nick was trotting out of the locker when that vibrant, giddy voice from yesterday caught him.

“Broski!” Dayne and another blonde boy were standing before the mirrors, polishing their hair and primping. Nick smiled and walked over.

“Dude, you gonna go out like that?” Dayne playfully rubbed the mess of hair on Nick’s head. The other boy said nothing as he continued slicking the sides down. Unlike the others, uniformly in school colors, he was in a baby blue polo.

“What? What do you mean?” Nick looked in the mirror and admired his broad jaw and prominent chin.

“Your hair should make a statement,” the other guy said playfully.

“What, what do you mean?”

“He’s quoting old movies, shut up Trev. Bro here needs our help! You aren’t a troll, ya know? Just gotta freshen this up a bit.” Before Nick could say anything, a jar of yellow paste passed from Trev to Dayne, who smashed a big chunk into his forehead and brushed his hair back. Again and again he forcefully shoved the hair in line, raising the sides higher and higher, turning his standard mop into a short mohawk style. Plus, the paste made his brown hair seem light, brighter, a little sun-touched even. His hair walked an impressive line between an overly aggressive, hyper-masculine cut and a swarthy, sexy ladykiller. He liked it.

“Damn, bro!” Nick burst out, his tongue felt sticky and his words a touch slower than usual. “That is fucking ace!” Speaking was hard, the words were unfamiliar. His usual lazy tone replaced with something blunt, louder, cruder. And the words all felt gummy, sticky, as though each one was a tough piece of jerky to chew and so it was better to use small words, take small bites, to get it down easier.

--------

Walking into school after practice felt like a rock star returning for high school reunion. He was one of THEM now. The jocks. The men. The heroes. He grabbed at his crotch as he walked. His increasing dick felt stuffed into the briefs Coach insisted all the players wear. He’d need to go up another size. That though made both his heads happy. Griffith had given him a pair of Levi’s that practically melted onto his body. How had he gotten so buff? Nick brushed that thought aside. Jocks were buff. He was a jock, ergo he was buff. Ergo? Damn that was a fucking pretentious word. He was a buff jock.

The guys moved as a pack, a few errant butt slaps or playful punches were all that broke through the confident swagger. Nick felt big. His steps were long and wide, angling around the impressive quadricep muscles that pulled tight on the seam of the jeans and the bulging pouch of teenage masculinity. He needed space. His muscles needed space. His dick needed space.

Thinking of his dick made him smile and it twitch. He felt this real connection to his dick now. Its needs, its wants, how important it was to him. When his brain told him to make room, his dick told him to stand wider. When he tried to look ahead, his dick told him to glance at Brittany’s boobs. When he tried to look away, his dick told him to stare. The conflict between his heads was decreasing all the time as he learned to relax and go with the flow. He wasn’t a team captain, didn’t want to be. He wanted to be a starter, to be a bro, to go pro. That was enough for him. The other stuff, the boring shit, he could just chill and let it pass.

“Bro, where you got class?” Slade slapped Nick on the back.

“Umm, I think I got, English? Rapp? Yeah, Rapp.”

“Sweet, dude!” Slade laughed and slapped Nick’s shoulder. He winced from the hit. “Me too, yeah, follow me. I gotta hit up a toilet first though, always gotta piss after practice.”

“Aren’t there like a dozen toilets in the locker rooms?”

“Yeah, but it always hit me here. Plus Taysha Smalls is in that class and I gotta be on my best behavior to snag her for homecoming.” Nick wasn’t sure what Slade meant but followed him into the mens room. It was actually the same one Nick had darted into yesterday. Guess Slade had a very specific routine.

Slade saddled up to one of the urinals and let loose his stream. It sounded like a horse pissing, thick and harsh. Nick suddenly needed to pee as well. As he relaxed and let it flow, Slade let out a deep sigh and then ripped out a massive fart. Nick had flashbacks to yesterday, and it was still a foul mixture of meat and manliness. Nick immediately chuckled and punched Slade in the shoulder.

“Damn bro! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Nick asked, turning to Slade but keeping one eye on his own dick to make sure he didn’t spill.

“Told ya, bruh. Gotta get this shit out ‘fore class starts. Ugh, all the protein powder, man. Gets me.” Slade laughed and Nick laughed louder upon hearing the bovine barks emanating from Slade. The laughter and the piss all combined to put enough pressure on Nick that he suddenly found himself imitating Slade and letting out a juicy fart. There was a bit of tension that had built up in Nick, fear of what he was becoming. It bubbled out of his hole with the fart, leaving him content and empty. “Fuck bro! That’s foul!” Slade laughed more. “Maybe we gotta up your dosage? I’m not choking like you.” Nick laughed again and spread his legs wider.

“Maybe. I gotta compete with you, beast!” They finished up, washing their hands at the sink. Nick checked his hair a few times, making sure the sides stayed tight. Slade’s messy hair required zero thought. And that was fine for Slade, he was a pure meathead. But Nick wanted to keep that fashionable sexy side to himself.

“Hustle bruh. Coaches will crush ya if you’re late!” Slade dashed out of the bathroom. Nick’s concern for his appearance evaporated under the threat of punishment. Obeying the coaches always took priority.

--------

If someone asked Nick if he spoke English, he would have said yes. But after sitting through an hour of Coach Rapp’s class, Nick was pretty sure he didn’t. The material scratched at his brain like sand on glass. Nick was pretty sure everything they talked about was stuff he had done in previous classes. A strange aura of familiarity permeated the whole lesson. And yet, it might as well have been in Greek. Concentrating on the material challenged his brain in a way he never experienced before. It seemed the whole lesson, the entire property of the English language, suddenly befuddled him. Which meant he did the thing that was becoming most natural, if it wasn’t football, he let his brain slip off, his body sag, his mouth sag open, and just stare ahead vacantly. Whatever it was, if it was important, Coach would fix it. If not, no sense getting hung up on it.

After class, Slade stayed behind, acting like a fool in an attempt to flirt, leaving Nick to wander to his third period alone. He felt the powerful strides of legs covering more ground as he walked, and he puffed out his chest and rolled back his shoulders to really take up some space. It felt good, filling out space. It felt better doing it with this bros.

In fact, this was the first time he’d been alone since coming to school. And more importantly, the first time someone hadn’t been talking. He was used to being alone in his thoughts, focusing on what was going on inside his head instead of what was going on around him. But now, without a Coach or teacher instructing or one his teammates blabbering on, he was left with an empty hollowness. Nick was sure it hadn’t felt like this before, the ebb and flow of thoughts in his mind had been a rapid cascade of ideas, reminders, and annoyances. Now, silence dominated his brain. He turned off, shut down, and just kind of went. While it contained a relaxing quality, an eerie presence seemed to float in the back of his head. Softly pinging, it seemed to yell out that something was amiss, but whenever Nick tried to focus on what exactly was wrong, it drifted further. His heavy footsteps slowed as he ambled in body and mind, chasing these strange thoughts.

“Hey, Nick,” a sweaty Diego interrupted the chase. Diego met him nearly eye to eye. Nick knew who it was, the tanned skin and brown eyes, but he wasn’t certain that the pointed chin or high cheekbones had been there before. Plus, the sweat, Diego’s hair was matted to his head and his shirt clung to his body. Whereas before it had been an awkward sphere, now it looked like someone had put a rubber band around a water balloon, his waist seeming to have shrunk while his legs and chest expanded.

“Sup, brah,” Nick gave Diego a head nod. The twitchy guys, the fast little fuckers, caused a bit of annoyance in Nick. Sure they were fast, squirrely even, but they didn’t sit on the line, they didn’t defend the snap, they weren’t at the heart of the game.

“So, like, you, uh, notice anything?” Diego bounced leg to leg, reminding Nick of Dayne. Except where Dayne’s energy read as fresh exuberance, Diego had that vibe of a conspiracy theorist about to explain 9/11.

“Looks like you been hitting the gym, right bruh? Getting some big pecs,” Nick laughed and gave Diego a firm punch on the chest. While he knocked the smaller boy back a bit, his fist still hit firm muscle.

“And you? You been, too?”

“Yeah, bro!” Nick flexed his biceps. “Gotta get swole for the team, right?” He let out that sort of deep, barking laugh that Slade and Stone had. Loud, obnoxious, and empty, it reverberated through the silent halls. Diego closed his ears.

“The football team, right?” Diego asked. Nick nodded and rolled his eyes, so Diego prodded on. “And you play football now?”

“Fuck yeah, bro! I thought you was signing up, too!”

Diego blinked at the suggestion and his brow furrowed for a second before he shook his head and looked Nick dead in the eyes. “I…” he spoke slowly, causing his voice to drop an octave. “I think something is wrong.” Nick scratched his armpit and stared at Diego. His brain agreed, but his dick was bored. And that always won.

“Nothin’ seems wrong, dude,” Nick shrugged while tugging at his crotch.

Diego’s eyes twitched and sort kicked out his left leg. “Yeah, but d,d,d,d,d,-Dude,” Diego finally spat out despite struggling to avoid the word. A dopey smile crossed his face afterwards and his tongue began to sag out of his mouth. Nick smirked, not entirely sure why, but seeing the former bobblehead’s braindead smile made him real happy. Diego shook his head and his eyes regained focus. “All this football and bro-ing and stuff, didn’t you hate that kinda stuff? Weren’t you writing some kind of paper?”

Nick’s eyes lit up.“Ah, shit bro! Is that what all them notes was about? I found a bunch of crap in my bag. Damn, I gotta ask coach later anyway. Fuck, class time, little dude. I’ll catch ya later!” He offered Diego a fist up, who reluctantly accepted. The formerly fat nerd let out a deep chuckle afterwards, wandering towards his next class.

--------

Kazmi chugged a protein shake as Nick wandered in. In truth, he felt great trepidation about this. Math wasn’t exactly his primo subject and being the student aid to the math teacher football coach seemed a little much. Still, seeing the big smile on the brown man’s brawny face did a lot to alleviate those concerns.

“Hey Dumbroski!” Kazmi greeted cheerfully. “Yesterday you seemed unsure about joining the team, glad to hear you changed your mind. And sorry about being handsy this morning.”

“No, Coach, it’s cool. Thanks for the help. Yeah, man, can’t wait to get on that fucking-oops, I mean- sorry, Coach.”

“No big deal, Dumbroski. You may wanna keep the language PG-13 around the fans though,” that big lady killer smile made Nick swoon as he stared into those amber eyes. Kazmi represented something Nick really liked, a harsh, rugged masculinity combined with an almost dainty prettiness around the eyes. Combined with a charming and underspoken attitude, he saw in his teacher the kind of man he wanted to become. Perhaps not the man he wanted to be a few days ago, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Before sports and football dominated his brain and guided his path.

“So, uh, what do you want me to do?” Nick dropped his bag by a desk in front and idly bounced from side to side.

“Well, it’s still pretty early in the term. Normally, I’d have you help me grade! But for now, do you still have questions about some of those refresher problems?”

“Oh! Oh yeah,” Nick dug around in his bag, grabbing individual papers crunched up amongst base layers and a well used notebook. He sat down at the first problem and looked it over. “Yeah, I was having trouble with this one…. Oh, yeah, no this is easy.” He proceeded to scribble furiously, working through the problem within a few moments.

“Yeah, okay, so this second one….. No, no I got it.” This process repeated over and over. Each question that he’d gotten hung up over the past three days suddenly swapped into an easy, almost mindless task. He breezed through the form in just a few moments. Kazmi snagged the paper once he finished and gave it the once over.

“See, told you this would be easy!” He happily handed the perfect form back to Nick. “New school, new town, new sport, really takes a toll on a guy. Once you remove a lot of excess, it’s easier to focus on what really matters.”

“Football!” Nick blathered brainlessly. Kazmi offered him a fist bump in response. “But yeah, guess you and Coach Thornton were right. That was real easy. I really musta been holding myself back.”

“Sometimes, it’s best to focus on the things you’re good at, instead of being mediocre at everything.”

“Medi-what?” Nick had pulled out a playbook from the bag and began flipping through schematics. One leg bounced up and down as he read through, absorbing the new plays like a seasoned professional traded to a new team. It made perfect sense to him. All the numbers and symbols entered his brain and imprinted themselves on his empty mind, filling it up with football goodness.

“Nick,” Kazmi snapped Nick out of a play scheme coma.

“Yes, Coach?” he snapped back obediently.

“I don’t have anything else for you to do, and I don’t actually have anything I need to work on. So, is there anything else I can help you with?” Nick stared at the coach for a second, mouth open as his brain, abandoning words in favor of symbols, struggled to speak.

“Could, could you help me with my three point stance, coach? Like, I know I got it this morning, but I wanna crush it this afternoon!” Kazmi smiled and pointed to the floor where Nick hoisted himself up and let his Coach and favorite teacher guide him into being an even better jock.

--------

Nick breezed through calculus with a calm relaxation he hadn’t even known he could possess until recently. The whole thing just made sense. The old material solidified in his head better than he’d ever known it before. And new things went in just as easily. Sure, they might be replacing some stuff, but the intricacies of a Dickens novel he’d been forced to read in ninth grade no longer seemed deserving of space among his grey matter. And for that matter, it certainly didn’t deserve to be on the same pedestal as football.

This new schedule suited Nick just fine, some easy classes, some stuff he was naturally good at, and football. Ooh, just thinking of pigskin sent chills down his spine and blood rushing to his primal head. Walking out of the classroom to lunch, Nick did an awkward sidestep as he tugged at the attention demanding bulge below his waist. He eyed a couple of gals on the cheerleading squad and the blood pumped his cock thicker and his brain dumber. Maybe not dumber, truthfully, but certainly distracted.

Nick’s lecherous thoughts were interrupted by a firm hand smacking his butt and getting right between his legs. He turned, feeling a rush of blood from his cock to his arms, veins bulging, thinking about pounding someone. Twisting around, a jovial Slade slapped his shoulder and laughed his bovine laugh. Nick laughed too, a deep, barking sound that emanated from his diaphragm and came out his gaping mouth.

“Bro!” The beefy fellow greeted Nick.

“Bro!” came the vapid reply.

“Dude, so how’d class go?”

“Shit bro, fucking lame! Can’t wait to get my hands on some weights!”

“Fuck yeah, bro! Gotta get those muscles bumped! Get that bicep peaked!” He demonstrated deeply flexing his arm, the harsh striations of his bicep growing larger and larger, the veins bulging, until the apex was practically bursting from beneath his skin. Nick felt that familiar, concerning, and comfortable leaking in his cock again. He did want that big muscle, he wanted his biceps to ruin shirt sleeves. He wanted to flex off against his bros, show his gains for the ladies, and be a stud.

The pair joked their way to the cafeteria, stopping everyone so often for fist bumps from football bros or to ogle a particularly fine lady. These were things Nick never did before, never would have allowed himself to do before, but now, it was so much easier to go with the flow, fit in, be confident, cocky, and a bit of a douchebag. Slade loved it. And the other guys seemed to as well. It brought out a sort of social stupidity in Nick that washed away worries and cares and just let him be fun and happy.

Nick followed behind Slade like a puppy, everything dumped onto one tray immediately followed by the next. Carbs, fats, proteins, layered upon each other into messy towers of caloric glory that distended the stomachs of wayward eyes. The boys paid it no mind. Being on the football team mattered, and that meant gains, size, and muscle. Only refined sugars dodged the path into their predatory maws, not something the body had a use for.

They snagged the same table as yesterday, joined quickly by a still silent Stone who took to his food with a sharp head nod while the other two chatted aimlessly about school, sports, and girls. After chugging on a bit of milk, Stone eyed the two and spoke.

“Where’s that little bro at?” Slade and Nick blinked emptily at him for a moment.

“Oh shit! Nerd bro!” Slade exclaimed.

“Diego,” Nick interrupted. “Yeah, I saw him before third period. Ain’t seen him lately. He was talking all funny.”

“Like telling jokes?” Slade asked.

“Nah, like saying things was weird and that, like, something about- shit! I still got this fucking football paper, dudes!” Both of the big guys stared at him as Nick started rummaging through his bag.

“Bruh,” Slade said. “Coach don’t make us write papers.”

“Yeah, dude,” Stone added. “We lift weights.”

“And play football!” The idiocracy of the smalltalk sent even more intense, almost painful chills down the muscled laterals armoring Nick’s spine. But he persisted, digging around, collecting scraps of yellow paper one after the other. In a triumphant flourish, he dropped them on the table. The meatheads spied the notes, noticing positions and gameplans scribbled in motley font.

“What’s that?” Stone asked, choking down another large scoop of his lunch. Nick felt a strange break in his mind, as though he saw everything through a broken mirror. Stone and Slade, polo-ed and khaki-ed to Coaches specifications, square jawed, and muscled like a seasoned professional athlete looked incongruous with the crappy tables and tiled floor of a high school cafeteria. He stared at his own forearm, freshly tanned and veiny over hard-worked muscle. He drew a fist, watching the fibers bunch and tighten, the veins pop, and feeling the sensation travel up his arm, engaging his bicep and pectoral. It felt great, strong, manly. This arm caught passes and blocked the defensive line and occasionally threw a punch when he got heated. The hand made those elementary looking scribbles, shorthand and symbols his brain now recognized immediately as football code. Positions, plays, power, this hand, still bulging, practically growing as he stared, grew from work, not sitting indoors writing a paper. But in the back of his mind, he knew the paper existed, knew a smaller hand with tight cursive penned out notes and typed furiously about football. But that smaller hand didn’t stand a chance against the might and anger of the muscle hand. It cowered in fear, something this hand never felt. “Something I was doing with Coach, bro,” Nick let his hand relax, the world coming into crystal clear focus as he saw his bros staring at him. Nick wasn’t about that, didn’t want his teammates thinking he was weird or something. Nah, he was a cool, chill bruh.

“Cool, dude,” Slade slipped back into normal conversation, Nick joining with Stone providing only the slightest of color commentary.

“Bro,” Stone finally said, his harsh, cold eyes staring directly into Nick’s own. “I think we should find that little bro. Got practice soon.”

“And?” Nick chugged down milk and let out a small, but deep burp causing the other guys to laugh.

“And he’s joining the team, right?” Stone said it, but Nick felt it in the back of his mind. That dude he’d seen today, sweaty, tight waist and big thighs and chest, wasn’t that one of his bros? Didn’t he come to Nick for a reason? Nick owed it to a bro, if Diego thought something was up, he needed to be there. They were a pack. You didn’t let one go alone.

“Alright, dudes, I’ll go look for him. Fuck, I’ll be late for weights.”

“Yeah, bruh. Better hurry. Coach’ll make you run a gauntlet!” Slade laughed.

“Fuck dude, that’s a big word for a dumbass like you!” Nick retorted.

“Hey, fuck you too, brother!” Slade laughed.

“They probably said it on American Gladiator,” Stone interjected.

“Fuck yeah!” Slade replied. “Shit, I wanted to be on that show so bad when I was little.”

“Me too!” Stone shot back.

“Me too!” Nick added, even though he had no idea what they were talking about. He didn’t want to be left out.

“Better find Diego, bro. Or you’ll both be feeling the burn!” Nick swung his bag over his shoulder and went hunting through the school, leaving his beefy bros to an eating contest as they woofed down their plates to get to weight lifting early.

--------

Two competing ideas fought in Nick’s brain. On the one hand, the most obvious places for a bro to be hanging out were the gym or the locker room. Hell, it’s where he wanted to be after all! But, Diego probably wasn’t hunkering down and maxing out his bench. Which left Nick confused and hustling through the hallways. He checked various bathrooms to no success, though it gave him a chance to check up his hair. A couple of fist bumps from letterman jacketed bros made him feel giddy and strong but nowhere closer to his charge. When he finally stopped and used his brain, thinking about what someone like Diego would be doing, it clicked.

Sure enough, the messy newspaper room contained one sole inhabitant, a caramel skinned man hunched over a desk with engorged triceps straining a formerly oversized t-shirt to it’s break point.

“Diego?” Nick said, catching his voice somewhere its developing bro bass and a friendlier tenor. The brown man looked up, his chiseled face and narrow eyes making contact with Nick’s. The tense, chaotic energy from earlier nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, hey, n,n,n,n -bro,” he blurted out, the tempo of his voice slowed down as bro pushed out from his lungs.

“What are you up to, man? We got weights soon.” Nick approached cautiously. He wasn’t sure if Diego had weights, but it was where HE was supposed to be, getting jacked and prepped for practice. Even thinking about it caused blood to rush into his muscles, pushing them out a bit, popping his spine as he seemed to gain space in his vertebrae.

“I was puttin’ some stuff together. For the football paper, ya know?” Diego’s voice wafted around the room like an eerie ghost. “I was gettin’ bunch of stuff. Like, old players. See?” In front of him, scattered across the table, were tons of photos of Clifton football through the years. Game photos, posed shots, ridiculous stupid photos the guys took on their own cameras, showing a range of white, black, and brown men with slight variations in their manly faces. Nick shrugged.

“Yeah, dude. It’s a big team. Lots of old players.”

“Every year,” Diego’s voice centered and his brow furrowed. “Every year, it’s new dudes. See?” he pointed to a team photo with the previous year scrawled on the top. “None of these guys go here anymore. Except Adam,” he trailed off.

“Yeah bruh, I asked Coach ‘bout that. He said they mostly have seniors as starters. Cause they’re bigger and older and stuff.”

“But, like, they weren’t even on the team last year.”

“Gotta fill the stands I guess? Plus, we got JV, too.” Diego seemed to consider the point. Both men idly adjusted themselves as they stood in silence for a few seconds.

“So, bruh, coming to weights? Gonna get swole?” Nick laughed as he bounced his prominent pecs, the pique fabric stretching out a touch more. Diego’s eyes widened at the sight.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not dude? Lifting’s fucking awesome!”

“It sounds stupid. And tiring.”

“Bro, it’s awesome! You get bigger and stronger! Muscle up, bro up!” Nick smiled and shifted his stance, spreading his legs wide and flexing the wide sides of quads.

“I mean, yeah,” Diego trailed off and Nick continued flexing various muscles.

“Get bigger, tougher, stronger!” Nick’s brain continued firing off simple words that made his cock twitch.

“But like, it’s fill with all those dumb jock jerks.”

“Whaddya mean, dude? Like Slade? He was fucking cool with you yesterday.”

“Yeah, but like, that doesn’t mean they all will be.”

“Fuck dude! Don’t be so lame! Slade and Stone got your back! Me too! We’ll get you pumped up and them bros’ll be lining up to spot you!”

“That.. that sounds cool.”

“Bro, it’s fucking ace! Got a whole room filled with bros just helping you gain and grow!”

“Yeah, yeah…. Bro,” Diego forced out the last word with a dry swallow. “But like, some of them are just big, dumb jocks.”

“Fuck bro! Who gives a shit? Dumb dudes are fucking beasts on the field, right! Ain’t nobody going to Bama just to play school, brah!” Nick got excited as he spoke, rocking back and forth on his feet, practically jumping with every word.

“True dat,” Diego said while bobbing his head. “But like, I don’t wanna be dumb. I got, like, class. Plus, newspaper.”

“Fuck dude,” Nick let out a big sigh, emptying parts of his body from worries buried so deep within his psyche he literally drained out personality. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that! Coach’ll take care of class. And newspaper,” he let out an exasperated yawn. “That shit’s fucking lame.” Nick didn’t even believe it until he said it. But once it left his mouth, it became cold hard fact. Football good, school paper bad. Unless it wrote about how awesome the team was, then paper good.

“No, the paper’s cool!” Diego found some sort of courage inside himself, a little platform on which to stand. “It’s good to know things!”

“People know all kinds of shit, dude! You really care ‘bout some PTA meetings or marching band crap? Come on dude, just report the scores.”

“There’s lot of cool stuff about the school!”

“Bro, people watch cool stuff on their phones, man! Reading’s for dorks.”

“No, it ain’t!”

Nick walked behind Diego and gripped his shoulders like Slade did yesterday. He sank his meaty paws into the increasingly muscular neck of the wannabe nerd in front of him, molding the body as though it were clay. Diego slipped into a chair. “Look, bro, you can sit here all damn day, in this dark fucking little den staring at pics of the real men. Or you can be one of them.”

“Why can’t I do both?” Diego’s voice cracked.

“Cause, bro, ain’t no time for lame shit when you can be on the field being a jock!” The words pouring out of Nick’s mouth were foreign. The deep, commanding voice came from a place deep inside him, a manly core of his being that ripped through the layers of self leaving the very primal essence of jockdom in its place. He spoke with pregame passion, hyping his teammates up for a dominating win.

“I like newspaper.”

“It’s fucking lame.”

“No, fuck no, dude.”

“Dude, yes it fucking is. This shit is so fucking stupid. Leave it for the losers. Get your jock on.”

“Ugh, fuck, bro,” Diego’s voice slowed, his tongue getting caught on a syrupy mess of muscle mania. “Dude, I can do both.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What do you wanna do, bruh?”

“I wanna, umm, I wanna-”

“-play football!” Nick heard a pop as his hand dug into Diego’s neck and felt the jawbone widen and lower. Muscles filled in the new space, corded and taunt and smooth.

“Yeah, bro!” The reply was slow but silky smooth. The voice deep but rich, almost coy with idle cockiness.

“Fuck yeah, bro!” Nick practically dragged Diego up from the chair. The lantern jawed stud staring back, big brown eyes under a thick brow, was a far cry from the wobbly, whiny nerd he’d met only days before. Not that either of them really remembered that. “Whaddya wanna do!” He gave Diego a firm but friendly shove.

“Play football!” Diego shoved back, bouncing his feet, the veins in his arms bulging as his laterals spread like wings.

“Not write newspapers?”

“Fuck no, bro!”

“Why not?”

“Cause paper’s fuckin’ lame!” The voice wasn’t the deep bovine of the big boys. It had a carefree attitude, a summer body relaxing on a hot beach, a pleasant, calming joy and confidence.

“You wanna hang out with nerds?”

“Fuck no, bro! I wanna hit weights with my bros!”

“Why not, bruh?”

“Duh, brah! Nerds are fucking losers!” Another crack, a facial contortion that resulted in a small, crooked nose that looked like it had gotten broken in a fist fight. Diego pummeled his fist into his palm, the resulting clap shook the muscles of his forearm, dark hairs crawling up from the wrist as muscle traveled up his arm, forming hard working forearms and overly developed, showy biceps competing with rope like triceps wrestling for space in his sleeves.

“You don’t wanna play some dungeons and dragons or watch some cartoons?”

“Fuck no, bruh! I wanna hit da field and play some ball!” Diego pulled a most muscular, sending a ripple up from his back, forcing trap muscles to billow from his body, threatening his neck as it tightened and spread, the pencil neck and double chins dissolving into a marble cut bust of classical manhood. His eyelids drooped heavily. Despite the stoner vibe, he made intense eye contact with Nick, the lackadaisical stare and goofy smile hid a voracious animalism inside those eyes, a single minded need to crush that tapped into parts of brain formerly overwhelmed by excessive cerebellum, now free to roar and fight like his ancestors. Nick crossed his arms over his chest, raising his pecs up. His lips curled in a cruel sneer.

“What about school?”

“I didn’t come to play school, bruh! I came to play football!”

“Nerds?”

“Fucking pansies, wanna beat the shit out of ‘em.”

“Chicks?”

“Need to be on this fat D, brotha!” Diego’s whole brain swirled inside his head like ice in a frying pan, dissolving down and just sort of fading away. Nick didn’t understand what he was witnessing. But given the choice between the whiny nerd and this beefy bro, he knew who he preferred.

“Come on, dude. We gotta hit weights. Coach T will fucking cream us if we’re late.” Diego simply let out that familiar laugh- loud, deep, empty. The pair hustled to the weight room to meet up with their teammates.

--------

Thornton said nothing as Diego and Nick swaggered into weights, having changed into various pieces of athletic gear, Nick in royal blue tights and a long t-shirt with the sleeves and most of the side cutoff, Diego in track pants and a wife beater, his hair tied up behind a sweatband. The cautious smile Nick caught on his face was beleaguered by the domineering leer in his eyes. He was certain they were about to feel the heat but also certain he’d done the right thing dragging Diego here.

Within moments, the Hispanic boy had been snagged away by Kip and Peyton, two backfield guys who were part of Adam’s posse. The black behemoth of Washington walked up next to Nick.

“Dumbroski?” his voice off field had a smoothing tone despite the implied curtness.

“Yup,” Nick replied, sizing up the dude. He’d only seen the man in full pads and helmet, turning his gigantic body into cartoon proportions. Stripped down to only a t-shirt and some shorts, Nick could see the man’s natural body. As an offensive lineman, Washington wasn’t the lean, svelte image of teenage masculinity that was usually represented in the media. He was big, thick in the middle, his abs firmly pressed against his shirt while sitting atop a rounded gut. Everything about him exuded power- raw, simple strength.

“Squats,” he said while directing Nick towards an empty rack, already loaded up with two 45 plates on the side. This wasn’t his first time at the rack, Nick had a strange image of himself wrestling and doing these. But everything felt new here, in this space, surrounded by his true brothers. He wanted to impress, to press himself until he collapsed, to earn their cheers and approval. The first setup didn’t work, Washington corrected Nick’s form like a seasoned pro, the kind of jock who’d parlay his athletic career straight into fitness or strength coaching. A tighter strance, stronger abs, and his ass tilted out just a bit more, Nick tried again. Washington kept one hand on Nick’s glutes, guiding the lifter out instead of just down. A little push helped guide him back up. And again. And again. And again. Nick’s legs shook and sweat poured off his forehead, the spike of his hair dripped between his eyes.

“Nice, bro,” Washington gave Nick a firm shoulder pat as the other clung to the bar. “I think we can go up,” and with that he snagged another plate and added on. Nick felt his blood vessels practically burst imagining doing that. But Washington just smiled at him and insisted he could handle it. A slurp of protein powder and recovery drink and Nick was back under the bar.

Nick got passed around to various teammates and coaches. While squats were the big, fundamental lift of the day, there were still plenty of exercises to learn and techniques to practice. Plus, it gave him a chance to actually socialize a bit with the guys. The idea of all the guys on the football team being dick-brained meatheads would have seemed silly to Nick, if he still had those thoughts. Slade and Stone were the sort of stupid, cocky bros who instilled fear in nerds around the world, Coach Knight and Washington were a silent, steely gazed temple of focus, Kazmi and Dayne had that sunny, chill dude vibe. It was a righteous pantheon of masculinity, where effort was all that mattered. If you gave your all, you were in.

Weights ended unceremoniously, Coach clapping and saying to suit up. The team hustled to the lockers and changed. Nick kept the tights and simply pulled the white practice pants over them. He ditched the distended tank for a white Spartan logoed sleeveless top. Slipping into everything was easier today, bros helped him without thought, tightening straps or getting the pads on. Before long, he was suited up like everyone else, helmet to knees identical, only tiny variations in socks and arms for practice.

Out on the field, three small guys busted out in a pushup contest, one of them struggling more than the others as the rest of the pack cheered them on. Nick joined in, more empty hoots and hollers than anything else. But he knew if it was him, and it would be one day, he’d want his bros cheering for him.

The others continued after the tired guy collapsed, fruitlessly pressing into the earth long after his body had stopped moving. A couple of guys helped him up and greeted him with cheers and butt slaps. The open-mouthed, empty-eyed face finally turned towards Nick and he saw Diego staring back. Sort of Diego at least, a facsimile of Diego with a jutting chin and a wide nose. Apparently, that extra time in the weight room had done him good. It was Diego through an instagram masculinity filter. Nick felt chub himself at the thought. He’d have to ask Dayne about that later.

Diego made hazy eye contact and gave a head nod before hustling to some other dudes, continuing with some pats and hard smacks on the helmet. The beaming smile from beneath the facemask showed veneer-looking, nearly artificially white teeth. It matched the pure white of the helmet exquisitely.

The team shot the shit for a bit before the biting shrill of the whistle, like a military bugle, snapped them into obedience and onto the field they marched. Warm-ups were the same as yesterday, variation in the actual stretches and aerobics, but fundamentally, the pattern was the same: warm up, limber up, ante up. Find the weakness in yourself and prepare to crush it during practice. The slight adjustments from the coaches, wider legs, chest forward, higher kicks, meant to challenge but also to train them into men.

The blocking drills yesterday had all been team ones, working on a unit. Today, it was every man for himself versus the sled. Nick’s first attempt resulted in a comedic bounce as the board pushed back against him so hard he fell on his back. Another round went better, but it wasn’t good enough. Nick knew it, the coaches only encouraged him to go harder, push further, get mad. And he did. Inside himself, shoved in that primal cavern of man that asserted itself over his old identity more and more, existed a primal rage, a need for aggression. His pupils dilated and he began jumping and cursing, the words meaningless as he amped himself up in a frenzy. The next hit was better, the sled crashed back, but his form was sloppy, his restless energy wasted on chaos. Repetitions continued, others had moved on but Nick kept coming back. Energy moved from his hips upward, shoving the sled back. His legs tapped firmly into the ground, keeping himself mobile and stable, otherwise he’d be easy for an opposing player to shrug off.

Eventually, he had a perfect one. The core of his being, muscles and mind, focused solely on a singular goal with pure devotion. His muscles move as a unit, forming a strong barricade. His mind sent him forward, that primal rage engulfing him in a team-and-play devoted frenzy. Other parts of his brain, things that let errant thoughts enter and exit as it processed ten thousand ideas a minute, were shut off entirely. No distractions, no confusion, no indecision. Just relentless pursuit of his purpose on the team. And it felt great. Afterwards, Coach Wright gave him a smack on the helmet that made his teeth shake. But Nick felt great. He smashed his fist into his armored chest and grabbed his crotch suggestively. His purpose fulfilled, it was time to move on.

And onward he went, following the offensive line through a series of drills and play formations, blocking routes, altering stances, responding to the snap and synchronizing with the quarterback's cadence as well as the monstrous bodies he knelt shoulder pad to shoulder pad with. There was hardly any chatter as the boys were rotated through plays and drills with robotic precision. Time was key. Any moment spent worrying or wondering was time that another player spent developing, time another team spent practicing. While you questioned what to do, the other team executed the play.

The camradere developed organically. Those butt smacks and helmet pats showed a strong, physical appreciation, the ultimate in manly congratulations. Failure was met with silence. Fitting in required giving your all, until your all contributed to the whole.

Nick dumped water on his face, helmet tilted back off his skull during a water break, as Thornton approached with a dark smile. The players all grew silent as their head coach approached. They could feel his presence inside themselves, gnawing at their spinal cord and twitching in their pricks. The call of football.

“Men, I think it’s time for some Oklahoma drills, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the thick biceps springing out from the polo, a harsh tan line revealing itself as the sleeves rolled up. Some of the older guys laughed too. Nick had no idea what this was about.

A small corridor had been set up in the field, blocking bags on either side of an empty space of grass. The players gathered around as guys were paired up and sent in. It was a one on one battle of the brawn as they attempted to knock the other down. It was fast, hard, and heavy. Not every player got picked, Adam certainly was free from the exercise. Nick wondered if he’d have to do it before he heard his name called out.

“Broski! I got Broski!” It was Rose, one of the offensive line guards whom Nick had only vaguely interacted with. But he was always one Coach Wright called up first.

Rose’s name was a misnomer; the low-browed troll certainly wouldn’t be known as a handsome fellow. But he had that raw strength and brutish mentalist that made him a beast on the field. Nick knew he was in a rough time, but stilled his nerves and prepared his battle. The sound of the whistle set them both off, a harsh smack as the pads and helmets collided. Rose grabbed Nick's chest and hefted him backwards. Nick did his best to resist, rotating around, trying to throw Rose off balance. But another second and he had regained footing and slammed Nick into the ground.

Nick remained motionless for a second as he heard the team cheering for Rose. He began pushing himself up, feeling the grass under his hands. The pain in his body was new, sharp and intense. He tried his best to shake it off, a coach helped him up and gave him a pep talk.

“Not so tough now, bitch,” he heard Rose call out. He turned around to see the beastly man taunting him. “Yeah, big dick, I’m talking to ya! Get ready, Broski, cause we going again!” Nick had no desire to do that again. His brain felt wobbly and his legs shook. But the challenge echoed in his brain, he could hear his teammates cheering on Rose for his bravado. And that pissed Nick off.

“Fuck yeah, bitch!” Nick replied aggressively, grabbing his crotch for show. If Rose was gonna call him big dick, might as well act the part. A few more people went, but Nick’s brain zeroed in on Rose the entire time. He wanted nothing more than to lay the troglodyte flat. As he hit the three point stance, blood pumped from his heart so fast he could hear it. The sound of the whistle sent off a firing of neurons so intense, Nick hardly even knew what happened. He slammed into Rose with every ounce of energy he could find, using his body as a weapon to knock the beastly man down. Rose wasn’t about to give an inch, his body tensing as he struggled to repel Nick’s eager force. A second later, they had repositioned, Nick felt himself gaining as he pressed Rose backwards. But Rose switched his weight and took Nick from behind, sending him to the ground once again.

“Fuck!” Nick roared out as Rose lifted his hands in victory. “Fuck, bitch!” Nick threw himself up and into Rose’s face. “I’m not taking this shit!”

“Yeah, fucker? Prove it, punk!” Rose pushed Nick as hard as he could, throwing him off balance. Nick replied in kind, launching himself into the air as he practically dove on Rose. The faintest hint of a whisper in the back of Nick’s mind wondered why he cared, why on earth this simple drill was causing him to fly into such a rage. But he fed off Rose’s energy, multiplying the anger and strength into a brawl ready attitude. They were pulled apart a second later by teammates, but Nick still called out for another round.

Nick’s brain turned itself off as he hit the line. Nothing existed inside his mind but a single obsessive focus: take down the other guy. The straightforward desire fueled his body more than any food. The sound of the whistle resulted in two bodies lunging at each other. The deep cracking sound of helmets smashing into each other caused the crowd to physically wince. The tussle continued, Nick’s energy and aggression growing, his feet planting firmly as he tried to whip around Rose. Rose grunted, grabbing the smaller man a few times but never quite getting his footing. This round lasted several seconds before Nick’s mindless aggression took the fall as Rose snagged another win, thanks to a hand that “slipped” under Nick’s facemask and sent him reeling.

While Rose celebrated another win, Nick rebounded from the ground, ripping his helmet off so much it practically bent his ears and stormed up to Rose.

“The fuck was that?”

“Back off, dick!” Rose shoved Nick again. This time Nick responded by head butting Rose, skull to helmet. Rose punched Nick in the chest, the pair flopping onto the ground. The hits stayed on the chest as they cussed each other out. Neither really felt much, although blood trickled out of Nick’s nose from the head butt. The coaches let the fight go on for a minute before half heartedly pulling the men apart.

Both heaved as they stood up, no worse for the wear, but the hierarchy firmly established. Thornton made them shake and they took it further into a one handed bro hug.

“Nice effort, bruh,” Rose laughed as he smacked Nick’s back.

“Fuck bruh!” Nick laughed. “I think you broke my fucking nose, bro!”

“Dude, you did that yourself, fucker!” They laughed. Whatever anger or tension Nick felt in the confrontation was over. Win or lose, he’d given his all for his bros and demonstrated his drive. He may not be the O-line alpha, but that was cool with him anyway. Nick had no desire to be a team captain.

Practice continued putting the guys through the grinder, the cutthroat tempo only increasing as the sun waned a bit. The players were split off into small groups for extra work. Nick found himself paired with some hulking, brawny dudes that seemed familiar.

“Sup, brotein,” Slade slapped Nick’s ass so hard he jumped.

“Fuck, bruh!” Nick said laughing. “What the hell you up to, fucker?”

“Grunting it out, man,” Slade and Nick continued talking as the coach set up some tackling dummies. Simple drill- line up, whistle, smack. Rinse and repeat. It was actually one of the slower progressions as the coaches offered corrections and repetitions to fix slight physical errors. After a couple of runs, Nick found himself huffing, arms planted on his hips, eyeing up the bro ahead of him. The guy had an ass for days, soaked in sweat, with a white jock strap framing his huge haunches. He rubbed his hand up and down his ass over the straps, seemingly tweaking or pulling at it. The brute turned to Nick.

“Hey bro.” It was Stone. Suited up, his impressive bulk shot to new heights, looking like an action figure brought to life.

“Sup dude,” Nick bounced from leg to leg.

“How’s it going?”

“Fuckin’ great, bro! Football fucking rocks!”

“Fuck yeah it does!” Stone adjusted himself again. “Fuck bro, gotta get a bigger jock! Straps are fucking killing me.” Nick stared more as Stone continued picking at himself.

“What you got under there?” Stone smacked Nick’s balls like a prized bull. Nick yelped and pulled back.

“Just some tights.”

“Gotta try a jock, bruh. Jocks for jocks!” Stone laughed, the bold guffaw reverberated in Nick’s helmet. It made sense, jocks for jocks. Stupid and simple, which was how Nick preferred things. Work harder, not smarter. At least when it came to sports. Nick adjusted his package and nodded at Stone. He knew he had some in the goody bag Adam had given him. Jockstraps were the old familiar. Football seemed so familiar to Nick, as though he spent his entire life studying it.

“Dumbroski!” the coach bellowed and Nick hopped into action.

Thornton led the team through a post practice talk, helmets off and one knee. It was the usual stuff about work ethic, drive, and giving your all for the team. Adam stepped up next, doing his role as a team captain and QB to give the boys another kind of pep talk, the trash talking, fist pumping, idiotic kind that drove packs of men to frenzy.

“We got our haters, bro,” Adam said. “Can’t let haters get you down. When the haters come for you, you come back stronger, tougher, and angrier than before. They hate us cause we’re the best. They hate us cause we work the hardest. They hate us cause we’re Clifton!”

“Clifton!” The pack of men shouted back.

“Spartan!”

“Strong”

“Spartan!”

“Pride!”

“Spartans!”

“Win!”

“Spartans!”

“Win!”

“Spartans!”

“Win!” Nick barked every word as loud as he could, drawing his voice from the deep recesses of his diaphragm, forcing out a harsh guttural sound that matched the others in pitch and bravado. Blood rushed out of his brain and into his swollen muscles and swelling up his dick. He felt a true connection to it through football. All testosterone and energy, aching for good release. Touchdowns and orgasms were practically the same sometimes. The team had started packing up and turning to the lockers when Thornton yelled out.

“Dumbroski! Sanchez! Here! Now!” The rest of the team shuffled off the field as the two newest members lined up in front of Coach Thornton like soldiers lining up for a drill sergeant.

“You were both late to weights. I hate tardiness.” Nick felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. It would have been better to be called out in front of the team. But here, with only the coach and Diego by him, he suspected this was going to hurt.

“Knight!” Thornton snapped and turned his head, expecting to see the assistant coach by his side. Instead, Coach Knight was giddly flirting with the cheerleading coach, the anaconda in his khakis prominently stiffening as he tried to hide it.

“Knight! Now!” Knight jumped and ran off leaving his paramour giggling as she went back to her girls.

“Am I keeping you, Coach?” Thornton asked dryly. Nick could feel the dry gulp that came from the younger coach’s mouth.

“Sorry, Coach.” His stiffy was quickly dying, even as his blushing grew.

“I was gonna have you put these two through a suicide cycle. But I think you can join them instead.” Knight’s mouth hung open as he prepared to protest before snapping it shut and sternly nodding. The team was about discipline after all, he’d set a bad example talking back.

“Get changed,” Thornton pointed to some clothes conveniently left on a bench. Knight dragged himself over as Thornton turned to the high school pair. “Suicides are simple,” he continued. “We’re gonna start here, at the fifty yard line. You’re going to run to 40 and back. Then run to the 30 and back. 20, 10, endzone. Fast as you can. Once you finish, we’ll take a break and start again.”

“How many we gotta do?” Diego’s spoke hazily.

“‘Til I say stop. Understood?” the boys nodded. Knight trudged back over, now reduced to wearing 70s short shorts and a lycra sleeveless top. His already impressive arms were on full display, the breathtaking span of his shoulders seemed to expand further without the pique fabric constraining it.

“How many?”

“You go until I say,” Thornton replied sternly. Nick had only a moment to catch Knight’s repressed eye roll before a whistle blew and his blood boiled. Nick darted down the field as fast as he could, hitting the yard line and whipping around. The first few sets seemed like nothing, but the ever expanding run combined with immediate turn around and Thornton blasting at them to run faster left Nick panting and heaving as he forced his body, newly oversized, further and further. It didn’t help that Diego blasted by Nick long ago, practically a set ahead. He barely kept pace with Knight, still in peak form despite his age. Thankfully, Knight’s hyper muscled physique meant he wasn’t another speedy rapscallion or Nick might have given up entirely.

Thornton gave them a minute rest after Nick and Knight finally got back to start. Diego finished a bit ahead, giving him time to stretch out a touch. While the two big dudes were panting, tongues hanging out of their mouths, Diego was practically unbothered. A shrill whistle signalled another round.

Nick found his lethargic panting quickly replaced with steely nerves as he hustled again. Diego blew past the beefy boys. Nick found himself annoyed again at guys like that. All speedy and energy, lithe and lean, not the bulky, brutish strength required on the line. He’d love to get a good tackle on a guy like that. Not that tackling was part of his job, not often at least. Nick was more likely to get tackled. But still, knocking some scrawny dude flat on his back sounded great.

By the time the third round started, Nick knew he was going to vomit. There was simply no way the retching in his stomach was going to suddenly stop. He kept pushing, through the cramping pain and gasping lungs, pushing himself further and faster, for Coach and team. When he finally couldn’t continue, Nick ripped off his helmet and stumbled to a metal bin on the sideline and hurled. Thornton came over to him, grabbed his shoulders and guided him over towards a bench. Nick sat down, disgusted with his mouth and embarrassed. Thornton handed him a bottle of brightly colored sports drink and told him to chug it down. He did and felt better-the taste of pile cleansed from his palate.

“I’m proud of you son,” Thornton said without looking at him. “That’s giving your all. Takes a lot of guts to push yourself that far.” Nick felt entirely sure that he was hallucinating until the coach almost tenderly wiped some upchuck from Nick’s cheek.

“Thanks Coach!” he beamed. Coach gave him another pat on the shoulder pads, firm enough to feel but soft enough to not rattle him anymore.

“Go ahead and get cleaned up. I wanna chat before you leave though. I’ve got to finish up with these slackers!” He winked at Nick and gestured towards the lockers. Not wasting a freebee, Nick hustled off the field. Or would have hustled if he still wasn’t feeling a little woozy. The drink had done wonders but he had still pushed himself further than he even knew he could. And that made him proud. And made Coach proud.

--------

The locker room was a pretty unruly place today. With Thornton occupied on the field, the boys let loose a little bit, some light roughhousing and a couple of towel snaps set the scene as Nick arrived. Sitting down at his locker and undoing the pads, he hastily tugged the armor and jersey off his body. As he was halfway out, one arm almost free, someone came up behind him and helped pull it off. A smiling Slade stood behind him holding his pads.

“So, how’d it go?” he feigned concern while laughing.

“I vomited. Coach let me come in early.”

“No shit, bro!” Slade laughed louder. “I think I did that once,” he furrowed his neanderthal brow, giving the impression thinking was painful. “Happens to everyone. Good effort, bruh!” He offered a fist bump which Nick returned as he continued stripping down. Slade meandered off to dick around with some of the other guys, while Nick headed to the showers.

Last time, he’d been so behind the pack that the showers were mostly empty. Today, however, the boys seemed to be taking their time. He was forced into a faucet right in the middle, leaving no room to cover or hide himself.

“Look at this fucker,” Nick turned to see Rose lathering up his armpits and smirking. Nick rolled his eyes as he turned on the water and started soaping up. “You gave me a real run today, dude.”

Nick smiled as he looked at Rose. He’d only really seen him behind the facemask. And certainly, he wasn’t a looker, far too simian and square. But without the helmet and the athletic aggression, there was a sort of fraternal energy about him. Besides, he probably could have beaten the shit out of Nick if he wanted. “Yeah dude,” Nick replied. “I was just real riled today, bro. Gotta take the energy out somewhere.” Washington, showering beside Rose, made a jacking motion and the boys laughed.

“Yeah Broski, maybe you outta take the real dick out for a spin.” Rose helicoptered his dick at Nick. For a single moment, Nick was genuinely horrified at the display. But there was also something funny about it. Friendly. And stupid. They were all guys, right. They all had dicks. What was the harm? Nick spread his legs and jumped up and down, letting his dick flop around wildly. The boys laughed and a few eyes bulged out as Nick swung his proud Polish sausage around. He felt the weight of it smacking into his abs, the heavy sag of his balls as gravity pulled them down. The whole package felt weighty, meaty, and intimately connected to everything about himself.

“Fuck dude, someone’s packing!” someone said. Nick blushed but didn’t hide himself. He refused to feel embarrassed. The other guys were nude, he wasn’t gonna be the one bullied into hiding.

“Seriously bro, that’s a dick!”

“A big dick.”

“Nick the Dick.”

“Big Dick!” The team was suddenly chanting “Dick, Dick, Dick” over and over and in that moment he realized he’d earned himself a team nickname. He was bonded to them. The name, Dick, was their own personal brand on his being. What kind of guy was Dick? He was a football player. Dick was on the football team. Big Dick Dumbroski. And Dick was fucking proud.

Dick swaggered out of the shower, towel wrapped around his neck, letting his pendulous cock swing side to side. Traces of water dripped off his body and onto the concrete floor. He got some generous hoots and hollers that made him give a cocky smile and a bro nod. Snagging his briefs from the locker, he awkwardly pulled them up, his gigantic thighs spread wide as he hoisted the fabric over his muscles, swallowing his gargantuan ass in white, cupping and comforting his veiny cock and thick balls. He stuffed himself into some tight jeans, the bulge of cock seemingly more prominent than in just his skivvies. Dick spent a couple of minutes chatting with some bros, reliving practice or bitching about school. Finally, he sauntered over to the mirror to fix his hair, where a couple of guys groomed and took selfies.

Diego pursed his lips and tightened his washboard abs, trying to find just the right light to showcase his glorious bod. He bro nodded at Dick as he pulled up. Nick spent several minutes running gooey paste through his hair, restoring the mussy mop into an artificially wild pomp slash mohawk. While he flexed in the mirror for good measure, Slade came up and wrapped his arms around him and Diego.

“So, guys, how’d it go?”

“Get outta my shot, troll,” Diego shot back, shaking Slade off him.

“Damn, bro. I’m just making sure you loved practice is all.”

“Ain’t gonna get the good puss with you trolling around…. Troll-face.” Diego spurt out the last words slowly, his brain barely keeping up with his mouth.

“Sick burn, dude,” Slade laughed and smacked Diego on the shoulder. “Gimme some more of that fat ego.” Dick and Slade laughed at the not-a-joke. Diego just rolled his eyes.

“Imma show this fat ego off!” He said, snapping another pic of a tanned body and chiseled face.

“Damn Diego, lay off Slade. He’s cool.” Dick turned to Slade. “Practice was fucking awesome! So fucking glad I’m on the team!”

“Me too, bro,” Diego said without taking his eyes off the mirror. “I’m gonna fucking dominate that field this year.”

“Diego really does got an ego,” Dick eyed the ex-nerd. Diego let out a deep sigh.

“I got an ego cause I’m fucking awesome, dudes! Fastest goddam player on the team. Best fucking wide receiver in the state.” Slade and Dick both feigned worship.

“Ego, ego, ego,” Slade repeated.

“Diego, leggo dat ego,” Dick egged on. Slade laughed.

“If all you gonna talk ‘bout is my ego, at least fucking call me Ego!” he snarked back.

“Bitch, giving himself a fucking nickname!”

“Fine, Ego, we’ll call you fucking Ego.” All three boys smiled at that and laughed. Ego snapped a pic in the mirror.

“Thought I was too fucking ugly, Ego,” Slade joked.

“Only for the chicks. Gotta get some good ones with my boys, too!” The trio laughed and snapped a few more, making goofy faces or sometimes looking overly stern. Random guys would pop in and out of various pics. Some others kept styling themselves, while others took the opportunity to get some new pics for the Gram.

--------

Dick dicked around in the lockers waiting for Coach Thornton. He flexed his meaty pecs in the mirrors taking selfies with his bros, got caught in a headlock from Rose, and spent some time icing his knees for good measure. Most of the guys were gone by the time Thornton called him into his office.

Standing before the desk, legs spread wide, arms dangling at his side, gym bag draped across a shoulder, mouth open while he breathed, Dick got a strong stirring of deja vu. How many times had he been just like this, standing at a desk, waiting on Thornton? Of course, he hadn’t been a beefy jock covered in school colors. I mean, it seemed like he was, like he always had been, but there was something amiss.

“So, Dumbroski,” Thornton led off. Dick snapped his mouth shut and listened, never once moving to sit in the chair next to him. “That was a good hustle out there. I love that kind of effort! Plus, bet you won’t be late again, will ya?”

“No Coach!” Dick barked back.”

“Didn’t think so! Now, we’ve pretty much gotten you all situated with the team. Did you have anything else you wanted to ask me about?” Dick scratched his balls, unsure if he was supposed to answer. He didn’t usually ask the Coach questions. That wasn’t his job.

“Umm, no, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think.” It should have been a question, but the harsh declaration from Thornton’s mouth didn’t encourage response. Dick just nodded in reply.

“Did you have some notes you needed to ask me about?” Thornton’s lips curled as he asked the question; he enjoyed watching the bulky athlete’s confusion. Dick stared for a bit before his brain recognized the question and remembered his notes.

“Oh shit! Oh, fuck, sorry Coach!” He dropped the bag to the ground and dug around. Athletic shorts and protein shakers spilled out as Dick tore around, snagged little sticky notes and collected them in a pile on the ground. Sheepishly, he gathered up the crumbled notes in his meaty paws and dumped them on the desk.

“Quite organized, Dumbroski!” Thornton laughed as he unwrinkled the notes and displayed them across the desk. Dick shrugged apathetically.

“I’m not the most organized, bro,” he admitted.

“No big deal, we all have our strengths.”

“Like football!” Dick belted out, flexing a bicep as he did. The popping veins that emerged over his tanned arms made him smile. He looked good. He flexed harder, really pumping up the bicep, making the muscle swell against the skin. For a moment, he wondered if maybe he could pop the skin and his muscle would grow like a balloon. It was a stupid thought, and the blood loss would probably kill him, but it was kinda neat to think about.

“So, Broski, let’s see. These are all the notes about football you took a few days ago.”

“What?”

“We had a talk about various positions on the football team. Do you remember?”

“Umm, like, yeah, Coach. But that was when I was getting geared up, right?”

“No, it was before that. You were working on an article for the school newspaper.”

“The fuck? No fucking way, Coach!”

“Trust me, Dick, you were. But not anymore, I take it?”

“Fuck no! Newspapers fucking lame! I ain’t gonna waste time writing shit. What, was it like, game play stuff?”

“No, you were raising awareness about the risk of injury in football.”

“‘Risk of injury’ sounds fucking wimpy, Coach, no offense.”

“I know, Broski. But you aren’t worried about that anymore, right?”

“Worried ‘bout getting hurt? Nah, man, I’m worried about fucking crushing the other team!”

“And you don’t want to write for the paper? Even, like as a sports journalist.”

“Coach, writing ain’t my strong suit. I got football and math. That’s my good shit.”

“I know, Broski. I just want my men to be the best they can be.”

“Best fucking tight end I can be! Right, Coach!” Dick let out an animalistic roar and Thornton laughed.

“Right, Broski! Well, I’ve only got one more thing for you today,” he pressed forward a sheet for paper. It was a roster lineup. It said, ‘Dumbroski, Dick TE 81’. “Does that look correct to you, son?” Dick gave it the once over. It seemed good and he nodded.

“Now, I can’t change this once it’s printed. So, this will be your name on all school and football records. So, if there’s a spelling error or something, tell me now.” The way Thornton said it was earnest but ominous. Dick took another second to read it over. Technically, it was a nickname, right? And Dumbroski, yeah that’s what everyone called him. Big Dick Dumbroski. He’d had that nickname for… a long time. He was pretty sure.

“Dick Dumbroski, 81, tight end. Looks right to me, Coach.” Thornton smiled and nodded as he took back the form.

“Well son, you’re good to go then.”

“Thanks Coach.” Dick turned to leave before stopping. “Umm, I don’t think any of the guys are here. Dayne gave me a ride home yesterday….”

“I’ve asked Coach Knight to take you. He was showering. I’m sure he’ll be finishing up by now.”

“Thanks again, Coach!”

“See you bright and early, son.”

--------

Sitting on the passenger side of a beat up pick-up truck, windows rolled down so you could feel the waning heat of summer, Dick sat silently as Coach John Knight drove him home. He knew Knight wasn’t a huge talker, but so far the journey had been literally silent. And while there had been a time where sitting in silence would have been his preference, nowadays Dick liked the noise.

“So, Coach, how ya feel after them suicides?” Dick laughed as Knight let out a large groan.

“I’m not as in shape as I used to be.”

“Coach make you do that often?”

“No, Dick. He was making an example. Besides, I’ve been a little distracted.”

“Yeah, I saw you chatting up Ms. Delaney. You got a girlfriend?” The stern man blushed uncharacteristically which made Dick bust out laughing.

“Ah, sorry, but damn, your face!” He kept cackling as Knight’s face reverted to its sern demeanor.

“Don’t swear, Dick.”

“Sorry, Coach.” They sat in silence for another moment.

“So,” Dick continued. “You and Ms. Delaney.” Knight shook his head weakly. “I’m surprised a guy like you ain’t married.”

“That’s on the agenda. Football got in the way.”

“Football takes priority,” Dick said reactively and John nodded in agreement. The true bond of the team, it comes first. It’s your job, your family, your past, and your future.

“But, coaching is a good chance to start a family.”

“Oh man, Coach. You’d be a good father. Probably want like ten sons, huh?”

“Well, not ten, heck no,” Knight laughed. “But I’d like to have a couple of kids, definitely.”

“I can definitely see you as a family man. A whole pack of sons! You can coach Pop Warner!” Knight laughed before his face contorted a bit.

“I don’t know about that. I think I could handle my own kids. But coaching a whole pack of little guys who don’t know what’s going on might drive me insane.”

“You wanna stay in Clifton?”

“Yes, I really like it here. Great schools, great place to raise a family. Plus, killer football program.” Knight flashed him a devilish grin. “I don’t think I could stay in a school district that wasn’t a contender!”

“F---heck yeah!” Dick caught himself. Knight was the super religious coach. Some of the others went on foul mouthed tirades suited for a bombastic drill instructor. Knight definitely kept those morals on and off the field. It was respectable, even if Dick felt great telling a guy to fuck off after knocking him down.

--------

His father out, still dealing with some sort of water problem, Dick made himself dinner, basically consuming any readily available food in the home. Fortunately, there was plenty nowadays. Multiple pizzas, gallons of milk, and an array of prepackaged salads filled the fridge while tubs of protein powder and workout formulas sat on top. Dick made his selection and sat down in front of TV, dutifully programmed to ESPN and ate while watching the shows and flipping through his homework. Or rather, he would, but his classes didn’t really have homework, not during football season for sure! Coaches had better things to do than grade right now. And calc was already taken care of. Dick spread his legs across the coffee table and watched football happily. He briefly questioned if he should worry, if there was something he was supposed to do. But he had done his job today: football. There wasn’t much else going on. He made sure of that, and so did Thornton. No, now he could relax and rest up. And catch up on some college and pro ball!

=Friday=

Dick Dumbroski woke up flat on his back, a gold cross laying between his bountiful pecs, with a single sheet draped between his thighs held upright from his raging hormones. He gave a few good thrusts into the sheet before popping his neck from side to side and getting out of bed. His room was Spartan, just like his school. There were a few trophies along a wall and a few posters of tight ends and one old beer ad where you could just make out the chick’s areola over his bed. His bag was tossed in a corner with clothes strewn about. He snagged a few items- Nike gear, a couple of extra shirts, protein bars- and tossed them into the bag. Out of a dresser he pulled some jeans, polo, and some white briefs. Dick shoved the jeans and shirt into his bag and stuffed his thick sausage into the underpants. He loved his briefs, he loved his jeans, he loved the Navy blue polo with the Spartan mascot imprinted on his beastly pec. Every day, head to toe, inside and out, he was a jock. One goal on the field, one goal off the field. Uniform on the field, uniform off the field. He didn’t like thinking, worrying, getting caught up in stuff. Life had too much shit going on. It was easier when he followed the Coach’s plays. He was a good football player, a good jock, and good bro.

Stomping down the stairs, Dick felt almost off kilter from his weight, feeling his thighs rub against each other every stride. His chest felt heavy. He fought the urge to tilt forward by pressing out his lats, filling the stairway. As he sauntered into the kitchen in only his skivvies, Dick worried what his father would think if he were to see him, bare chested and teenage bulge on full display. He shrugged that thought off quickly. Dad wouldn’t care, except maybe to comment on making sure he worked out his back as hard as his chest. The muscles you can’t see are just as important as the ones you can or something.

Dick chugged through the remains of a gallon of whole milk and then began mixing a protein shake while gulping down a banana. He added a few generous spoonfuls of pre-workout to the shake as he scooped peanut butter out of a jar with a spoon. He hesitated for a moment before tossing his used spoon into the overflowing sink. One of them should really do the dishes. And when had they become such pigs? But then he shrugged it off. Dad had work and he had practice. Hell, he hadn’t even seen his dad this week, between football and his dad’s water problem they’d been busy as shit.

As he readied up another protein shake, Dick felt a gurgling energy in his stomach. Chugging his shake dragged a ton of air into his body. For a moment he was concerned, not that he was doing something gross, but that it might come out the wrong end. But his mind didn’t care enough to stop and so he opened his mouth and released a mammoth burp. The dishes in the sink rattled as the bovine belch retched from his mouth. Dick laughed dumbly, feeling better but regretting that no one was here to witness it. Slade would go crazy for a burp like that. Maybe he could try again at lunch.

After a harsh piss and some time styling his hair, Dick got dressed. He knew Coach preferred khakis, the old man had some obsession with that, but Dick loved the way his musculature filled out a pair of Levi’s. Every inch of his legs, the veiny calves and bulky quads and gorgeous rumpus, was accentuated by the denim. Besides, he wore the polos like Coach preferred. And they looked fucking beastly on him. He’d look real fucking good with a big ole pair of studs in his ears. Coach’d probably throw a fit about that and totally forget about the jeans!

Bag slung over his shoulder and a pair of reflective aviators on his face, Dick swaggered outside to a busted pickup truck that had been painted white at some point. Pop had gotten it off some dude who worked at the water plant for cheap. They’d only moved here with one car but no way Dick could get to and from practice on the fucking bus. It didn’t have AC or bluetooth or nothing but he fit in the car and at least the radio was stuck on a local station that spent a large amount of time on high school sports. Which meant Clifton. And he loved hearing about Clifton football.

“-that was Oakane’s starting quarterback, Jalen McElroy. Such a great kid, ya know. These players really are some of the best guys you’re gonna meet. And of course, our high school roundup wouldn’t be finished without talking about the titans of the conference, the Clifton Spartans!” Dick verbally cheered in his car as the staticy voice bellowed from the speaker.

“Always a great day with Spartan football! And I got a chance to peek into practice the other day and I gotta tell you, Adam Griffith is looking great this year. That kid really gained some strength in the off season, his throwing arm has never looked better. Plus, I think he’s really got that focus.”

“Yeah, Stan, a year on the bench at Clifton really does a lot for a player's development. Don’t know how Thornton does it.”

“Well, it’s a lot of hard work. Leadership really seems to be developing, too. It can be hard, Clifton makes great players-”

“It’s a real NFL pipeline.”

“Right you are, Chuck. But still, when you’ve got that many talented players, you really gotta work on sorting out egos. And that’s what Thornton really does to make this team shine.”

“Yeah, building that camradere.”

“And taking care of selfish attitudes.” Dick listened as they prattled on. Preseason it was mostly just generic talk. Once the games started, then shop talk would start.

--------

He arrived midway through the swarm of players, despite Dick’s sometimes lazy appearance, fifteen minutes early was late in his mind. And all the guys knew practice started way before “practice” started, with gearing up and warming up. Two big guys crawled up along Dick’s side, one slapping his butt and the other wrapping an arm around his neck.

“Da fuck?” Dick yelped as the two laughed.

“Sup, Broski,” Rose smelled his hand and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Fucking shit yourself?” Dick smack the bigger dude and laughed.

“Feelin’ pumped?” Washington thrust his hips forward a few times as the other two laughed.

“Fuck yeah, bro!”

“Wasn’t sure if yesterday wiped you out.”

“Or if you was a quitter,” Rose tacked that on at the end. Dick turned around and puffed himself up in rage.

“I ain’t a fuckin’ quitter, bitch,” he voice dropped as his nostrils flared and mouth sneered. The other two laughed and smacked him on the shoulders.

“Glad to hear it, Broski,” Washington smiled. “Clifton don’t take kindly to quitters.”

“Or wimps,” Rose snarled.

“Me neither,” Dick felt an internal rage at guys who gave up or wimped out. That wasn’t teamwork. That wasn’t team spirit. And that wasn’t fucking Clifton, for sure.

Today was a drill cycle, running and jumping, giving most of the boys a chance to work off that farmers tan. A naked Dick eyed a pristine jockstrap in his bag. Thinking of Stone, he pulled the straps apart and stepped in, letting the pouch cradle his crotch while the straps highlighted his oversized derriere. It felt good. He added some navy blue tights and white crew socks on top, leaving his wide chest and workman’s abs on full display. Might as well get some summer sun on this sick bod.

As he pulled on his shoes, Griffth and his posse of Kip and Peyton arrived, with a fourth guy trailing behind. Adam yapped away, talking about some date or conquest that was probably half imaginary, but he had an image he wanted to keep up and his main bros were happy to play along. The fourth member, a tall, tanned man with pouty lips, a skinny waist, and curvaceous booty laughed along with the rest in the sort of hollow hooting that came from boys joking together. All brawn, no brains, all fun, no thinking. When Dick finally focused on the new stud, he recognized Ego, overstyled as any egotistical wide receiver.

“Yo, Ego,” Dick called out when Adam took a break. The hispanic bro smiled and flashed him a thumbs up.

“Yo, look at my tight end!” Adam sauntered over and eyed Dick who felt compelled to stand up. Adam gave the lineman’s ass a generous bounce and stifled a giggle. “You turned out good. And the end isn’t even the biggest part!” He swatted Dick’s nuts who hastily tried to cover his balls. He felt a strange tingle on his spine when Adam’s hand briefly connected.

“Shit, bro. Leave the gems alone.”

“I’m joking bro. Can’t wait to get your thicc ass on the line. You know those haters got a lot of problems with me. Your job is to protect me.” Adam said it while making unwavering eye contact, peering so far into Dick’s eyes it made him feel queasy.

“You got it QB!”

“Fuck yeah!” He smacked Dick’s ass, hard, for good measure before returning to his bros and gearing up himself.

Dick meandered onto the field. Coaches were setting up and talking with players, a couple of guys were tossing a ball back and forth while some others stretched. A seemingly sore Knight set up some ladders and cones on one side. Dick jogged in place, getting some blood flowing, warming up the body, and enjoying the hefty bounce of his jockstrapped cock. The spandex bulge bounced from side to side as he moved.

A whistle blew and things started just like every other day. Adam led the team through a series of stretches and clapping exercises. Dick executed them perfectly and mindlessly, knowing each call back and complicated pattern. Spartan Strong. Spartan Tough. Spartans Fight. Spartans Win. It was a mantra and a matter of fact. Being a Clifton Spartan made you a winner. Every man on that team, from coach to player, was a winner, the highest tier among the football jocks of the world. They didn’t just play, they conquered.

Next came warms ups, jumping jacks, bunny hops, anything to get the muscles warm and the blood flowing. It was still pretty cool at this time of day, Dick’s nipples were hard as they brushed against the cool breeze of the morning. But discomfort was built into football. Any time, any weather, you hit the field and played your heart out.

Following laps, the players got sorted into smaller groups for technical drills and training. All these tasks were copied straight from the NFL combine. Good functional and strength drills, plus a lot of these guys were only a few years out from the NFL draft. Dick’s first drill was the 40 yard dash. Pretty simple, run 40 yards as fast as you can. Like everything in football, it wasn’t that simple. If you wanted to be the best, the fastest, cover the distance of an average punt in 4.3 seconds, you worked at it. One hand down, one hand up, feet at the ready, head down, pump the arms, every single little tweak and nudge is the difference between success and failure, between a rocky start and beating someone else, you can stop a play before it even starts.

Dick watched a few other guys go. The coaches gave corrections which he half paid attention to joking around with the other bros and keeping himself warm and limber. When it was finally his turn, Coach Rapp spent a few minutes just going over the basics of the start, how the weight in his hands works, how to align his ankles. Every detail can be improved, cutting fractions of a second on a run. When he did do a few runs, his time wasn’t anywhere near 4.3. He was still in high school after all. But it was good enough. Dick wasn’t an exceptionally fast guy, he had the Gronkowski bulk. And his manly bulk practically busted his jockstrap as the mammoth bulge swung to and fro as he ran. It felt good. The guys all laughed afterwards about it. His bros could joke about his massive cock or a smelly fart or some stupid shit the dumbest guys said. It was all in fun, so long as they did their best.

The players rotated through other tests, vertical jump, broad jump, cone drill, each time with a coach offering corrections and advice to maximize their performance. Every minute spent on the field was a chance to perform better than someone else. You could move up the roster, beat the other team, get a higher draft spot, so long as you did your best and kept improving your best. There was a repetition to the whole thing: better, stronger, faster, team. Everything they did was designed to mold the players into an outstanding football player. That was the only kind of development the coaches cared about, and it was the only kind of development the players focussed on.

--------

Post practice featured the same kind of manly roughhousing and ribbing that would follow men their entire lives. Dick pulled down his tights, exposing his pale bum highlighted by a tan line from the morning. As he bent over to pull them off his feet, someone came up behind him, grabbed his hips and playfully thrusted their crotch into his butt. A bunch of dudes laughed as Dick jousted around, grappling his wouldbe assailant under a leg and hoisting him up. The other guy had but a moment to shift his weight to keep from toppling to the concrete floor.

“Damn bro, sure you ain’t going for the wrestling team?” Slade joked. The other jock was barenaked save for his own jockstrap.

“Fuckin’ might, dude. If school don’t want me for spring training.” Dick bounced his pecs and laughed. “These titties would look fuckin’ ace in a singlet though.” The jockstrapped boys let out their deep, bovine laughs and continued stripping down. While some of the guys covered up, or at least held a towel over their crotch in feign modesty, Dick wrapped his around his neck, happily showing off his sweaty cock and letting it get some fresh air. He got some hoots and hollers about being Big Dick Dumbroski, or big dick dumb bro, and Dick let them go at it. Ain’t nothing down there he had to be ashamed of.

Dick lathered up with the rest of his bros, pressing the astringent soap into his worn muscles, giving himself a small massage before heading off to class. Even after a practice with no tackling, his body was still sore. That’s how he knew he gave it his all. Plus the manly smell of the bar, part leather, part aftershave, and just a touch of musk, soothed his football aggression and awoke his partially dormant mind for the school day ahead. Coach needed his guys big and aggressive on the field. But being an idiot and getting into a fight or something made the team look bad, and worse, might prevent him from playing. That threatening thought smacked Dick awake even further. Fighting belonged in pads, even if the urge to slam some dweeb into a locker was hard to repress.

Back at the locker, Dick saddled into a fresh pair of briefs. His masculine bulge pressing outward while the gargantuan width of his ass looked even larger by the contrast of white on tan. Dick already had that fully developed man ass, no tight little bubble butt, this thing moved mountains. And was a mountain. Pulling on his polo and jeans, Dick loved the way his muscle prodded and pulled at the fabric, how the sleeves bundled up over his bis and tris, how the lats and delts stretched the fabric over his back only to let it billow around the tight waist and pile on the tremendous shelf of his glutes. Every inch of his hard work in the gym and on the field, every early morning and early night, on full display through his clothing.

As he groomed himself in the mirror, Slade came up and slapped Dick’s ass. “Class, bruh?”

“Right on dude!” The pair made eye contact via the mirror before flexing their biceps in the mirror.

“Sweet shot, dudes! Hang on a sec!” the ever bouncy Dayne propped up next to Dick and hit the same pose and snapped a pic in the mirror using his phone. Three meatheads, beauty, beef, and beast, all flaunting their muscles.

“Oh shit, we look bomb!”

“Fuck yeah!” Both Dick and Slade responded before fist bumping Dayne and heading out.

--------

As the bros walked to class, Dick suddenly got an urge in his gut. “Gotta take a piss, bro,” he nudged Slade and they headed into the same bathroom as the previous days. The boys saddled up at the urinals and let their streams flow. The harsh sounds of thick water hitting ceramic were interrupted by a violent release of air from Slade. The boys laughed at the stink and Dick tried to one up him, producing a practically toxic cloud of fart.

“Ah, fuck dude! Now that’s how a bro does it!”

“Fuck yeah, brah! Ugh, all that protein powder.”

“Right man. Shit fucking gets to me.” The pair kept talking as they zipped up and washed their hands, admiring their faces in the mirror.

“Gotta get swole!”

“Buff and tough! Plus, still gotta behave for Taysha.”

“Yeah, bro, you lookin’ to pick up a girlfriend?”

“Dunno, but gotta get a hottie lined up for homecoming. What about you Big Dick? Got your eye on anyone.” Dick stared vapidly in his reflection.

“Ain’t thought about it.”

“Course you ain’t thought,” Slade laughed. “But that cheerleader, Brittany Van Baas, she had her eyes on you yesterday.”

“No shit brah?”

“I wouldn’t fuck with my bro like that! Time to start working on your game, bruh!” Dick laughed and thought about it. He had memories of homecoming, being suited up and taking pics on field with a pretty girl in a dress. It felt hazy, like remembering a dream. But he would look badass. Plus he’d already be on field for it. Might as well have a date or something.

As the boys sauntered into the classroom, Dick’s eyes immediately drew to Brittany who was chatting with her friends. Upon seeing Dick, she waved a bit and the whole gaggle of gals started giggling. Dick blushed a touch and felt a rush of blood pump to his cock. He sidestepped awkwardly and tugged it down to save face. As he sat down between Slade and another letterman jacketed meathead on the team, Dick thought about what Slade said a bit more. He wasn’t likely to be homecoming king or anything, anything that interfered with Griffith’s status as top dog was a no-no. But he was still on the team. They’d have the whole thing on the field plus a dance. Might as well get a partner. Especially someone who matched his thunder god physique. Someone so cute and tiny, he could lift her up with one hand. He’d seen male cheerleaders do that at college games. Maybe he could try it.

As his mind plotted how best to flirt, Coach Rapp walked in and started class. Dick spoke English just fine, so far as he was concerned. All this stuff, old books and weird grammar, was just loser stuff for guys who couldn’t make the team. It wasn’t hard, he knew he’d excel if he devoted even a shred of brainpower to it. But that would be a waste of his brain. There was always more to do with football. Plus, he was good at math. That was enough. Plenty of teams would be stoked to have a star player getting a math degree, even if his performance in other subjects was mediocre.

As class wrapped up and students started heading out, Slade and Dick hung around to chat with the gals. “Hey Taysha,” Slade’s voice dropped in volume just a touch. It still had the obnoxious bro vibe but quieter at least.

“Sup, Haskins,” she smiled while giving him a bro nod.

“Umm, just finished class.”

“Me too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Damn, bro. You sound dumber than usual!” Dick burst in, causing Taysha to bust up laughing. Slade got visibly annoyed.

“Shit, bro, gimme a break.”

“It’s a joke, Haskins,” Taysha rolled her eyes at him then gave him a wink. Slade let out a little squeak.

“Who’s your friend?” Brittany asked Slade. Whereas Taysha was full of top jock bravado, Brittany had a girly, high pitched voice with a touch of fake bashfulness.

“Ah, new bro!” Slade wrapped his arms around Dick’s shoulders while Dick did his best to puff out his chest and straighten his back. He flashed Brittany his cocky smile. “This is Dick. Tight end. So, Taysha…,” introduction accomplished, Slade turned to other matters, leaving Dick feigning confidence as he stood in front of Brittany.

“So, Dick?” She reached up and put one polished finger on his chest and pressed firmly. Dick covered his crotch with his hands as his hormones exploded.

“Uh, yeah! They don’t call me Dick cause I’m mean, though. It’s cause I’ve got a huge co….,” Dick trailed off and stuttered as he realized what he was saying. His face got a little flush. Fortunately, she just giggled and eyed his bulge.

“Yeah? Maybe we’ll have to see about that.” She puckered her lips and blew a kiss before turning to leave with her giggling friends. Dick adjusted himself awkwardly for another second before Slade smacked him on the shoulder.

“Smooth operator!” He laughed.

“Shut up, bitch!” Dick gave a friendly shove and smiled as they headed out.

--------

“Dumbroski!” Kazmi greeted Dick warmly as he walked in. Dick offered a fist bump which his teacher happily returned.

“Sup, Coach. Ya got anything for me today?” Kazmi shook his head.

“I’ll probably get you grading starting Monday, those review tests will get turned in. Plus, I’ll have homework coming in from some of the other classes. I teach a basic math skills class for some of the students who have a hard time with math. They’ll have some worksheets due.”

“Bet you got a lot of football players in that class!” Kazmi stifled a laugh.

“A few. We all have things we’re good at.”

“Truth. So, Coach, what position were you?”

“I got moved around a bit. Lot of time at tight end, I was a bit bigger then!”

“You play in college?”

“Nah, I was an oarsman. Rowing.”

“That’s cool. I’ve never done that.”

“Well, there is a club around. It’s mostly active in the summer. But I can always take you out sometime if you want.”

“Yeah, dude! Surprised you ain’t putting a team together.”

“Well, in high school it’s mostly a spring sport. And a lot of the guys here tend to go to football camps or play baseball. Besides, football is my favorite!”

“Awesome!” Dick kept up the idle conversation with Kazmi. He took to him with earnest and obvious admiration. Kazmi had a lot of qualities Dick wanted in himself, aside from not playing football in college. Dick was going pro, and college ball was the way through.

Kazmi gave the students time during class to finish up the review and ask any questions. Having already blasted through, Dick poured over a playbook. Kazmi would probably start offering him harder stuff on the side to do, never hurts to get more AP prep, but for now he wanted to get this so firmly implanted in his brain that not even helmet to helmet contact from a shitty linebacker would dislodge it. He’d remember his high school plays as an old man.

Post class, Dick dashed off to the cafeteria. Calc was his last “academic” class of the day, now it was on to the important stuff - football. And the goal was always to get bigger and buffer and stronger, so lunchtime was a period of hard work for the players. Stretch your stomach like you stretch your muscles. Per usual, Dick loaded his plate sky high with every meat, carb, and vegetable available, forming a tumbling mountain of edible mush. His stomach gurgled loudly as he stared at the tower of sustenance.

Slamming his tray down, Dick dove into the food, relentlessly shoveling masses of goo into his mouth. His chewing was only interrupted when the glob in his mouth got too large, and he chugged some milk to wash it down. As the milk poured down his throat, Dick felt some air building. He made sure to slow down and save that for the boys.

Slade and Stone arrived soon, greeting with only cursory nods before diving into their own foods. Friday was game day, or it would be soon. And that was the most important day to load up. Fill their bodies with boundless energy to be consumed by football. After a few minutes of cravenly eating in silence, Stone turned his head and looked at other bros.

“Where’s what-his-face? Egg dude?” Slade and Dick stared at him confused for a moment before the lightbulb went off in their heads.

“Ego!” They both burst out at the same time. “Shit, where is that bro?” The trio turned a bit, searching around the lunchroom for their missing bruh. They saw him chatting up Betsy Truong and Ashleigh Devarian, his overflowing tray balanced in one hand as he seductively rubbed Ashleigh’s side. The girls seemed half amused and half interested, letting Ego run his arrogant mouth and flex his pecs.

“Dude’s going for it,” Stone slurred while chugging.

“Yeah, but Ashleigh ain’t gonna go for him. She’s a tease,” Slade huffed.

“You’re bitter she dragged your ass.”

“Fuck dude, gotta keep bringin’ that shit up! I was just fucking around, she ain’t my type.”

“She’s my type,” Dick piped in, thinking of Brittany and her pert body. Small and petite, buxom and blonde, stereotyped cheerleaders were definitely Dick’s type.

“Yeah, Broski here bombed with Brittany today.”

“Shut up!” Dick said, slapping Slade.

“How’d it go?” Stone asked.

“Fine, gonna hit her up again. Maybe tonight.” The guys laughed and gave him some more grief. Dick loved having his bros around him. After a few more minutes of shit talking, they realized Ego still wasn’t coming.

“Yo! Ego!” Dick shouted. Ego turned and flipped the bird, causing the boys to laugh.

“Coach will be pissed if you slack, bro.”

“Yeah, feeling up to more suicides, bruh!” That got Ego’s attention. He offered some cute comment that made the girls giggle and swoon a bit before joining his bros at the table.

“Fuck dudes, you are a game killer,” he said as he started scooping food into his mouth.

“Ha, bro, those chicks ain’t interested in you. They want a real man!” Slade said as he flexed his biceps.

“Trust bro, when they Insta that shit, they ain’t tagging us the same.”

“What hashtag scrawny boy? I’m all beef!” Slade said, flexing his biceps.

“How about hashtag hottie? Or hot guy? Or gym bro?” Ego replied, flexing his own bicep. The muscle engorged, thick veins rippling across the muscle, blood pumping them up like the overworked vanity muscles they were. The guys laughed at the display and everyone calmed down as they dove into their meals, filling their growing muscled and hard worked bodies with the calories needed to grow into the future football players they could become. Still, they fit in a few conversations amid the devouring.

“Coach is always up my ass ‘bout something,” Stone muttered as he scooped another mouthful and sucked it down.

“Cause you got a big ass,” Dick teased.

“Oh, Big Broski coming through with some trash talk!” Ego high fived Dick and the pair laughed.

“You wanna see something else that’s big?” Stone glared menacingly for a moment before contorting his face and opening his jaw to release a deep, gurgly burp. The guys laughed and banged on the table, hooting and hollering incoherently.

“Dudes!” Dick busted in. “Like, I totally let out a huge one this morning! Too bad you weren’t there.”

“Bro, gotta show it off!” Slade laughed as he prepared himself and let out a loud but shallow belch, causing the boys to bust into another round of laughter.

“You dudes are fucking gross,” Ego laughed, slurping down a container of milk and getting up like he was walking away. The bros called out to him and as Stone turned around, Ego bent over and retched right into his face. It didn’t have the noise or the reverb of the others, but it was long. A constant empty stream of guttural noise. Again, the table laughed uproariously. After they calmed down, the other three all turned to Dick. Dick eyed them nervously.

“So, bro,” Stone said. “What ya got?” They looked at him expectantly. With the pressure on, he suddenly felt deflated. He could feel the slowly accumulated air, from chugging drinks with frenzied abandon, seeping out from him. He wanted to impress his bros, to show off what he could do, but suddenly he was nervous.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, trying to hype himself up. Dick took a couple of deep breaths before letting out a nearly silent wisp of air, practically like a gasp. The others look at him dumbly.

“That it?” Stone asked.

“Nah, come on, bro. Give us your best,” Slade pep-talked him.

“Be a man, dude,” Ego added. Be a man. A big manly man with big manly burps. It sounded deeply stupid, which was good. Body functions were funny, you didn’t practically live with a bunch of muscle men without developing a good sense of humor around burps and farts and shits. It all had to come out eventually. And it was primal, ancient, the kind of stuff our father’s father’s father laughed at with his boys. Dick felt blood pumping through his body, a sense of friendly but intense competition welled up inside him. He grabbed a carton of milk and chugged it down in a big gulp. He snagged another one from Slade and chugged it down aggressively, taking big, huge gulps of air each time. Wiping milk off his face, he took a few shallow breaths, letting the air sit inside himself for a moment. Then, mimicking Stone from days earlier, he banged on his chest like Tarzan before reaching deep into his diaphragm and pressing the air out. The sound started small but quickly grew, a vibrant bassy sound that exploded into a short, loud belch that practically knocked Dick out of his chair.

Slightly dazed, Dick smiled as his bros cheered him on and laughed more. They swapped between playful trash talk and genuine compliments. He would never grow tired of this, the comradery. Built into the very structure of the team and masculinity itself, real brotherhood forged in battle. They had his back on the field and off. It was good to be a jock.

--------

While getting ready for weightlifting, Dick decided to dress so he just needed to throw on some pads for practice. He slipped on another white jockstrap with 81 written in sharpie, just in case they ever got separated in the wash, guys weren’t about to share jocks. He added white NIKE tights and a white sleeveless spandex top with SPARTANS printed in navy blue. As he pulled on some crew socks and tucked into some shoes for weights, Adam and his cohort of Kip and Peyton came by. They were dressed similarly, school colors, with Adam in mesh shorts and Peyton and Kip in navy blue spandex shorts.

“Dude, she was like totally into it. I can barely keep chicks off this monster rod!” Adam groped himself and the others, including Dick laughed. Adam’s bravado and machismo was fun. Guys letting loose. Plus, it got everyone amped up, all that quarterback confidence inspired his fellow players.

“Sup, Dick,” Adam offered a fist bump which Dick happily returned. For the first time, he noticed how much taller he was than Adam. He’d always thought of the quarterback as a beautiful giant of man, but he wasn’t nearly as tall as the offensive linemen. Or as built. Sure, he was ripped to hell and had a throwing arm of a college star, but he didn’t have the meat, the beef, of the big boys.

“Sup, QB.”

“Heard you been talking to Brittany.”

“Oh, yeah, cap. That a problem?”

“No way. She’s a feisty one. Think you’ll get along fine,” Adam said lecherously while grabbing his own crotch. Dick felt his hormones rise as he chubbed up in his jock.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, bro. Gotta keep that shit under control, though.”

“Football comes first,” Dick parroted mindlessly.

“Right on, bro. Party tonight, my house. Ten,” Adam fist bumped Dick again and took his posse to the weight room. After putting the finishing touches on his own clothes, Dick clomped after them.

Dick got partnered up with Slade for some “big lifts.” They started small and worked up to the monster - deadlifts. Slade laid a bar on some mats and proceeded to tack on plates, a couple on each side. Then he rubbed some chalk into his hands, leaving them dusty and white. Ambling up to the bar, he hyped himself up, letting out a couple of deep grunts before heaving the bar up to his waist and back down. He repeated the motion, his grunts and groans growing deeper and more tortured as he pressed his body through. Finally, his body failed him and he let the huge weights slam into the ground. He heaved as he turned to Dick.

“So, deadlift,” he panted. “You done this shit ‘fore, right?” Dick nodded. He felt like he had. It seemed familiar. But setting up at the bar felt strange. His legs were wrong, too tight. And he couldn’t quite figure out his grip, swapping over and under before splitting the difference. He first tried to sort of fling his body up to no avail.

“Push through your legs bro.” Dick complied grunting painfully as his face grew red.

“Through your heels, not your butt. Don’t wanna fucking shit yourself!” Slade’s booming voice rang throughout the room. The heavy clanking of metal weights dropped unceremoniously onto the barely padded floor inspired Dick to keep pushing. His abs flexed in, holding his spine straight as his legs shook slightly. He focused on his grip and distributed his weight through his feet. The bar rose, his butt thrust forward as his body arched upright. With a giant exhale Dick dropped the weights to the floor causing a light tremor. He staggered backward off the mat as Slade helped him stay upright.

“Fuck,” was all Dick managed to mutter for a moment as the blood pumped through his body.

“Right on, dude!” Slade said, patting Dick on the shoulder as he kept him upright. Dick felt proud. Yeah, it wasn’t some recording breaking lift. But it was hard. And he had pushed through. The motion felt awkward and new, even though he’d swear he’d been hitting weights since middle school.

“Fuck,” Dick stammered. “Fuck yeah!” he bellowed out, releasing a deep, beastly roar that echoed through the room. He felt a connection from his balls throughout his muscles and into his brain. An ancient connection that made his body want to run, hunt, and dominate. It overrode his other senses and thoughts, gave him clarity and focus about what really mattered.

“You good, brah?” Slade said as he stared into Dick’s vacant eyes. Dick nodded.

“Fuck yeah, bruh! Dude, I feel so fucking pumped! Can’t fuckin’ wait to hit the field!”

“Good, cause it’s time,” Slade pointed to the clock and the herd of players exiting to the lockers to change. Dick was glad he’d only have to change shoes and slip on pads and pants. His body heat and sweat practically melted the spandex he was wearing into the shredded crevices of his muscles. He didn’t want to deal with that right now. He wanted to play football.

Dick stretched his muscles and jogged around a bit, fully padded and geared. His gigantic ass framed by a white jockstrap, easily visible through two layers of spandex. It didn’t help that he was already sweating profusely, soaking the white fabric. His arms bulged and twitched, the lifting session earlier only made him more excited. Lifting was great, but nothing beat football. Games were better than practice, but at least he had practice.

Everything started at the whistle, Adam led the team again. A forward bend with legs spread wide, a single clap, and “Fight” bellowed from the team. Right side, clap, left side, clap, upright “Win.” Right leg lunge, “Clifton”, double clap, left leg lunge, “Spartans”, double clap. The patterns got quicker, clap hands, tap thighs, “Spartan Strong” and “Spartan Pride.” Warm-ups followed by laps and finishing with standard blocking drills. The whole segment was a well rehearsed piece, a decidedly undelicate ballet. And unlike ballet, it wasn’t supposed to look effortless, football showed every scrape and bruise and ‘busting-your-ass’ to a cheering stadium.

Today was all about plays. Which for Dick meant time spent on the line, face down, ass up. No tackling, but that didn’t mean the D-line boys didn’t do their damndest to break through. It was the tough, gritty work that Dick truly loved. Grabbing some dude's jersey and just pushing him back with all the force of a dump truck. Course, there were times when they knocked him down too. That always led to Dick running his mouth. Couldn’t help it, the game just got him going. Calling out some fucktard for thinking he’s something was just trash talk. Good fun. And as a tight end, he got put up against his bros Stone and Slade, and they were fuckin’ tough. It was good to practice against them, even if it pissed him off.

That was the routine. Running drills with the halfback and fullback meant getting on the line and doing his job. Protect the route, block the D, make a hole. Line up, snap, defend, repeat.

Receiving plays were a lot more fun for Dick. Sometimes he blocked, sometimes he did short routes. Sometimes Adam actually threw the damn ball to him! Dick was a good receiver, but a better blocker. Still, he was great for a surprise play, move the ball a couple of yards, get the first down, keep moving to the goal. Adam had a good arm and could lob a ball downfield, but variation kept people on their toes. And if a team just sucked, you ran the ball to run out the clock.

Water breaks broke up the day, during which Dick was mostly silent as he chugged. Sometimes a coach had specific notes for a player, but oftentimes the guys simply blew off some steam, talked some shit, or behaved like a dumbass.

Friday practice ran long, preparation for gameday. The sky turned orange as the sun began fading. The heat of late afternoon picked up, causing everyone to sweat more. The whole team kept its energy up despite. Spartan Strong after all.

“Alright men!” Thornton gave his post practice talk. The players were silent, one knee, helmets off. “This is the last time we’re gonna have Friday practice in a while. Next week, game day!” There were some hoots and hollers as he said it. “That’s no time for slacking off. Just means we have less time to prepare. But right now, I’m damned proud of y’all. I know this ain’t easy, and I’m not trying to make it easy. I want you to be winners. And I can tell, you want to be winners. What you gave out today, all week, every day you show up, that energy makes us the best. And we are the best. We’re the best in our division, best in the state, best in the whole goddamn country!” Normally, Thornton passed the buck to Adam for this part, but apparently he was caught up in the spirit as well.

“Spartan!” Thornton yelled it with a passion the guys rarely saw.

“Strong!” They felt strong. Strong together. Strong as a team, a brotherhood.

“Spartan!”

“Pride!” They were proud of their school, proud of their team, proud of their brothers.

“Spartans!”

“Win!” Fuck yeah, they won.

“Spartans!”

“Win!” You better believe.

“Spartans!”

“Win!” This year's state trophy was getting added to the collection.

--------

The guys messed around in the locker room, celebrating the weekend and bitching about school and parents. Dayne had grabbed Dick, having stripped down to just his tights and jock, and dragged him over to the mirror. Dayne was similarly dressed, only a white NIKE hyperstrong girdle hiding his bod from the world.

“Come on bro, all this pump, muscles look fucking great!” Dayne smiled in the mirror and snapped. Dick looked confused.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, dude let’s try again. Oh, hand over the dick, Dick,” Dayne giggled at his stupid joke. Looking at the picture again, both of them had prominent cockheads pressing out from the spandex. “Can’t Insta this!” Dick shifted his stance, one hand covering his bulge, and flexed in the mirror with a devilish smile on his face. While Dayne was all sunkissed glory and boundless energy, Dick had something subtler, stronger, an cocky masculinity and the goods to back it up. He looked hot as fuck.

“Damn, bro, we look beastly.”

“Right?!” Dayne chirped back. “This’ll get so many likes!” The bro hugged and Dayne took some solo shots while Dick finished undressing and cleaning up.

“Dumbroski,” as he heard his name shouted, Dick immediately turned upright to face his coach, even though his tights were hanging around his ankles.

“Yes Coach!” Thornton laughed as he saw Dick.

“My office, after you clean up.” Dick nodded. “Also, feel free to put on pants before talking to me. I’ll take that as a legitimate excuse.” Dick blushed and nodded again. As the coach walked up, he quickly stripped down and ran to the showers.

After a quick shower, Dick toweled off and dashed back to the locker. Another pair of large, white briefs graced his body. A wide muscular man like himself made the plain underwear look almost stylish and sexy. Next, he pulled the jeans over his legs. Taking a moment to coat his pits in a layer of axe body spray, Dick pulled on a white polo with the Spartans logo on the breast. Adding his tennis shoes, he darted to the Coach’s office.

Dick rapped on the metal frame of the open door before entering. His posture was upright and sturdy, like a military cadet. Thornton smiled when he saw him.

“Come in, Dumbroski,” Thornton pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Dick sat down and spread it legs wide, the hefty mass of his balls giving him a prominent moose knuckle in his denim.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

“Yes, just had a couple of things come up that I figured we might as well finish before the weekend. Good practice?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Excellent, now,” Thornton pulled a well used laptop onto his desk. It’s black casing was frayed and one of the hinges was busted.

“Is that mine?”

“Yup, had your father drop it off. Wanted to look over some stuff with you.”

“Like what?” Dick shifted in his seat uncomfortably. This was definitely not normal.

“Well,” Thornton let a devious smile slip on his face for a moment before reverting back to his stone cold demeanor. “You and I had been discussing some stuff, football things. And I wanted to see what you had written.”

“Oh, yeah. There was, like plays or something?”

“All kinds of things, Dumbroski. Plays, positions, injuries..,” his voice trailed off as he eyed Dick. Post practice, Dick’s mind was slower than usual and he stared vacantly at Coach. He knew there was something Coach wanted him to say, but didn’t really have any idea. “Sound familiar?”

“Not really. I had those post-it notes, right?”

“Exactly, Dick. You took those notes in here. When you were learning about football.”

“Coach, no offense, but I know ‘bout football.”

“Of course you do, Dick. But you were writing something about football. For school.”

“I don’t think Coach Rapp has assigned us any homework, yet.”

“So, this doesn’t look familiar.” He turned the laptop to face Dick who began reading. It was a weird summary of football stuff. How the largest sport in America had a bit of a decline in youth participation. Parents were fearful for their son's health. The sport could cause injury. A bit of verbal garbage and acronyms. Something about CTE and concussions.

“Nope,” Dick popped his neck and scratched underneath the cleft of his pec.

“You aren’t worried about getting injured playing football? Or the other guys?”

“Fuck coach! I mean, yeah, I might get hurt. But like, football, is the priority. I don’t wanna ruin my career or nothin’. But you get smacked around a bit.” Thornton smiled.

“So, you’re glad Clifton has a football team?”

“Fuck yeah!”

“And you’re happy to play?”

“Fuck yeah, Coach! Spartan proud!” Thornton smiled more as he closed the laptop and tossed it on the floor. It made a sharp cracking sound as it landed.

“Do I need that for school?”

“No, son. We’ll get you a better one. But, now that that’s taken care of,” his reached under the desk again and pulled up a navy jacket with white leather sleeves. On the front, an embroidered letter “F” stood out proudly.

“Ah, fuck Coach! That’s fuckin’ ace as hell!” Coach tossed him the jacket. Dick quickly pulled it on over his white polo. He puffed up with pride as it covered his upper body.

“Letterman jacket, figured you need one. Gonna be one hell of beast this year, right son?”

“Yes Sir!” Dick barked back with the devotion and adulation of a cult convert. Jacket on, he felt whole. Clifton branded and bred from brain to cock, underwear to jacket.

“Now, you go have fun this weekend. Not too much fun, games coming.”

“Yes Coach!”

“But, it is your last Friday for awhile. Celebrate a bit,” he winked and sent Dick on his way.

--------

Dick pulled up to the house and walked inside, stomach growling and thinking about what to eat for dinner. He hadn’t expected to see a sweaty man raiding the refrigerator. The guy had big prominent pecs over a well maintained six-pack. Black spandex shorts held an obvious bulge that pointed to powerlifter thighs and oversized calves. The man’s round jaw and forward brow were familiar. His salt and pepper hair was pulled back by a pink sweatband.

“Sup, pops,” Dick said, the person before him finally clicking. This was his dad.

“Hey, dude,” his father’s voice was slow and deep, almost dopey. He ambled over and gave his son a bro hug.

“Got your jacket! Looks fuckin’ ace as hell.”

“Yeah, dude!” Dick pressed his jaw forward, giving his best uber meathead look. “How’s the, uh, water thing?” His dad did something with water, right?

“Oh, finally got the pipes fixed!” His dad spoke brightly. “Yeah, got the gym mostly setup. Ready to open Monday!” Dad pulled a side chest pose, highlighting the striations of his well developed chest. Dick sat down at the table and examined a pile of stuff. There were bills, letters, and an ID card with a picture of his dad that said, “Dusty Dumbroski Trainer NASM, ISSA, ACSM.” Dusty Dumbroski.

“You’re a personal trainer?” Dick asked. It seemed weird. Wasn’t his dad a water… something? He did something with words? Maybe?

“Yeah, dude!” Dusty flexed happily as he chugged from a protein shaker. “I mean, part owner too, but I like being on the floor, ya know? ‘Sides, I’m a looker!” His dad certainly was a looker. Much like Dick, in fact, nearly a clone minus the age. Rugged, rough masculinity with just enough old school country club to not be a total troll.

“We moved here to open a gym?”

“Well, we moved here cause you wanted to play for the Clifton Spartans, remember? Said that NFL pipeline was too good to pass up. Plus, this community loves its health and fitness stuff. I can make good money here between the gym and influencing.” That made sense. Of course, a big, talented athlete like Dick would want to hone his skills with the best. And that was Clifton. And his dad got so much stuff as a fitness influencer that he could live anywhere really.

“Yeah! Duh, so fucking tired, Pops. Coach wore me the fuck out!” His dad high fived him.

“You’re looking fucking swole, little man! Gonna give me a run for my money soon.” Dick puffed up with pride.

“Gotta keep up with the old man!”

“Hey, I’m not that old!” Which was true, Dick remembered. Dad knocked up his mom young. Definitely thrown a wrench into some plans, but Dusty had been a devoted father. Especially after Mom had died.

“So, got plans for your last Friday?” His dad winked at him.

“There’s a party at Griffith’s house.”

“Condoms,” his dad said directly and Dick nodded.

“I mean, I don’t think I’m gonna-”

“Nobody thinks, they just end up doing it. Keep one on ya. And none of this birth control bullshit. You’re responsible, okay. Alright, love you, be safe. I gotta shower.”

“What? You got a date?”

“Yup!” His dad darted upstairs to shower. Dick continued plowing through the food in the kitchen. Protein powder poured into milk which he chugged while chowing down on some of the ever present pizza in the fridge. Dusty said it was good for Dick, growing boys could eat anything. Dick knew his dad loved pizza and it was one of his cheats. And Dusty worked hard for those cheats.

Dick had sat down to eat in front of the TV when the doorbell rang. Upon opening, he saw Umar Kazmi dressed in a light blue button down shirt that was practically spray painted on. He wore khakis similar to the ones from school, only a little tighter. He looked startled to see Dick.

“Coach Kazmi?”

“Broski! Hey. Your dad didn’t think you’d be home. Party or something.”

“It’s not ‘til later. Are you dad’s date?” His father had come out when Dick was about 10. He’d been pretty cautious about dating and kept his private life away from Dick’s eyes.

“Yeah. That okay?”

“So long as I pass calc.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem.”

Dusty came downstairs in a white polo and pink shorts. “Umar! Hey, I’m underdressed. Let me change.”

“Nah, don’t. It’s not like we’re going anywhere fancy. Clifton doesn’t exactly have fine dining.”

“Oh, okay,” he was uncharacteristically bashful. Dick smiled.

“Well, have fun you two. And I want him home by seven am!” Dick winked at his father who blushed.

“Dick,” Dusty warned. The pair turned to head out and Dick whispered in his dad’s ear.

“Yes homo,” he smiled brightly as his father blushed again and left. Dick had a few hours to himself now. He’d watch some football, eat some food, and then hang out with his bros and maybe make a play for Brittany. Or be coy. Adam said she was feisty, maybe let her chase him? It didn’t matter. There was plenty of time, season was just starting after all. Life was great as a Clifton jock.

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