Page 4

I tried not to watch too closely, as the seniors took their places on the mat. Hard not to do that, though, when your teammates are bonafide, one-hundred-percent, awe-inspiring studs.

I’d known to expect to feel small when I joined a college team. That a physique which left me looking huge in high school would likely pale next to seniors years ahead of me, in fitness and in experience. Had even thought myself ready for it, braced for the shock.

Turned out, you couldn’t prepare for that stomach-dropping moment where you suddenly seem like a weakling surrounded by giants. A shrimp, wondering if it’d feel more painful for them to laugh at you or to simply ignore you altogether.

Brayden and Carlos weren’t even the biggest on the team. Taller, and more muscular, and generally stronger than I was, sure. But still human-scale, in comparison to the man-mountain that was our team captain.

Even now, from across the hall, Jefferson still took my breath away.

Muscles that recollected plate tectonics in magnitude: a walking, talking anatomy diagram of peak physical fitness. Looking at Jefferson wasn’t so much aspirational as an extinction-level event for any ego you might have about your body. Humbling, only in a way that’d left me not just motivated but turned on beyond belief.

Adam had accused me of hero-worship, once. A charge I’d thought was pretty rich, considering my roommate had very nearly creamed his pants the first time Jefferson had spoken to him.

Gawking at the triple-stacked senior was a guaranteed shortcut to me stumbling and getting reamed by Coach again for not focusing. I forced myself to save my sly glances for Brayden and Carlos as they squared up to each other.

Not that either was anything but a prime example of senior wrestler jock-meat, mind. I’d seen photos of Carlos’ big family back in Brazil; knew exactly where he got his playful accent and the skin-tone that contrasted so beautifully with his bright white singlet. He carried himself like young royalty, the panther to Jefferson’s lion.

Nothing but a look of fierce focus on Carlos’ face now, though, as he narrowed his eyes at Brayden. The other wrestler smirking in response, boy-next-door handsome and sleekly muscled in bright red spandex. A color as brash as his personality was brazen, even if Brayden knew better than to screw around when coach was watching.

The screech of the whistle, and then beef slammed against beef.

I slowed my run slightly, figuring Coach’s attention would be about as monopolized as mine was. Partly tracking their form, their technique - the shifts, and feints, and plays that we cycled through until each move was scored deep into muscle memory, as permanent as a tattoo - but also with fascination. Marveling at the shimmering tension in straining muscle, the clenched jaws, the calculation in each stare. A mixture of envy, admiration, and lust simmering inside me, laced with the perpetual disbelief that a mere freshman was allowed to consider himself part of such a team.

Carlos dropped his hip, pushed hard; I saw how Brayden shifted to keep his balance. His arms slipping down, aiming for a bear-hug around Carlos’ chest; the other wrestler lifting, practically on tip-toes, to reach down over Brayden’s back. Hands grabbing wherever he could, pulling and twisting.

“If you’re quite finished dancing, gentlemen,” Coach snapped out impatiently, sarcasm dripping.

Another shove, Brayden’s leg pushing between Carlos’ and sharply hooking back. One quick tug, enough to send them both toppling to the mat with a slam loud enough to make me wince.

But not letting up, not pausing. Brayden scrabbling on top, his legs twisting them both in a circle as he fought to press Carlos’ shoulders. The other man bucking beneath him, his legs wrapping Brayden’s tight waist; clinging, until Brayden had no choice but to drop his whole weight and try to squeeze him bodily to the floor. His face a rictus of concentration, teeth bared, as Carlos strained but to no avail.

A sharp bark of the whistle, and then Brayden was pushing himself up, onto his knees. Reaching out a hand to help his teammate up as he stood further, only to drop back again with an animal yelp of pain. Grabbing for his ankle, as Carlos turned a horrified look on the others.

Coach was there first, expression stern and solicitous. Gesturing Carlos away; calling over his shoulder for someone to call the team medic. One hand on Brayden’s heaving chest, pressing him back - with an insistence that brooked no argument - as he spoke to the senior with words too quiet to hear.

I wanted to run over, even though I knew I’d be no use to them. Wanted to be among the faces crowding above Brayden, filling his vision as he grit his teeth. Or to slip my arm around Carlos’ waist, press myself to his side. Hear, perhaps, whether his heart was pounding as viciously as mine was right now.

Loud enough, perhaps, to be heard all the way across the room despite everything else.

“Eoin,” Coach barked, “did anybody tell you to stop?”

And so I started running.

Chapter Three

“I’m fucked, lil bro.”

I frowned at him. The words themselves weren’t unusual; Brayden just usually arranged them into sentences like “I can’t wait to fuck you,” or “you gonna fuck me, then, lil bro?” Typically paired with the sort of grin that could give a freshman wrestler palpitations.

This time though, the grin was absent. Along with any of the sort of enthusiasm I’d come to expect from my big bro.

I gestured at his leg, everything from the knee down encased in a sturdy-looking plastic cage. “It’s just a bad sprain, dude. You won’t be out of action for too long and you can still work out. And, I mean, other stuff, too...”

Brayden smiled, wanly, and that’s when I knew something really was wrong. My big bro had never let an opportunity for innuendo pass him by; in fact, I’d half-expected him to already be pulling me into his lap.

“It’s not working out I’m worried about, Eoin, it’s working.”

My frown deepened. “You have a job?”