Is this really happening? I’m too stunned to say anything. I swallow hard and can feel my breath rising and falling with the movement of my chest. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. Everything I know to be true about myself is being challenged in this moment, and on top of that, this is Colt Stackford we're talking about—the guy I punched on National television, the guy who can't keep from dipping his dick into every woman who he comes in contact with, the guy who was once voted sexiest man alive by Ladies Who Love magazine.

And now his hand is wrapped around my cock.

His large, strong hand is gripped around my shaft with force, and I can feel myself growing hard under his touch. My back is pressed up against the lockers, and I can feel a steel handle in the small of my back, but I don't dare move. "Admit that you fucking want this," Colt says, whispering so as to not draw any unwanted attention.

I don't know what to say. He's right; my whole body is pulsing with desire and my cock is so hard it feels like it might burst. He smiles. He knows. That bastard could always read me. It was an almost uncanny ability. I feel his grip tighten again, and he slowly pulls on my dick, long, and firm, and slow strokes at first, and then his pace quickening until even my balls are slapping his hand. His hand draws my cock back and forth. My breath catches in my throat. I find myself hardly able to exhale. An almost electric current continues to course down my body, making my cock stiffer than I ever thought possible. He tries to lock his gaze with mine, but I can’t do it. I tilt my head back into the wall of lockers, while his hand keeps a steady rhythm on my shaft.

There’s a part of my mind that told me to stop all of this, that this was wrong. But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right? It was like I had willingly jumped onto a rollercoaster ride and now it was too late to exit. This ride was in motion and I had to see this through. Did I even want off the ride? I wondered. Colt pushes his hips into mine, and I can feel the strain of his muscles while he increases the intense pace of his tugs on my cock. I can smell his manhood. I can’t lie to myself. I find myself wanting him. I know I can’t last much longer. The desire has built up inside of me, like a soda that’s been shaken. Any minute now, I’m going to explode.

"Fucking cum for me," Colt demands with his hot breath in my ear. I can see a warm flush in his face.

That’s it. It feels as if he just gave me permission to release everything that had built up inside of me, and I can’t hold it in any longer. "Oh shit," I breath out. Ropes of hot cum shot out of my cock and into his fist and onto the locker room floor. He continues to milk my cock and even when I didn't think I had anything left, wave after wave of cum explodes into the spaces between us.

I take a deep breath, and I realize that I had my eyes closed tightly. I open them, and the room seems brighter. What just happened? Did anyone see or hear us? We didn't need any more tabloid fodder. Shit, what have I done? I needed to put this behind me. I just know that I needed to get out of this locker room and away from Colt, and fast. I don’t feel ready to confront the reality of what just happened. I put my dick into my boxer briefs, zip, and button my pants, and grab my bag before nearly bolting out of the locker room door. Colt tries to say something, but I don’t turn around to look at him. I don’t want to see his face. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. The only thing I can think about is getting as far away as possible from him.

* * *

I'm not looking forward to today's practice. It's damn near 100 degrees outside and the thought of seeing Colt and Julianna is rattling my already fried nerves. And lately, I can't even get a full night's rest in because even in my sleep, my mind is like a runaway train. Images keep flashing through my brain. Am I in love with Julianna? Maybe Colt was right about her. And what about Colt? What is happening between us? I don't know what to think anymore. I look out across the football field—across all 100 perfectly manicured yards, and instead of thinking about the sport, my mind is going back in time—to that penthouse, to the team's skybox, to the locker room. I nearly trip as I step on a thin, black rubber jump rope that’s lying on the field in a messy heap. It’s a rope that one of the players used for his extra cardio workouts.

Looking down at that rope, I remember a hot summer afternoon when two girls invited me to play jump rope with them. In those days, I was shy, but with a bit of determination on their part, I finally agreed. I can remember them standing there, wearing floral print dresses, holding onto both ends of the brightly colored nylon rope, and stretching it out between them. They told me to stand in the middle as they swung it over my head. On the first spin, I didn't jump in time and the rope caught on my foot, almost causing me to trip. But I caught myself with my other foot, waving my hands and arms in the air for balance. Both of the girls laughed.

"Again! Again! Again!" they urged giggling. "You can do it, Ethan!"

They swung the rope around me again, and this time, I fell into their rhythm. They swung, and I jumped, time after time, until my calves ached. I smiled as a thin film of sweat gathered on my forehead. It felt good to finally master the jumps. And then I heard a deep voice that made my heart stop.

"What are you, a faggot?" my dad asked towering over me. "No son of mine is going to sit here like a little girl playing with girls' toys. Get over here and help me with the farm work."

Dad used to work for Colt’s dad. And the abuse he took on a daily basis as a ranch hand came right back down to us.

Down to me. I remember thinking how it was Colt’s fault that I couldn’t jump rope.

I remembered the deep embarrassment of the moment flooding my face as I walked away from those girls. I couldn't bear to look them in the face. But then I’m catapulted back into the present, feeling the weight of my football helmet's facemask laced between my fingers, sweat beading down my back. I need to stay focused. I'm Ethan Blake, the best defensive end in the league. The most important thing right now is winning a spot on New York Nailers, isn't it? I ask myself. It’s important for me to keep that in perspective. I need to get ahold of myself. My career is everything.

I look over my shoulder and see Colt warming up. He‘s stretching his right arm and repeatedly throwing footballs to a wide receiver. I watch as his arm and leg muscles tens. Every pass spirals tightly down the field and looks perfect, landing softly into the arms of his open receiver. There is no doubt that he was a gifted football player. He always has been. It's his too-big-for-his-own-good ego that drives me crazy, and not in a good way. Colt suddenly feels my gaze on him, and he looks back at me. He motions for the receiver to wait a moment, and he begins to walk in my direction, but I look away and jog off to the other end of the field. Hell no. There is no way that I can talk to him right now, and he must have got the hint because he doesn’t try to approach me.

"Hey there, stranger," comes a voice.

I turned around to see where the voice was coming from and I nearly bump into Julianna standing directly behind me, her blonde hair twisting gently in the afternoon breeze. Holy hell. The other person I wasn't ready to face today. Don't get me wrong, she looks good—almost too good. She’s wearing a tight white tank top that makes her tits nearly spill out of the top, and a pair of shorts that might as well have not even been there. I feel my cock twitch and I have an overwhelming urge to grab her and bring her body close to mine, to pull her breasts into my chest, to run my fingers through her soft hair, and to breath in her smell in deep drunken gulps, but I shake those thoughts from my mind. Perfect, now I'm head case and a depraved human being. I have to stop thinking with my cock all the time. Isn't that Colt's job? I can't think of her right now. Not here. Not now. I have to stay focused.

"I was watching our tight ends really muff the ball earlier. I think you and Colt will have to show them a thing or two about going third and long," she says, with a grin.

"I'm really sorry," I say, almost in a whisper. I have to cough and clear my throat just to find my voice. "I have to leave."

With that I turn around to leave. I gather my things into my silver Porsche with its red leather interior and peel out of the parking lot. I hear my tires squeal as I press my foot firmly on top of the gas pedal. I need to get out of here, and quick. I'm sure that didn't look good, I thought as I turn the corner—leaving practice early and all and brushing Julianna off, but what choice did I have? There is no way I could focus on the game today. My thoughts are all consuming, like a dam spilling over. If I didn't get out of there, I would have drowned.

I roll down my windows and turn the radio up louder than usual, hoping to blast the thoughts out of my mind. It seems to help because by the time I pull up to my building, I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and no longer worrying about Colt or Julianna. I park, walk into my apartment building, ride the elevator to my penthouse suite, and drop my things on the couch. I need something to drink. Water won’t work. And I definitely don't need anything caffeinated. I need something that will keep me calm. I settle on cracking open a beer and almost smile when I pour the liquid into my favorite pint glass and watch the thick, creamy head form around the rim.

I take a long sip, feeling the sharp cold carbonation run down my throat. Liquid heaven. I exhale with relief and grab the remote. I decide to turn on the television, wondering what’s happening in the world of sports news. But as soon as I do, I wished I hadn't. SportsNation pops on with a "breaking news" banner flashing across the screen. "Welcome to SportsNation Highlights. We have some breaking news for you this afternoon. Just when we thought the New York Nailers couldn't be rocked with any further sexual scandal—it appears we were wrong. And this recent video provided by The News of the Times will shock you!”

My stomach sinks and my face grows warm. I can feel my temperature rise when I watch in horror as a familiar scene appears on the screen—our team's locker room. I see my gym bag sitting on the floor—and I see Colt's bag. It’s footage of a scene that has been replaying itself in my mind ever since it happened.