Page 1 of Daring You

1

Ben

6 Years Ago

Locker room cocks.

I’m surrounded by them, should be used to them, and I still think mine’s the biggest.

The boys and I are fresh off a game, where the Gators yet again beat the ’Noles, and the air is thick with sweat and success. Shouts echo across the walls and ricochet against the ceiling. Locker doors slam as towels are slung on benches or dropped into damp puddles on the floor.

I’m rubbing my head with a spare one I was lucky to snag before the towel shortage began, and don’t sense the approach before I’m rightly screwed.

A towel flicks like a whip against my bare ass cheeks and I flail against my open locker for a second.

“Fuck, man!”

“Ha-ha!” Locke crows. “Never gets old.”

“Save your rat-tails for the rookies, fucker,” I grumble, and avoid rubbing my ass like I want to.

“Not the same,” Locke says, leaning a shoulder against the locker beside mine. My teammate and best friend prefers to remain in his towel and cool off for as long as possible before getting into regular people clothing, so I’m forced to deal with his damp, half-naked body as I contort and slide into my shirt as fast as possible.

My dick, I don’t mind showing off. It’s the rest of me I’m more concerned with. The most obvious burn scar is on my right forearm, but it travels. The flames left a mottled tattoo that curls up my bicep and onto my shoulders. The fire also licked its tongue across my lower back and burned its liquid heat onto my thighs. The faster I get it covered up, the less questions I’m forced to deal with, not that my buddies ask questions anymore. It’s more the stares, these days.

“Get lost,” I say when Locke tries to trip me as I lift up a foot.

“You got places to be?” Locke asks. He wipes droplets from his forehead, his light brown hair still streaming from the shower.

“I’m craving some shut-eye,” I say.

“You’re not coming out with us tonight? But we just won, man!”

“I know, I know.” I give my face one last wipe from the towel before tossing it in the hamper across the room. “All this drinking is doing my head in. I’m tired, not gonna lie.”

Locke stares at me like I’ve morphed into his greatest nightmare, a sober nerd. “But not the fucking, right? Don’t tell me you’re tired of that. ‘Cause if you are, I gotta get me a new wingman.”

I palm my locker shut. “Yeah, ‘cause we need those.”

“There he is.” Locke grins. “Knew you were still in there somewhere. All right, go to bed, Granny. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What, you’re not staying over somewhere?”

Locke is the only man alive I’ve seen actually waggle his eyebrows. “Not yet.”

I smack him on the back, remember he’s still wet, and shake out my hand. “Later, bro.”

“Later.”

I toss the strap of my duffel over my shoulder and make my way solo out of the locker room and then the stadium, the rest of the guys taking their time and shooting the shit after a tense, three point game. I’m not one to linger even on training days.

Taking the back way, I walk through the darkened parking lot, the tarmac wet with a flash storm Florida is known for, the air thick with the hot, static aftermath. My head is down, I’m looking for my car keys, and the voice catches my attention first.

“Can I get your autograph, Mr. Donahue?” someone says, and he’s leaning against my red Pontiac like he owns it.

My gut flattens, but I keep my expression smooth. “What are you doing here, Dodge?”

He pushes off the passenger side, his too-thin body coming into view under the sole street lamp above us. “Same as anybody else. Enjoying the game.”

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