Page 27 of Off the Rim
Nope. Full stop. Not with Ashton James you don't.Especially when he's standing around a locker room, listening to his buddies make jokes at my expense. Same old, same old. It shouldn't even faze me anymore.
Then I hear Ashton laugh and make an offhand comment about me not being able to handle his dick, and it sits heavy in the bottom of my stomach. Still, I straighten my shoulders and keep my head up as I saunter through the doorway from the showers, giving them all an unimpressed raise of my eyebrow.
"What do you think about that, Vell? Ashton here says you couldn't handle what he's packing. Is that, like, an insult to your gay manhood or something?" Fucking Anderson Hearst, the worst of the privileged, snooty loyalists, loves to stir up shit whenever he sees the opportunity. Instead of rising to the bait, I rake my eyes up and down Ashton with a pointedly unimpressed, deadpan expression, and shrug.
Then, in the stupidest move I've possibly ever made in my life, including the time I let that fucker corner me then kiss me, I pull my towel from around my hips and let it drop to the floor. My flaccid cock hangs heavily between my legs, and I will it to stay as uninterested as I'm pretending to be. I don't so much as crack a smile as a ripple goes through the room, a mixture of disbelieving gasps, a few choked laughs, and one obnoxious hoot from Anderson, of course.
"Jesus Christ, Vell. What the fuck do you feed that thing?!"
"Why don't you bend over, and I'll show you," I mutter humorlessly, feeling a pang of guilt for sullying one of my favorite movie quotes with the likes of these assholes.
A chorus of "oooohhh" rings through the room, and I casually open my locker to pull out some clean clothes. It’s immature, and I know it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it feels good to get the upper hand for once. I've seen most of their dicks swinging around this locker room, and I knew without a doubt that I'm packing a lot more heat than any of them. And while I don't actually believe that means anything, I know they do. This whole display is nothing but a ridiculous power move.
Once I've pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, I look up to find Ashton watching me. His skin is covered in red splotches from his cheeks down to his chest.
"You got something to say?" I ask him, challenging him to spar with me right now.
The dip in his throat as he swallows is the only small sign of weakness he displays, but I see it. He smirks at his friends, then back at me. "Nah, man. But don't let the officials know you'recarrying that around. I'm pretty sure that extra leg is against regulation or something."
Smooth.
And just like that, everyone goes back to laughing and chatting. Except this time, I'm right in the middle of it. Landon Smith, one of the juniors who worked the scout squad with me, even invites me to join them for pizza. I decline, of course, not wanting to admit to myself that it was nice to be included.
As I'm exiting the sports complex, Ashton catches up to me.
"Marcus! Hey, man, about what you heard back there?—”
"Just drop it. I've heard worse, and I couldn't care less. It's not like I'm interested."
"I just?—”
"You just what, Ashton? You want to apologize for being yourself again?”
His mouth opens, then closes again. I scoff.
“Why do you bother talking to me outside of practice? Areyouinterested? Because I'll tell you right now, that’s never fucking happening. Everyone else here might get on their knees for you, but I don’t submit for anyone, much less pathetic closet cases who like to parade around like they're better than me. So unless you're about to drop toyourknees, right here, right now, stay the fuck out of my way."
Pushing him back against the brick wall of the building, I stare him down, not giving a flying fuck that he's a head taller than me. I'm fucking tired of people trying to make me feel small. I'mtired of this asshole succeeding, because despite everything he's done to me, Iamfucking interested, and he knows it.
He doesn't say anything, only stares at me with a wide-eyed look that's somewhere between fear and hunger. When I look down between us, there's an obvious tent in his shorts. Snarling, I walk away before my traitor dick makes itself known.
Sean: It's going to be great. Relax and be yourself.
Me: That's exactly the opposite of what Coach and the PR team want me to do. They want me to be an example of the caliber of person who attends this school.
Sean: What does that even mean?
Me: Sit up straight, enunciate more, don't talk about my past or scholarship. I feel like the chick with the Cockney accent from that old movie where they turn her into a high-society lady.
Me: Coach sent me to get a haircut at some snooty salon, and a new pair of sneakers showed up in my locker yesterday. I think they're embarrassed to have a poor person represent the school.
Sean: So why send you, then?
Me: Because of Ashton, and this whole “dynamic duo” thing that's being built up in the press. They asked for the two of us specifically, so their hands are tied.
Sean: Well, fuck 'em. Be your usual broody self, and act like you're talking to me. I'll be watching.
Sean: And if that asshole says or does anything to embarrass you, I'll put him in a head lock, and you can kick him in the balls.
