Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  “I ain’t pro,” Sean mutters. “If Beckham took a shot like that, he’d be down same as me.”

  Cordero points out, “Beckham’d be paying attention during the game, not flexing with a rookie.”

  Sean leans forward, head tilted so Cordero can hold the ice pack against his temple. Biting his lower lip, he moans softly, gaze lingering on Cordero’s bare chest. “Beckham ain’t my type. I like my boys a little darker. You hear me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You gonna make me hold this?” Cordero jiggles the ice pack until Sean takes it from him. For a brief second, their hands brush together—Sean’s surprised the ice doesn’t melt at the touch. “You been checking me out all day.”

  Sean grins up at Cordero. “I like what I see. You got a problem with that?”

  With a laugh, Cordero teases, “If you’d look at my face instead of my ass, you’d know I was scoping you, too.”

  A thrill runs through Sean at Cordero’s brazen reply. Despite the game in progress before him, despite their other teammates and the coach nearby, he reaches out again to touch Cordero. His forefinger carves a trail in the sweat beading on Cordero’s bare stomach, down his abs to his dark navel. The flesh flutters beneath his fingertip, interested, but when he drifts a little lower, Cordero slaps his hand away.

  “So now what?” Sean asks. The sun shines like a halo behind Cordero, draping his face in unreadable shadow. When Sean looks up, all he sees are the whites of Cordero’s eyes and those impossibly bright teeth. “We just gonna sit here or we gonna do something about it?”

  The coach’s shout interrupts them. “Jefferies! Get back in play!”

  “Guy like you gone get me in trouble,” Cordero jokes, nudging Sean’s knee with his. “I’ll hit you later.”

  Sean laughs. “For real? Don’t be playing me.”

  Turning his back to the field, Cordero faces Sean and grabs the front of his own shorts. His hand encircles the hard shaft of his cock through the material and gives it a healthy squeeze to make it bulge out. At eye-level, it’s all Sean can do not to jump the guy right here. “You ain’t the only one sprung,” Cordero whispers, his voice breathy and hot. “I’m-a get with you when we through. You better not be playing me.”

  Unable to tear his gaze from Cordero’s sheathed cock, Sean sighs. “I ain’t never been more serious in my life.”

  Cordero laughs as he jogs back onto the field. From the bench Sean watches his dark legs pump and imagines the clench of muscles in Cordero’s flat ass hidden beneath his shorts, buttocks tightening with each step. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, enjoying the sweet press of his thighs against his dick, and wonders how he’ll ever make it through the rest of practice without busting a nut.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes into the practice game, the coach wanders over to the bench where Sean sits staring after Cordero. Propping a foot up beside Sean, Barrett nods out at the field and asks, “What do you make of the new guys?”

  I like that hot one in center field, Sean thinks, but he keeps that to himself. Instead he shrugs, like he’s not sure one way or another, and mutters, “They alright.”

  He says it ghetto, a’ight. Cordero has him talking whack—Sean finds himself slipping into urban slang whenever he’s around black guys, and since he’s all about dark meat, he tries to hang with them as much as he can. His parents hate it whenever he comes home on break, as do his professors when he speaks up in class, but the coach is used to players’ slang and doesn’t tell him to talk proper. “A few of them are pretty good. That Jefferies kid is on the ball. How’s your head?”

  Sean stifles a grin. Bobbin’ for that bro, he wants to say, but they’d be talking about two different heads then, wouldn’t they? And he doesn’t even want to touch that ball comment. His are hanging low for Cordero. Removing the towel from his temple, he dumps the melted ice onto the grass and shrugs. “Damn cold, is how it is.”

  “You have two options,” the coach tells him. Something in his easy manner makes Sean glance at him, wary. “I can’t have anyone warming the bench if they hope to play on my team. So you either finish out practice with laps around the pitch, or you leave the field. Your call.”

  If he leaves, Sean knows that’ll look bad in the coach’s eyes. He’ll be demoted a bit, he’s sure—forced to sit out the first few games of the season, maybe, or moved from winger to a less active position. As much as he hates running laps, he doesn’t have much choice if he hopes to stay on Barrett’s good side. At least practice is almost over. If he jogs slow enough, he might only make it a mile or so before they head on in.

  Mind made up, he stretches as he stands. “There’s always a third option,” he tries, though he knows full well there isn’t. “I could get back in the game.”

  The coach laughs at that. “Nice try, Mason. I don’t think so.”

  With a sigh, Sean starts jogging away from Barrett, down the length of the field. The chill from the ice wears off as he runs, leaving a dull throb behind in his temple. The hot sun glares down at him, burning away all thought until his mind is a white haze. All he sees is the line to his left marking the perimeter of the pitch; he keeps as close to it as he can without actually running over it, keeps his gaze on the ground, and follows that line down the length of the field. At the corner he swings out and turns, glancing at his teammates who scuffle for the ball while he passes behind the goal. He hits the other corner, turns, and starts down the opposite side of the pitch.

  Cordero stands at the center line, facing the goal. He flashes Sean a sunny grin. When Sean draws closer, Cordero holds out a hand that Sean slaps with his own. “He got you running, don’t he?” Cordero asks.

  “Running me ragged,” Sean mutters, hand stinging pleasantly from the slap. As he passes the rookie, Sean brings his arm down and around Cordero to slap his teammate’s butt. Through Cordero’s shorts, his fingers curve into the groove between Cordero’s cheeks, and Sean gooses him quick before jogging away.

  Cordero’s laugh chases after Sean as he continues his lap.

  The next time he rounds the field, Cordero has the ball. He’s in the thick of the game, his feet fumbling with Thompson’s as they try to kick the ball out from between them. Sean slows as he approaches, watching the action. Cordero has some slick moves, to be sure—he turns his back to Thompson, working his way between the winger and the ball, and shimmies up against him in an effort to block his view. Thompson lashes out, blind, but his shoe barely glances off the top of the ball. Cordero gets his toe up under the ball, kicks it into the air, then knees it out of Thompson’s reach. Before the other player even knows it’s gone, Cordero’s chasing after it, hoping to corral it before it can roll over the touchline and out of bounds.

  The ball’s heading right for Sean. He puts on a quick burst of speed and draws closer, Cordero running to meet him. He meets the ball at the line, and Sean kicks out with the side of his foot, keeping the ball in play as he sends it tumbling back toward Cordero. The rookie flashes him that sexy grin again and stops the ball with his foot. “Thanks, holmes.”

  From behind him, Thompson roars, “Foul! Coach, no fair! Mason’s not in the game! Coach!”

  But Barrett was looking at his watch instead of the field and didn’t see Sean’s interference. When he looks up, Sean’s already halfway to the opposite goal, well away from Cordero’s dribbling. Thompson looks like a child having a tantrum, standing midfield with his hands on his hips as he glares after Sean while the rest of the team chases Cordero to the goal. Sean holds his breath, waiting to see if Barrett is going to pull out a card, but the coach just shakes his head. “Play on,” he hollers.

  “But, Coach!” Thompson whines.

  “You want to join Mason around the pitch?” Barrett asks. He looks at his watch again and blows his whistle to stop the game. “Quit your bellyaching. Mason, two more laps. Rest of you, head on in.”

  Cordero ignores him, kicking the ball into the goal. It sails over Kidman’s head—the moment the whistle
blew, he stopped covering his post. The ball passes him without effort, hits the back of the net, and rolls down to rest on the ground. A perfect shot.

  The coach blows his whistle again. “Come on, ladies! My granny moves faster than y’all!”

  As Sean hurries around the field, he sees the reason for Barrett’s sudden dismissal—members of the women’s lacrosse team approach from the locker room. They practice from three to five. The moment they arrive, most of the men’s soccer team gives up all pretense of play. The guys would rather flirt with the girls than listen to Barrett. “Come on, fellas!” the coach yells again. Already some of the players are dawdling, waiting for the women to approach.

  Sean has another lap to go. He circles the field, ignoring the girls. A few of them say hey as he run by them, but he has no interest in anything they might offer. His gaze is drawn to Cordero, who lingers behind on the pitch. As the other players head inside, Cordero retrieves the ball from the goal, then wastes a few minutes wiping his face off on his shirt again. He untucks it from behind his neck, rubs it across the tight black braids on top of his head, then dries the sweat from his chest as he smoothes it down. Sean watches him dawdle. Is he staying behind for a reason? Waiting on Sean, maybe? Please yes, Sean prays.

  Sean rounds the opposite goal. Cordero glances at him, then drops to one knee to retie his shoelaces. Yeah, he’s waiting. Sean grins and resists the urge to pump his fist in the air. Score!

  Abandoning his lap, he cuts across the field and heads straight for Cordero. As he approaches the rookie, he slows, until he stands doubled over beside Cordero with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Yo, bro,” he says, keeping his voice low so the girls now taking the field won’t overhear. “You ready for this?”

  Cordero’s laugh is heady. “I’m in the apartments,” he says.

  The student apartments, upperclassmen housing. They’re closer to Ferguson Gym than Sean’s dormitory, and probably a safer place to hook up than the locker room. Even if they waited for all the guys leave, the coach might stay behind and what would he say if he checked the showers and found the two of them getting off?

  When Sean doesn’t answer immediately, Cordero tells him, “My roomie’s got class until six. I’m just saying…”

  “Alright then,” Sean agrees. There it is again, a’ight. “Let’s do it.”

  Cordero stands and stretches. Sean waits until the rookie heads off the field before he snags the back of Cordero’s shorts. His fingers ease under the waistband, pressing hot, damp flesh. Cordero tries to slap him away but Sean holds on tight and lets the rookie pull him along. They’ll duck into the locker room, grab their bags, and wait out Coach’s post-practice bitch session. Then, Cordero’s place.

  The rest of the afternoon awaits.

  * * * *

  Luckily the coach doesn’t keep them long. The rookies aren’t too shabby out on the field, so he blabs on and on about teamwork while the players sit in the bleachers that frame the basketball court, praying he shuts up soon so they can shower. Cordero and Sean are the only two players on the last level up. Sean leans back, nonchalant, against the tier behind him and lets his fingers play along the small of Cordero’s back. He’s worked Cordero’s shirt up and his skin strums over the rookie’s, a gentle touch to remind them both what’s in store. If only Barrett would let them go…

  It seems like an eternity, but the old man finally winds down and tells them he thinks this will be one of their best seasons yet. Funny how he plays that card every year. As the team disbands, Cordero claps a hand onto Sean’s knee and pushes himself up. “Come on, bro. We outta here.”

  Sean practically trips to comply.

  The student apartments are a short walk around College Circle, the road that separates the Midlothian campus of Patten University from the rest of the city. Sean’s dorm is a high-rise on the opposite side of the Circle; if he were heading home he’d just cut across the campus, through the quad and academic buildings, past the library, to trim ten minutes off the walk. But his roommate is a loser who’s always in their suite, napping at the most inopportune moments, and Sean would have no privacy if he brought Cordero back there. The apartments are close, and if Cordero’s roomie is out for a while, they should have the place all to themselves.

  Cordero lives on the second floor. Sean troops up the stairs behind him, footfalls echoing off the metal risers. Between the two of them, they sound like Armageddon arriving. At the door to Cordero’s apartment, Sean takes a moment to lean against his new friend—there are no other students around, no one to see. He presses his chest against Cordero’s back, laying his body flush along Cordero’s, and the ache at his crotch fits between Cordero’s buttocks perfectly. Smoothing his hands down Cordero’s sides, Sean leans his head on Cordero’s shoulder and sighs. “You one fine mo-fo, you know?”

  “Keep talking like that, we ain’t gonna get in the door,” Cordero chides, but Sean can hear the smile in his voice.

  Sean’s hand dips lower, grasping at the front of Cordero’s shorts. He only manages to cop a quick feel, however, before the door opens and Cordero’s leading the way into his place. All the student apartments are the same—kitchen to the left, living room on the right, one bedroom straight ahead and a hallway leading off, probably to the bathroom and another bedroom out of sight. Sean’s been to a few parties on this side of campus so he’s familiar with the cramped corners, but compared to his dorm room, the apartment is luxurious. Not for the first time, he tells himself he has to sign up to move over here next year.

  “Want a drink?” Cordero asks, tossing his key onto the small table in the kitchen that serves as a place to eat.

  Closing the door behind him, Sean catches the back of Cordero’s shirt in one hand and reels the rookie to him. “Maybe later.” His gaze is drawn to Cordero’s large pink lips, and Sean licks his own in anticipation. “Come here. I been wanting you all blessed day.”

  Without warning, Cordero pins Sean back against the door. Hands on either side of Sean’s head, Cordero holds him in place, thrusting his hips into Sean’s until their erections grind together with a sweet ache. “You want this?” Cordero purrs.

  A throaty moan escapes Sean as he nods. The pressure on his cock feels so right. “Damn straight.”

  “Think you can handle it?” Cordero leans down to touch his mouth to Sean’s neck—his breath is hot along Sean’s skin, and does delicious things to Sean’s libido that make Sean rub against him, wanting more. “Don’t front with me, homeboy.”

  “I ain’t fronting,” Sean swears. He leans his head back as Cordero’s nose tickles along his throat. Then Cordero sticks out his tongue, hot and damp, and licks along the curve of Sean’s chin, just under the fine line of stubble that Sean shaves away every morning. Fisting his hands in Cordero’s shirt, Sean gasps. Yes. With his tongue, Cordero traces along Sean’s jaw line to breathe in Sean’s ear. Two words, low and sexy. Two words that weaken Sean’s knees. If Cordero wasn’t holding him, he’d melt to the floor.

  “Show me.”

  The challenge in his voice thrills Sean. Before he can do anything Cordero pulls away, shrugging off his hands to move out of reach. Turning his back to Sean, Cordero shucks off his shirt—Sean watches the firm muscles in his back flex as he pulls the shirt over his head, and notices a black tattoo on his left shoulder, some kanji character Sean doesn’t recognize. As Sean looks on, Cordero heads for the hallway, turns the corner, and is gone.

  Sean waits, his mind a blur, his whole body humming with desire. Weren’t they just…so where’s he…what…?

  A black hand curves around the wall, followed by Cordero’s head as he peeks back. “Well?” he asks. “You coming?”

  Sean grabs his hard dick through his shorts and thrusts into his palm. “You even have to ask?”

  Cordero laughs. “Then get your white ass over here already.”

  Tugging off his jersey, Sean follows Cordero to the hallway. When he reaches the corner, though, Cordero h
as disappeared again. Sean stops, hands hooked into the waistband of his shorts, unsure what’s expected of him. There’s a doorway on the left side of the hall through which Sean sees white tile—the bathroom. Another door at the end of the hall is shut—the other bedroom. Did Cordero head in there? Or…

  When Sean takes a tentative step down the hall, Cordero’s butt appears in the doorway of the bathroom. He’s standing just out of sight but, as Sean watches, he bends and pulls down his shorts, exposing taut skin the color of whipped chocolate. His buttocks round out into the hall, tantalizing, tempting. Their bare flesh draws Sean like a magnet; by the time he reaches the doorway, his own shorts are gone, dropped down the hall and stepped out of in his haste. His jock gets peeled off and tossed away, and he kicks off his sneakers one at a time as he advances.

  Cordero’s laugh entices Sean closer. But when he reaches the bathroom, it’s empty. Toiletries lay scattered across the bathroom counter, towels litter the floor, and the toilet lid is up. Sean catches a glimpse of his naked torso in the large mirror above the sink and frowns. “Cord—”

  The sudden rush of water in the shower cuts him off.

  A slow grin crosses Sean’s face. Boldly he steps up to the shower stall and yanks back the curtain. Inside, Cordero stands in one corner of the tiny stall, hands lathered with thick, white soap that looks like cum against his dark skin. “’Bout time,” he grumbles. “Here I was thinking I’d read you wrong. Thinking you was straight.”

  “God,” Sean says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t even.”

  Without being asked, he slips into the stall beside Cordero. Hot water rains down around them, pelting Sean’s bare shoulders and chest. It feels heavenly after the long hours spent in the hot sun, and his muscle begin to relax. He turns, back to Cordero, and lets the spray wash away the sweat and grime.

  Slick hands touch his hips. Cordero’s hands are slippery, leaving trails of soap in their wake as they rub along Sean’s lower belly. They angle for his dick, which stands at half-mast, until Cordero’s fingers wrap around the base of his shaft. Then it takes notice, standing up as if to make it easier for Cordero to stroke along the length. “Yes,” Sean sighs. Hands flat on the wall before him, he leans in, back arched, ass butting up against Cordero’s crotch as the rookie’s hand rubs his cock. Cordero’s other hand smoothes between Sean’s cheeks, the soap stinging his hole when Cordero rims around it. Sean can’t stop himself from standing on his tiptoes, pressing more of himself into Cordero’s hand. “God, man. I love it.”