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Author’s Note — Another instalment. Finally we get some time with Efrain. For those unfamiliar with the name, the correct pronunciation is ef-RYE-een, with a slight roll to the “r”. Vuis sounds like “vice”.
This is my first attempt at both erotica and extended fiction, and I more than welcome feedback. Thank you for reading. ~Dayne
Chapter 3 – Bareback SteersNQueers
So, here’s the thing: I’m bored out of my fucking mind. I came up here early to practice, but not early enough to start classes. I have nothing to do but go to preseason conditioning, binge watch Netflix, and crash from a combination of fatigue and ennui.
I’ve gotten so bored, I have to find newer and more pretentious words for expressing this boredom.
I’ve gotten so bored, I’m too bored to beat off.
Since the summer term is divided into two six-week sessions, Romero and the others in the dorm were already swamped with mid-terms when I arrived and are now wading into the morass of mini-mester finals. I’ve already signed up for a class for the second half so I’ll have something to occupy my extra time.
Preseason would be a welcome respite, but I don’t get to practice with the rest of the team. Instead, they have me and the rest of us in Freshmen Camp memorizing a massive ass playbook because the coaches don’t trust us to not fuck up practices. I’m used to having to only know nine or so plays, nine being all that high school football coaches can remember themselves (or be creative enough to come up with in the first place). I compared notes with the other guys, no one else had to learn this many at once, and the ones we did learn were so simple we could still draw them out more than seven months after our senior seasons ended.
Luckily, I can participate in conditioning with the rest of the team. I fucking hate double burpees, but I hate them a lot less than memorizing playbooks. The trainers count on the freshmen to suck balls since most kids don’t keep active between their high school football seasons. But, I kept busy with soccer in my off seasons and did a lot of running and weight training. I maintained my muscle mass and my 40 stayed somewhere around 4.7. Not perfect, and the words “small for a linebacker” keep getting added to sentences in which I’m mentioned, but they decide I’m fit enough to run with the big guys after a couple weeks of breaking me of every bad habit I learned playing high school ball.
I got to know a few of my new teammates, but since I’m the lone freshman training with them, and they don’t see me at practice, I’m still not part of their social cliques yet. I’ve been chatting with the guys assigned to the lockers on either side of mine, this white guy from the Midwest named JJ Teague and a massive black redshirt sophomore from Atlanta named Mitch Lithgow. They seem friendly enough, but I haven’t seen them socially outside of football.
So, with no classes to attend, no parties to get invited to, and nothing else to occupy my time, I’ve been going slightly insane. The one bright spot happens to be Monday evenings. I go to GSA meetings and hang out with Preston. We decided our drunken roll in the sheets was a one-time thing and kept it at that, but we still meet for coffee or food from time to time.
Today, the GSA is meeting up for dinner. I’m so thirsty for this that I enthusiastically offer to drive to the restaurant. güvenilir bahis Ironically enough, it’s my gas-guzzling truck that is more fuel efficient than their little two door coupes. Preston calls shotgun and two other members, bi-Delia and lez-Delia, come along.
“So, SteersNQueers, explain the truck,” Preston teases. “SteersNQueers” is his current nickname for me and is only slightly better than last week’s “Brokeback”, especially since it most often came out as “Bareback.” Sadly, everyone in the group has picked it up. It is still better than Romero calling me “Tex.”
“Not much to say about it, Virgin.” Goose, gander. “My parents bought Caiden and Carson cars when they turned 16. But when Cameron turned 16, Mom bought a new car and handed her old one down to him. Dad used my turning 16 as a good excuse to buy a new F150.” I really don’t like trucks, but it pissed Cam off to no end because he fucking loved Dad’s Tacoma.
“God, your parents’ naming conventions are pretty fucked up.”
“We all have the same middle name.” Preston gags a little and lez-Delia reminds him that his own name is pretty fucking lame.
“It’s like they were setting you up for gayness,” bi-Delia confirms.
“Whatever, that isn’t even what I was talking about.” He points to the beaver wearing a red t-shirt and cap hanging from my key chain.
“Oh, the Buc-ee.”
“‘All day I dream about beavers’?” he reads, pointing to the air freshener dangling from the rearview. “Is that how you reaffirm your straightness?” I even have a Buc-ee sticker on my bumper. It’s right next to the “Puro Pinché Beavers” one that I’m sure isn’t really licensed merch. “Bitch, you’re the most cock-thirsty straight guy I know.”
“For starters, I’m not cock-thirsty.”
“You guzzled mine readily enough.”
The Delias laugh at this. For some reason, everyone thinks Preston and I are merely talking shit and not referencing something that actually happened.
“And, secondly, I’m bi.”
“You’re just being indecisive.”
“Uhm, bi-marginalization?” bi-Delia says. She may or may not be trying to ride my dick. I may or may not be interested in said riding.
“So, back to the beaver,” lez-Delia interrupts.
“You would focus on the beaver.”
“Suck my dick, Virgin.”
“You don’t even have a dick.
“I’ll grow one for the occasion.” And so on and so forth until we reach the restaurant. Preston gets out and the Delias tumble out of the back seat. Kiley called ahead to reserve a spot and is waiting inside, so we head over.
Just as I’m about to open the door, it swings open and the person behind it walks into me. I find myself face-to-face with Efrain Garza, one of the sophomores on the team. I know of him, but I don’t know him. Lez-D and Preston, who are still bickering, walk into me from behind pushing me into him again. We make full body contact and I’m instantly aware of how great he smells.
“Oh, hey, Card, right?” he laughs. Of course, it seems like he’s always laughing about something, as if everything is just one big inside joke that only he is in on.
“Hey, Garza.” I wave a little as we slide past them into the restaurant. I hear him say something that sounded like “interesting” under his breath, but when I turn around, he just waves and says he’ll see me at practice tomorrow.
I nod and wave back before türkçe bahis I follow everyone inside. Preston and the Delias, by this time, have lost the original argument and have started exchanging insults.
“For fuck’s sake, get a room.”
“So, defense is here on the line of scrimmage,” I point to a row of taco sauce packets with O’s marked on them in permanent marker. “And, here’s your offense.” I point to the ketchup packets marked with X’s.
At lunch, Martinez looked like he was going cross-eyed trying to memorize these plays, so I set up our little condiment scrimmage. Pretty soon, the rest of the freshmen crowded in around the table and it snowballed from there. They added symbols to the packets to represent specific positions and we started running through the plays.
“Wait, which play is this?” Blanco asks. Montalvo flips through the playbook and calls them out. I don’t remember the exact names yet, but I remember the configurations.
I have the guys split up to move around the packets to the next position in the play, then we start debating the merits and pitfalls of their next moves. At some point, we started marking hypothetical moves on the table in dry erase marker because we kept forgetting the original positions.
We’re so wrapped up in this, all the guys talking loudly and all at once, that nobody notices when Coach Vuis walks in.
“What the fuck is this?” He gestures down at the carefully arranged packets and dry erase arrows and squiggles.
Vuis drags his palm down his face in exasperation.
Montalvo thinks for a moment. “Wait, maybe you can settle this” and he starts laying out some issue we’d been arguing about some hole I found in one of the plays.
“Fucking hell, Card.”
“Just, fucking hell.” And next thing you know, I’m pulled from Freshmen Camp and thrown in with the rest of the team.
I remember Card from the brief introductions when the freshmen arrived to join preseason conditioning. From my own experience, it would be awhile before they start working with us regularly, if at all, so I wasn’t really paying attention. Card, however, was pleasantly eye-catching.
His looks were that kind of prototypical All-American football hero handsome. Roughly my height, broad in the chest and shoulders with a trim waist and an ass you could sink your teeth into. If he were a bit lighter and faster, he’d be the QB and, God, why the fuck am I checking out straight guys again?
But, yeah, Card stood out.
He ended up joining us for conditioning, ahead of the rest of the freshies, and ran circles around the more seasoned players. We’re fucking sweating buckets, and he’s bragging about how it’s in the triple digits in whatever tiny tourist-trap town with a name that isn’t pronounced like it’s spelled the recruiters fished him out of. Then he started going on about how much he fucking loves double burpees and I think we all wanted to slug him.
Last week, I literally ran into him when I was out getting dinner with some friends. At first, I noticed Card and we exchange greetings. Then, I noticed the group he just happens to be with.
I don’t know the guy personally, but I recognize him from the commons where he tables for the GSA. I thought well, that’s interesting.
I güvenilir bahis siteleri didn’t realize I said that aloud until Card turned around with an odd look on his face. I waved and told him I’ll see him at practice and he walked inside. Very interesting.
Today, he’s in the locker room, gearing up with the rest of the team.
“Hey, Baker,” I gesture over at Card, who’s chatting with Teague and Lithgow. “Isn’t he supposed to be with the freshmeat?”
“Naw, get this. I heard Vuis saying that he’d memorized the playbook three weeks ago.” Fuck, I poured over that fucking thing for two months before half of it even stuck. “He’d been running the rest of Freshmen Camp through mock scrimmages with ketchup packets when the other coaches left the room.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“That’s what I’m saying. They redshirted me my first season. I didn’t get to practice with the team until the season started.” I nod, I’m a redshirt freshman myself and I think I’m liking this kid less and less, no matter how fuckable his ass looks in full gear.
Once on the field, the coaches run us through the typical warm-ups and drills. Satisfied with our progress, they decide to run us through some plays.
We set up on the line of scrimmage. This play has Card on the outside, but I seriously doubt they have him out to handle me. He’s just too small. The ball snaps. I duck through, dodging the bigger OLBs and darting close to Card. I’m fly out the other side and the QB passes to me. I catch on the run and bolt.
Pretty soon, I see Card coming at me from the side. He followed me out and is gaining. I ramp up to a full sprint. The other receivers have huge pockets around them as I’m supposed to pass to them in this play, but I already have the ball and Card can’t match me at full speed.
I’m within ten yards of the next goal line. I add one last push of speed, just to rub it in. Then, I feel him crash into me. He wraps his arms around my waist and we both fall over. The air leaves me in a whoosh and the ball slips from my fingers. How the fuck did that happen?
He looks down at me and spits out his mouth guard. “You alright?” He jumps up and grabs the ball, then offers me a hand.
Coach Schmidt bellows at us from the sidelines. Apparently, I’m not the only one who ran outside of the play.
“‘No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,’ Sir.” Card is so smug I swear he’s quoting someone. “If I remember this play correctly, Garza’s supposed to pass over to another back,” says the little shit. “But he didn’t, so I harried. Figured I’d at least run him out of bounds. He’s surprisingly easy to tackle. Best not leave him without protection in the next play.”
If he had a mic, he’d drop it.
Schmidt rolls his eyes and the team walks off to set up the next play.
Once they’re out of earshot, Card looks back over his shoulder at me, face split into a rather charming grin, and winks at me.
“You’re fun to chase,” he quips and jogs back over to the formation.
I’m torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to hit it.
As we’re walking back to the locker room to shower and change, we pass the cheerleaders on their way to the studio for practice. One, the guy I saw Card with the other night, moves to the edge of the group and exchanges a fist bump with him. I move over to get in step with Card.
“They frown on us dating the cheerleaders.”
“Oh, you mean Preston?” he says and shrugs. “We’re just friends.”
No denials, no insistence that he’s totally straight. Just “we’re friends.” Interesting. Very Interesting.
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