Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (14 page)

My head thumps back against the metal panel and I moan against Griff’s palm. He presses his lips firmly against my skin, sliding down and back up with a crazy amount of suction, letting up only to use his tongue at the best possible moments.

It’s fucking amazing.

It’s not like I haven’t had a blowjob before, but there’s something different about this one. Maybe it’s because Griff’s a guy. Maybe it’s because he’s really good and I’m really into it. But he seems to know exactly what I want. He gives attention to the sensitive spots, keeps a good pace, and doesn’t have some irrational fear that he’s going to break me somehow.

He even gives attention to my balls, first with his hands and then with his tongue, running along the seam, laving each of them in turn before drawing them into his mouth and sucking. Fuck, that almost does me in, and my hips buck.

I’m so close to coming. Just the right flick of his tongue is going to be enough to push me over the edge.

But then I hear the clicking of heels outside, and some of my high evaporates, replaced by ice cold dread. “Shit. Head start’s over.”

I slam the button for the fourth floor, the highest possible in this parking garage. Knowing he’s lost me a little bit, Griff redoubles his efforts. He works me like a pro, and it’s not long before adrenaline and the thrill of almost being caught crash against pent-up desire.

Release comes over me in an explosive burst, and I cry out, barely muffled by his hand. He loosens his lips and backs off the head, but he keeps himself right there, swallowing everything I give him.

I’m panting and soaring and so far detached from reality, but it’s still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

He grins up at me, looking damn pleased with himself. My legs feel like jelly and I want to bask in the glow of post-orgasm bliss, but the elevator door dings, signaling we’ve reached the fourth floor. Griff pulls my underwear and pants back up, zips me, and moves to my side, stuffing his hands into his pockets and whistling.

A woman waits on the other side, and my heart catches in my throat. Fuck. Did she hear us?

But when she says something, I realize she’s on her phone. My eyes close in relief, and I step off of the elevator with Griff. Once it closes on her and goes down a floor, I let out a laugh that’s practically giddy from the flood of adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Yep,” he says with a glowing smile that brings out his dimples. “And you owe me fifty bucks.”

I shake my head, starting toward the stairwell on shaky legs. No way we’re taking the elevator again. I’m going to get hard just thinking about it.

“You never made a wager.”

“Well shit.” He follows me into the stairwell, and his voice bounces a little on the bare walls. He really has lost his mind.

Apparently I’m right there with him, because I find myself saying, “I’ll make one now, though. You help me win on Saturday, I’ll blow you, too.”

I look over my shoulder at him, and his eyes almost seem to glitter in the harsh fluorescent light. “Deal.”

Man. I already wanted to win that game, but now I have one hell of an incentive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

- Derek -

When Saturday rolls around, I feel absolutely unstoppable.

At least… I do after spending most of the morning feeling like I’m going to hurl.

Around 9AM, I got a text from my teenage sister, Grace, that started off with the phrase ‘Yo, loser’ and ended with ‘I’m blowing off Trevor to watch you juggle your balls. Don’t choke.’

Grace and I have practically made a career out of giving each other shit. While anyone else would read that text and wonder if my sister even likes me, I know exactly what it means. She’s proud of her big brother. And she’ll never let me live it down if I’m intercepted today.

That makes me feel a little better, until I get a text later from my mom saying she and Dad had both taken the day off to watch me play from home. I knew they’d been keeping up with the Tigers—they’d sent me texts every week, both when the games were broadcast and when they weren’t. My dad especially likes to analyze everything and tries to give me some “inside information” about how I might be able to best one of the starting players.

But them getting the chance to see part of my elbow during a bench shot is a lot different than them seeing me play. My parents haven’t watched me since my last day playing football in high school, and considering what a fucking disaster that was, I guess I can give myself a little break for feeling so much anxiety.

I didn’t even know this game was going to be broadcast anywhere outside of someone deciding to illegally record it on their phone or something. As a newly-minted Division-I school, Eastshore doesn’t get a ton of attention. Our rivals for today, Raleigh Tech, get even less.

But nope. Apparently our game is a feature on one of the ESPN channels. I don’t know who our athletic administrators had to blow for that to happen, but it’s just one more added bit of pressure.

All morning I consider telling Coach Garvey to give my starting position to someone else. I’m afraid of choking. Afraid all my work with Hawk and the other guys won’t really pay off—that I’ll see the defender coming at me and freeze up. Drop like a stone where I stand. Or worse, drop the ball completely.

But then Hawk comes up to me and personally hands me my jersey. It’s in pristine condition, and even has that new jersey smell that I love so much. It’s a bold, deep blue with black accents. Griffin is printed on the back above my number, 22, in blocky white letters for everyone to see.

It’s ridiculous to say a piece of clothing changed my mind, but in a way, it did. It was a symbol. Just like that old mesh practice jersey that I’d now stained with my blood, sweat, and tears, this brand new jersey was an indication of just how far I’d come.

“You’re going to kick ass today,” Hawk said to me, giving me a smile that made my chest clench. And then he winked, and I felt a whole other sensation. “Don’t forget our wager.”

How could I? It’s all I thought about from that night in the elevator up until this morning, when I instead started to stress about the game. But now that he’s brought it up again—no pun intended—my mind is focused on that prize.

Maybe it’s a little pathetic that I’m more motivated by the idea of seeing Hawk on his knees in front of me than I am by the idea of not making an ass of myself on national television, but it gets me going and gets me out of my own head.

By the time I hit the field and line up with the other guys for the national anthem, I’m fucking pumped.

I stand a few feet away from Hawk, but it feels like I’m right there with him, my helmet clutched in one hand, the other over my heart as one of the Eastshore students belts out the familiar lyrics. When she’s done, we get ready for the toss, and Hawk—now the offensive team captain, just like he deserves—calls it in the air.

We get possession first, and the moment Hawk’s fingers touch the laces, I can tell we’re going to dominate.

It helps that I’m pretty much thrown into the fire from the word go. The first time he pitches me the ball in a short screen pass, I have guys all over me. Three of them pin me to the ground less than a second after completion. I don’t know if Hawk did it deliberately to break me in, but it snaps through that mental barrier and gets me thinking I can actually do this—I can outrun the guys covering me, pick the passes out of the air before they even leap for them, and outrun them on the way to the endzone.

The first time that actually happens, I’m fucking ecstatic. The NCAA has a sportsmanship clause now, so I can’t celebrate the way I want to, but damned if I’m not spiking the fuck out of that ball in my head. When Hawk rushes up behind me and lifts me off the ground, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

But not everything can be perfect. Even in a game we’re favored to win with overwhelmingly positive odds.

The Rams have a strong offense, even if their defense is a little weak. They get the ball down the field and manage to keep pace with us pretty well. The gap, at its largest, is only seven points. They can close it with an unanswered TD and come out on top with a two-point conversion.

We go into the locker room up by just three, and Coach Garvey gives us a lecture about not getting cocky. We were in the same position as these guys just a few years ago, after all, and it’s clear they want to prove themselves in Division-I ball just as much as we do.

Maybe more than we do, because the third period starts with a clusterfuck. Mayes fumbles. One of the linemen recovers, but we’re pushed to fourth down and end up having to punt it away. Our defense holds up this time, and the clock runs on and on with no one managing to complete a drive.

Hawk is getting frustrated. He always hurries up to the line of scrimmage when his patience is thin, and while he’s normally calm and cool under pressure, I can tell this game is starting to get to him.

About ten minutes into the fourth quarter, Raleigh Tech scores.

Everybody on the Eastshore sidelines is having a fit. The fans are loud and rowdy and I can’t even hear myself think as Coach Garvey pulls Hawk off to the side, grabs his face mask to bring him closer, and tells him something. A play, I’d guess, because when we take the field again after special teams clears it, he jogs up with me and tells me what’s going on.

“I’m going to call a Slant, but I want you to run it like a Hook. Just head for the sideline and sprint. I’ll get the ball to you.”

I nod, realizing I trust him implicitly. It’s a hell of a pass to make, and a hell of a chance to take on me. The clock’s ticking down, and we’ve got only a few chances at possession to make this work. If Hawk wastes one of them on a play that might not come together—a play that hinges on me not losing my shit—we may end up going home with another one in the loss column because of me.

But it’s his call. If he thinks I can do this, then I’m going to do everything in my power to live up to it, because I know he can throw the pass.

He barks out the play, his voice rough from having to shout over the last couple hours. My pulse races, and I make the mistake of locking eyes with the defender standing across from me. When I move in the backfield to change up position the way Hawk calls it, he moves with me. There’s murder in his eyes, and a self-satisfied smirk I can just barely see behind his mask.

As soon as Hawk takes the snap, I sprint toward the sideline. I move faster than the guy covering me expects, and he lags behind at first. But when I can’t sustain the speed, he gets a chance to catch up, and he’s on me practically bound for bound.

But at least he’s the only one. We’re so far down the field that nobody else would bother coming out here.

I see the ball sail through the air, thrown high and strong. It’s moving past me, I can tell, and I have to put on another burst of speed to get to it. The defender is still right there with me, ready to interfere. When I jump for it, his arm comes down between mine, trying to bat the ball away.

But I pull it out of the air and clutch it to my chest.

The crowd roars when they realize I’ve caught the pass and I’m already at the 10. The defender roars, too, but in a way that says I’m about to get the shit pounded out of me. From the 3 I leap, and so does he. He tackles me around the middle, and I go for the risky move—I stick the ball out with my right hand, holding onto the thing for dear life.

I crash to the ground hard, my helmet jostling against the turf, my ears ringing. My vision swims a little and I get the wind knocked out of me. After a moment, I finally manage to look and see where my hand ended up.

The nose of the football is just passing into the paint. The ref signals a touchdown.

The sound in the stadium is absolutely insane. People are cheering, stomping in the stands, I think there are cups flying onto the field. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard or seen, and somehow it’s eclipsed by my teammates coming up and damn near knocking me to the ground again once I finally get up.

“That was fucking amazing!”

“Awesome catch!”

“Holy shit, that was insane, man!”

I’m jostled around, my helmet is smacked and patted, my pads get the same treatment, and through it all adrenaline is pumping and I’m invincible. And when my eyes find Hawk, it only gets better. He’s more collected than the other guys this time, but the smile and the gleam in his eyes are just for me.

I feel like I’ve actually made a difference. Like I actually matter. To the team, yeah. Probably even to the fans right now. I can hear “Griffin” being chanted in the stands. But seeing that look of pride in Hawk’s eyes is the best reward I can ever think of.

We win the game 21 to 14.

After that last touchdown, the other team wasn’t able to answer, and our guys were running off the sheer exhilaration of it. I swear that feeling can give you superpowers, or at least an untouchable level of confidence. When our offense took the field again, it was clear the defense was shaken. They covered my ass with double the defenders, and though we made a good run of it, we weren’t able to score again before time ran down.

Hawk ended up taking a knee toward the end to run down the clock, and we came away with a huge win.