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OnTheBeach27: Just checking in. How are you doing?

There is a green dot beside his name, telling me that he’s currently online too, so I hurry to respond while he’s still there.

Me: Not much. Just lying in bed for a few minutes before I have to go to work.

OnTheBeach27: Me too… Listen. I have something weird to tell you. I don’t know if this is something I’m supposed to tell you or not, but my brain won’t let me skip it.

I frown, confused by his wording.

I take my hand off my dick, not replying one-handed this time when I answer him.

Me: Is everything okay? Do you need something?

I don’t know him—not really—but if there’s something I can do to help, I will.

OnTheBeach27: Nah, I’m good. That’s cool of you to ask, though. Not everyone would care enough about a random stranger on the internet.

Me: But are you a random stranger? I’ve seen your dick. I feel like that might be something special to you.

OnTheBeach27: A surprising number of people have seen my dick, though I guess not in the same way you did. Yeah, that’s a little different for me, but we’re on the right track. I might meet up with someone…a guy…and I know we’re not anything. I don’t even know your fucking name or what you look like, but you did make me come, so I feel like I should tell you.

I get an unfamiliar flutter in my gut.

Me: Jesus, you’re fucking sweet.

OnTheBeach27: No, I’m not.

Me: Whatever you say…and good for you. With the guy. I’m happy for you. I hope he’s good for you.

OnTheBeach27: I’m not saying that’s what this is.

Me: It’s okay if it is. Have fun, man. You deserve it.

OnTheBeach27: We’re just friends. Hell, I don’t even know if we’re that.

Me: Friends can fuck too. But whatever it is, I hope you find what you’re looking for. You’re good people, and you deserve to have fun.

A few minutes go by before he replies.

OnTheBeach27: Thanks. You’re good people too. I gotta go. Talk soon.

Me: Yeah, man. Talk soon.

I close out of the app and find myself unexpectedly smiling. I want this for OnTheBeach27. I feel like he doesn’t let himself enjoy life as much as he should, hasn’t spent enough time collecting experiences, and I hope this is a good one for him.

I take the time to jerk off because my dick is still begging for attention. Every time I close my eyes, each time my hand slides up and down my lubed shaft, it’s Oakley fucking Manning whose face flitters through my head.

Fuck, I wish I’d kissed him, wish I’d tested to see if he still tasted the same after all these years.

I think about playing ball with him, his ass pressing into my groin as he backed up toward the basket, the scent of sweat on his skin and the way he licked his lips when he looked at me, and before I know it, I’m arching off the bed, pleasure bouncing around my insides like a pinball machine. I paint my abs with my load, then drop my head back and close my eyes.

Oakley fucking Manning is going to be the death of me.

*

Coach Henderson runs practice so differently to Coach Blake. He’s hard on us, tests us, doesn’t just let us coast by like we don’t have to work for each and every win. It’s clear he demands excellence like a good coach should, but with a personal bit that Blake has never had. We were nothing but a means to an end for him, people he took credit for, and someone who acted like each and every win only belonged to him.

Coach Henderson has a relationship with his players, asks about their families—laughs with us and jokes with us in a way I haven’t experienced since college.