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"Thanks," I call, hoping that he's turning back, or that he will.
"No problem." His quiet voice is right behind me. I inhale and try to stop my body's hair-trigger reaction. But it's no use. I can feel him in my circle of space, feel the warmth of him in the air passing over my bare lower back.
"Lemme get this other one," he tells me, opening the locker room door.
For a second—anger.
I don't need your fucking help. Fuck off. I want to say those things. But it's petty bullshit. I want you to suck my dick and sleep in my bed. I'm a fucking stage-three clinger now. At this moment, I feel mad at him for that, too.
"Thanks bro,” I try. “See ya out there."
Is that the tone I'd use if I had never had his dick in my mouth?
"I'm gonna shower too,” he says.
I don't look behind me as I head toward my locker. His is somewhere off to the left; I know because I've seen the strip of tape with MASTERS written on it.
I drop my bloody shirt now that I'm facing my own locker, noting that my nose feels okay. Nose stuff just bleeds. No bfd.
Got some spare shit in here—always. I don't like to be in sweat-soaked clothes. I pull out one of the grocery bags that's knotted at the top and carry the thing over to the showers. And he's right there. He's standing in front of the stalls with his eyes on me like he's trying to suck my soul in through his pupils.
"Nose okay?" he asks.
"Smell some sweaty dickface by the showers." I won't let myself look at him as I push one of the stall doors open.
I'm pulling the thing shut when his hand closes around it. His eyes hold mine. "You wanna go home after this?"
My heart thumps offbeat as I try to make my face look neutral. "I guess."
He nods. He lets go of the door. "Let's stop for some food," he says.
And then he's in the stall beside mine. I can see the side of his head and his shoulders above the stall's side.
What the fuck is he doing? He tips his head back, rubs his fingers through his hair, and I'm hard. It’s instantaneous. Fuck.
I rub the bridge of my nose, but it doesn't really hurt. I turn my face to the shower, fixing it so I can't see him. For the rest of the time I'm washing, I have to angle myself away from him. I'm not sure if I can get my dick down without jerking it. But I think about not being able to drive at college, or about having a seizure on the soccer field, and that gets it bendy enough to at least fit into my boxer briefs.
I'm drying myself with a towel at the same time he is.
Fuckkkit.
"Whatcha wanna eat?” he asks, like we’re besties. “What about some of that chicken from the one place?"
"Wyatt Raye's?" I manage.
"Yeah."
"That's fine."
I reach for my clothes bag at the same time Ezra steps out in his towel. He gives me a tight smile.
"Lookin' good, DG."
"What?"
"You're putting on muscle."
"So are you."
He smiles.
"Don't comment on how I look," I mutter. I can't stop the words from leaving my mouth.
"Why not?"
A burst of rage moves through me. "Don't start this shit." He’s just playing games—again.
I get dressed as fast as I can, finding Coach to officially tap out at practice and then walking to the Jeep, where I lean against the passenger’s side door, trying not to get a hard-on from the way my shorts are pressed against me. My dick's gone into overdrive since he stopped messing with it.
"No chicken," he says as he gets in the car.
As he backs out of the parking spot, he murmurs something. Pretty sure it’s, "This is for your own good."
"What is?" I snap.
"Minimizing time with me."
"Oh, like how you showered right beside me just now?"
"It was a weak moment.” He turns out of the parking lot and onto the road. “I didn't touch you, did I?"
"No?" I gesture at my boner.
"Now you're fucking with me,” he says.
"I'm just fucking sitting here."
"Not for long." He whips the Jeep into the old ballpark, comes to an abrupt stop beside some bushes, and jerks my pants down. Then he takes my dick out of my briefs and gobbles it down.
"Oh shit. Shit." He's doing it so hard and...fast. My body shudders at the onslaught of his lips and cheeks and tongue.
"Slow down,” I grit. “Or I'm gonna..."
Come.
I come so hard, it makes my heart race. Ezra swallows every drop, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded.
"Now who's sitting there all innocent?" His voice is low and rough.
I’m expecting him to drive us home after he pulls out of the parking lot. Instead he takes us to the cemetery. He parks near the wall we climbed before and tells me, "Get out for a second."
