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Ethan Blake. Calm as a motherfucking cucumber. All padded up and walking from one end of the locker room towards the coach’s office. People giving him nods of respect. Others giving him high-fives. Trading fucking banter. That motherfucking cunt.
I slam my locker door shut. Hard.
“You okay, bro?” DeShawn asks, looking over to me. As if he fucking cares, drooling over Julianna’s perfect fucking titties.
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth. DeShawn sees me raging and follows my gaze towards the target. Ethan fucking Blake. He takes a step closer. “Let it go, dude,” he says to me. “Ain’t worth the trouble. Not for a bitch.”
And you know what? For any other fucking girl, I wouldn't be so fucking worked up. If I wanted to, I could go out and fuck a new girl every fucking hour till the day I fucking died. I wouldn’t care if Ethan took one from me. It would be like taking a fucking piece of candy from a Hershey store. They hand that shit out for free as samples.
But this wasn’t any fucking woman. This was Julianna Heaton. And I don't know why I was feeling like this time he fucking crossed a line. That he took something more than just a fuck from me.
I don’t know why my cock was getting so fucking hard every time I watched that fucking video.
Yes, okay? You fucking happy. I downloaded that shit as soon as I heard about it on SportsNation. I must have probably been one of the first people to find that shit. I got hard. Even as I got fucking angry and jealous as fuck, my 12-inch cock literally exploded as I stroked it - I was that fucking horny watching the two of them.
DeShawn is probably going to say something but the coach comes out at that moment. That fucker Ethan is nowhere to be found. He must have left the office and went back to his side of the locker room at some point as I let my mind wander.
“Okay, listen up everyone,” the coach says, summoning us to the center. I roll my fucking eyes as the coach drones on and on. I’m the fucking champion at what I do. The fucking king of the battlefield we’re about to enter. I don't need to listen to his spiel about teamwork. I have a better idea than just doing whole teamwork routine. Want to know what it is?
Listen to everything I say. Do it exactly as I fucking say. And don’t argue.
I guarantee, we’ll end up winning.
I don’t know if that’s what Coach Karl ended up saying because everyone cheers at that point. I join in - you can’t help but get caught up in the moment. We’re going to war. And while I may be the absolute fucking best at the QB1 role, I’m going to need my support team. And that’s all of these guys.
If only one of them would realize he’s not the same fucking king of the hill as me.
But that’s not going to happen today. Today everyone’s patting him on the back and looking up at the fucker because he fucked the owner. Today he’s the fucking hero.
I’ll fucking show him. I’ll show all of them.
By any definition of the word, what happens on the field that night between the New York Nailers and the Denver Donkey’s is a fucking blowout.
In fact, we even win the fucking coin toss, electing to receive the ball. First fucking ten seconds of the game, we run that shit to the end zone and put 6 points on the board. We end up successfully converting for two points and just like that Ethan’s on the field.
He fucking sacks their Quarterback three times.
Not once. Not twice. But three fucking times. It’s like they can see what’s coming but they can’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.
In the end, their QB throws the ball too fast and Ethan literally jumps up and intercepts it.
I’m watching his body work - the muscles working in sheer tandem with each other. Each movement of his is efficient and action is optimized for peak perfection. Fuck, there are certain things about this game that fucking turn me on, and watching the pinnacle of human achievement on the field by anyone - even if it is by a fucker like Ethan Blake - is literally one of them.
The other is Julianna.
Ethan’s interception means I’m back on the field. This is the first time I’ve taken the field and I’m determined to leave my mark.
“I’m going to smoke your ass, motherfucker!” the defensive tackle for the Donkeys is yelling at me as I start the snap count. I brush it aside. I know the guy. His name is Marvin Jomas. I’ve gone up against him before. I know exactly who he is.
How?
No time to tell you now, because I snap the ball and all of a sudden I’m in the zone. Everything else falls out and my eagle eyes are looking for my receivers as they shoot down the field. My left tackle is doing his job but he’s not doing it perfectly because Marvin is all of a sudden through. The Donkeys are fucking pissed at the three back to back sacks and interception we just gave them and they’re looking to take it out on me.
Marvin twists and turns his body and I see a wide receiver maybe three seconds from being open out near the 30-yard line. But I don’t have three fucking seconds. Marvin is only maybe a second away.
Literally, by the time you read this, Marvin is already fucking on me. I can smell his fucking hot breath. I can see the eye of the fucking tiger in his eyes. I can feel the adrenaline going through my veins like a fucking drug.
He reaches his arms around to grab me.
