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But I didn’t make lists when I was a kid. I was always thinking about the project I was working on. I assumed that I was in a state of perpetual training. Like this was some kind of practice run. People who make lists are people who expect to get done with their lists. I kind of thought I was in a pre-list stage.
Now that all my dreams have come true, as I even dreamed them really, all I can do is sit back and be grateful. If I had known, though, that my parents were going to pass away during my sophomore year of college, I might have made lists. For them. So they would at least have known the kind of person I was trying to be.
You know who makes lists? Spencer.
Spencer makes lists, charts, calendars, diagrams, and spreadsheets. Eventually I realized that making lists and charts is his real job. In order to make a list, you have to make the dream. Making the dream is how businesses get made. I guess I never understood that.
I only understood the caricature of management as being people who are bossing around other people and taking credit for their work. I didn’t realize how much effort goes into having a vision, creating a team, and basically motivating and inspiring your team at all times.
What seemed to me to be self-centeredness when I first met him is actually the complete opposite. Spencer is completely focused on his vision, and his vision is all of us. All our happiness. He doesn’t even want anything for himself.
Except this one thing. Just this one thing… and who can blame him?
When we land, there is another Tesla waiting for us, the Model Y crossover. Looking out the window, I can see Trevor and Zeke leaning against the side, their arms crossed over their chests in almost identical gestures.
Trevor waves at the airplane. He can’t see me, but I wave back. The breeze tousles his long, sun-kissed hair.
I swear I can hear the marching band as soon as we cross onto campus. It’s probably impossible, but it’s just in the air.
I sit forward, practically pressing my nose to the glass as we roll through these streets. Lake Street is just the same as ever, but I guess it has only been about four years. The tapas restaurant is still here, and when we pass the alley I can just barely make out the blue smudge of neon light from the M Club sign.
Traffic thickens dramatically as we get closer, prompting Trevor to cut a hard left and take the access road to the back of the stadium. I guess it really pays to have an inside connection.
When Zeke opens my door, he dips his head in immediately to kiss me before I get out. Smiling, I savor his sweet, gentle lips for a moment before I realize that yes, in fact, that is marching band music.
Zeke is swelling with pride. He is trying to hold back, but I know he’s really excited. It’s the championship all over again, and his brother Frankie is starting center.
“Are you ready for this?” Spencer asks, appearing at the front of the Tesla.
Zeke raises his hands and then lets them fall again to slap at his thighs. Apparently, he is beyond words at this point.
“Are you ready for this?” Diego asks pointedly.
Spencer claps his hands together triumphantly. “Hell yes, I was made for this!”
People stare at us as we march toward the stadium. A few people recognize the guys from a few years back, but mostly they are just a physical presence. A force of nature—four muscular, handsome men, all moving in what looks like practiced formations. They still have that sense of each other at all times. And they still always walk around me as though I am being carried forth on an invisible litter.
In public, I have grown accustomed to the surprised glances that we get, but here at Bellman, I feel it as though it is new all over again. I feel emboldened. Kind of naughty. I feel very special.
The smell of salt is in the air. Sweat, suntan oil, popcorn. All of these sounds and smells are triggering the deep, lizard parts of my brain. I feel hungry and excited all at once.
The crowd propels us forward along the back of the stands, and when we reach the break in the pillars, I suddenly remember where we are. Grabbing Trevor’s hand, I duck between the uprights.
“Grab Diego!” I insist.
Trevor obeys immediately, and in a few moments all four of them are standing with me underneath the stadium stands, listening to the roar of thousands of footsteps just above our heads.
Briefly, we are paralyzed by the memory. We have been here before. The championship game, the championship team, the five of us unified and connected in a way other people can’t even imagine.
“Fuck, yeah,” Spencer grins as he comes toward me.
Hiking my skirt over my hips, I let Zeke rip my panties down and notice Diego stuff them into his pocket. Spencer effortlessly picks me up, entering me in a smooth, strong motion.
The noise of the crowd conceals my moans as Spencer holds me, fucking me while standing under the roaring crowd. Trevor stands behind him for support, while Diego holds my hips from behind.
To my surprise, I can feel Diego pressing at my back entrance, gently knocking on my back door, asking me to let him in.
I can never say no. In moments I have both inside me, holding me between them like a trapeze artist. They piston back and forth, sliding their dicks against each other, separated only by a narrow membrane. I am full of both of them, exultant, transported in a sort of hallucination. I see a vision of fleshy mechanical shapes, working together like a giant machine made of metal and skin all at once. It has a sound. It has a form and function even if I can’t see it all, due to being part of it.
