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My breath catches as a shiver wracks through me, eyes riveted to the tip of Liam’s cock, which is gushing milky white liquid. It spills over his crown, along my fingers, pooling at the coarse curls that frame his pulsing dick. And it gives me a profound sense of satisfaction to see it.
For several long minutes neither of us move. Liam attempts to catch his breath while I try to decipher whether the sensations I felt were legitimate arousal or intense curiosity. When he’s soft enough that his tip is no longer poking from my hand I let him go and get a washcloth to clean us both up.
“Better?” I toss the cloth in the hamper and hand him his pants.
“Yeah, thanks.” The lines that crossed his face earlier are virtually absent now, which isn’t immediately apparent, since his head is angled away from mine as he pulls his pants on. Deliberately, I think.
Just as I start to question whether it was a mistake to help him again, I hear him whisper, “I got jumped.”
“What?”
Liam leans against the wall next to his bed, clears his throat, and looks me in the eye. “That’s how I broke my arm last year. I got jumped.”
Coming from a small town, where crime is virtually unheard of, I don’t know anyone who has been attacked. I know it happens–I’ve seen the news–I just don’t know anyone it’s happened to.
I sink onto my own bed, slowly, so the movement doesn’t startle him. I have a feeling that would make him clam up, and I want him to keep talking. “That’s terrible. Did they find who did it?”
Liam plays with the hem of his shirt. “I know who did it.”
“You know him?”
“Them.”
“Them? Plural? People you know jumped you? Why?” I sound like a toddler with all the questions, but it’s hard to wrap my brain around what he’s saying.
“They didn’t appreciate learning they’d been sharing a locker room with a gay guy.” Liam’s voice is so detached it’s like he’s living someone else’s memory. And I totally get it. Sometimes detachment is the only way to deal, at least in the beginning.
“Holy shit. Did you press charges?”
He gives a quick shake of his head. “That would’ve just made things worse.”
“How would justice make things worse?”
“One of the guy’s dads worked at the school. He’d turned a blind eye to what they did to me before, when it first came out I was gay, but he never outright targeted me. If his kid got a police record because of me… I just wanted to graduate and get out.”
“Your parents wouldn’t have stepped in?”
“It wouldn’t have helped. That teacher was also the football coach, and he was basically worshiped for having such a great team. They won the state championship more often than not. No one would’ve taken my parents seriously if it meant jeopardizing their prize coach.”
This story just keeps getting worse. I’ve heard of bad teachers, but turning a blind eye to violence because you have a winning football team? I’m a football player, and even I know that’s bullshit. And to be trapped in that environment… No wonder Liam has walls that are sky high. He hasn’t had anyone to trust. Maybe not even his parents, if he wouldn’t even attempt to get their help.
“Your school sounds fucked up.”
“Private schools usually are.” He tries—and fails—to give me a weak smile.
“Well, jumping you must not have worked.”
“What do you mean?” Liam’s head tilts to the side, cautious yet curious.
I lean against the wall and cross my feet at the ankles, hoping if I look at ease, he’ll feel that way. “If the goal was to get you to quit lacrosse it didn’t work. You’re here.”
“It did work, actually. The school that recruited me dropped me after I broke my arm. They didn’t want to take a chance on a guy with an injury when there were plenty of other healthy guys to take my place. I’m only playing now since there’s a club team here.”
“They cost you your scholarship? Bastards.” My hands ball into fists at my side as a rare off-field bout of rage courses through me.
“It’s fine. It’s not like there’s a huge opportunity to play professional lacrosse.” This time Liam almost achieves the smile, like he’s convinced himself he’s moved past it.
“I still wanna kick their asses.”
