Chapter 3: Sweaty and Wrecked

By the time we hit the second round of drills, my arms were shaking.

Sweat clung to the back of my neck, dripping down between my shoulder blades, soaking the waistband of my shorts. My chest felt tight, lungs dragging in breath that never felt deep enough, legs heavy and sluggish no matter how hard I pushed.

Across the gym, Mason was laughing with one of the older guys, singlet long since pulled down, abs catching the sharp overhead light as he flexed and stretched. He moved like a guy who didn’t have a care in the world, all loose muscle and casual grins, slinging his towel across his shoulders and flashing that cocky, boyish smile that made half the team laugh along without even knowing why.

I tried not to look. I really tried.

But my body kept noticing anyway, even when I forced my gaze away. Mason’s arms — thicker than mine, muscles carved from years of practice — flexed easily as he helped adjust one of the crash mats. His messy blond hair fell into his eyes when he laughed, and his hips swayed with a cocky swagger a little as he walked, not deliberate, just natural, his singlet riding low on his hips in a way that made something crotch tighten.

I clenched my fists briefly, forcing a breath through my nose. Focus, Eli.

And then Casper.

Casper moved in behind me, his presence so quiet and sharp that it hit like a spark across my skin. “Shoulders down, Eli,” he murmured, voice low and unbothered. “You’re locking up again.”

My stomach flipped. I adjusted, shifting the tension out of my back, only to feel his hand land lightly at my waist. Firm. Steady. Warm. His palm pressed just enough to guide me, thumb brushing the edge of my side as he adjusted my angle.

“There you go,” he said softly. “Don’t rush. You’re strong enough to hold it.”

I swallowed hard, biting the inside of my cheek.

It wasn’t like he was doing anything special — just coaching, just spotting, just being the cool, competent assistant coach he was — but my brain didn’t care. My body definitely didn’t care. My cock twitched hopefully, thick and half-hard where it shouldn’t be, pressing awkwardly against the tight stretch of my shorts as I forced myself to hold position. The knowledge that my tight practice singlet wouldn’t leave anything to the imagination did nothing to help my agitated state.

My chest thudded hard as Casper stepped back, letting his hand fall away, his weight shifting smoothly as he moved on to correct the next guy. I caught myself exhaling shakily, trying to act normal, trying to remind myself that this was what practice was for, working hard, pushing limits, not ... whatever the hell was happening in my head.

Mason barked another laugh nearby, slinging an arm casually over someone’s shoulders, his chest streaked with sweat, his grin wide and easy. His eyes flicked toward me briefly, just a glance, probably nothing, and I nearly stumbled over my own feet.

Focus. Get your shit together.

But it was hard to ignore how they both moved around me. Mason, carefree, loud, solid and familiar; Casper, sharp and smooth, every move controlled, every touch sending vibrations through my body, even when they shouldn’t have been.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake out the tension, but it only seemed to wrap tighter around my chest. My body ached everywhere, thighs trembling, arms sore, lungs burning, and yet, somehow, the real pressure was all inside my head.

And lower.

The third round was worse.

Casper circled in behind me, voice smooth and low. “Slow it down, Eli. You’re rushing the lift again.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to obey, feeling his hands settle lightly on my hips. The faint pressure made me shiver, my skin prickling under the thin fabric as his thumbs guided the adjustment.

“Better,” he murmured near my ear.

My pulse thudded so hard it nearly drowned out his voice. His body was close, just a few inches off my back, the heat of him bleeding through my singlet, the faint rasp of his breath brushing the side of my neck. I tried to lock into the movement, focus on the mechanics, but every time his hand skimmed across my waist or pressed at my back, my thoughts scattered like dry leaves.