Soccer Rivals
Copyright© 2025 by Golden Ghost Pen
Chapter 1
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Two straight high school soccer rivals put their own bodies on the table during a shootout on the field. Their competitive fire lights something else in them.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Reluctant Gay Fiction School Sports DomSub Humiliation Rough Spanking Analingus First Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Spitting Public Sex
It was 7:00AM on a Saturday in October out on the soccer pitch, the grass still damp from the early morning sprinklers. The ‘stadium’, if you could call the local sports complex that, usually filled with cheering parents, was silent and filled with fog.
No practices or games were scheduled until at least 10:00 this morning, making this wide open field a surprising place of solitude on a chilly Fall morning. Jack arrived at 6:30 and had been taking shots on goal, the tension in his shoulders tight as he considered the approaching challenge.
A little after 7:05, his cross-town rival, a captain of Jack’s team’s rival school, Matt, strolled down from his car. Taller at 6’4” to Jack’s 5’11”, and leaner than Jack, his limbs were long, dangling out and filled with coiled power, perfect for the midfield position he played. His damp, blonde hair was held in place with a sweatband, a familiar sight that usually sparked a competitive fire in Jack’s gut. This morning, it felt different. More personal.
Their rivalry had evolved over 4 years in high school, both starring from the moment they joined their teams. What started out as a bitter hatred for the other had slowly transformed into something else. They were both still fierce competitors, both hating to lose, especially to each other, but lately, an admiration and borderline obsession grew between them. Something confusing that they both, in their own way, tried to label only as mutual respect.
“So?” Matt’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with that familiar challenge. Even from this distance, Jack could see the slight glint in his eyes, the competitive hunger Jack recognized because he saw it in the mirror in himself.
Jack walked towards the penalty spot, kicking idly at a stray piece of turf. “You ready Matty boy?”
Matt smirked, a slow, cocky curve of his lips. “You sure you’re up to lose again?”
That stung after Jack’s team’s recent loss, but it also sent a jolt of competitive energy through his veins. The way Matt carried himself, the playful arrogance, was fuel for Jack’s spirit. Jack ignored the little flicker of heat in his chest and focused on the burn of their rivalry.
This meet-up was a long time coming, a challenge they regularly referenced to the other that they swore would happen before school ended.
“Just you and me. First to three.” Jack said.
“We never did decide what we’re playing for.” Matt responded, competition a must for them both at all times.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Jack started. “I think we play for anything.”
“Anything?” Matt replied, confused.
“Yeah. Winner chooses. But we agree right now that anything’s on the table. Anything. Loser can’t back out if we agree now?” Jack stated, innuendo thick in his words.
Guys as competitive as Jack and Matt lived for the thrill of victory and dominance that came with these types of challenges. They also had deep respect for honoring the stakes if they were on the losing end, which neither Matt nor Jack were much in life.
Matt’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of focused intensity that Jack knew well.
“Whatever I want,” Matt echoed, the words a low promise, “sign me up...”
He walked towards the goal, pulling on gloves borrowed from his team’s actual goalkeeper. His tall, lean body filled the space as he moved.
Jack watched him, noting the grace despite his height. The way his jersey clung to his defined shoulders. The line of his jaw. Focus Jack, he told himself. He’s the enemy. This is about beating him. Yet, the competitive drive felt tangled with this other, confusing feeling. It was like wanting to tackle him hard and wrap his arms around him in victory all at once.
“Alright,” Matt said, finally settled between the posts, his eyes locking onto Jack’s. The distance felt suddenly very small. “Your kick.”
Jack placed the ball on the spot. His heart hammered, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion. It was the familiar pre-penalty anxiety, but amplified by Matt’s presence.
Jack backed up, focused on the ball. He chose his spot – low and hard to Matt’s left. He ran up, the familiar rhythm of his steps calming him slightly. He struck the ball clean.
It was a good shot, powerful and low. But Matt was already there, a long arm stretching, gloves deflecting the ball wide.
“Saved!” Matt’s triumphant shout echoed. He bounced the ball once, the sound loud in the quiet.
Jack’s gut twisted with frustration. God, he hated losing to Matt. He walked forward to retrieve the ball, avoiding Matt’s eyes, though he could feel them on him. He told himself the flush on his face was just effort.
“My turn,” Matt said, tossing the ball back to Jack.
Jack pulled on the keeper gloves and jogged to the goal, feeling smaller than usual between the posts. Matt took his time, breathing deeply, his chest expanding. Jack focused on reading him – the set of his shoulders, the angle of his hips, the look in his eyes. That intense, focused look.
Matt backed up, his long legs covering the distance quickly. He ran up, a smooth movement, and struck the ball.
Jack dove instinctively, guessing right, but the shot was perfectly placed, high and hard into the top corner, just under the crossbar. It was impossible to save.
“One-nil,” Matt called out, his voice tight with satisfaction.
Jack ripped off the gloves, frustration boiling. Get a grip, Jack. This was just a game.
The next few shots were a blur of tension and adrenaline. Jack scored his next, a tricky low shot to the corner. Matt responded with a powerful drive that Jack barely got a fingertip to, but it wasn’t enough. 2-1 Matt. Jack scored again, finding the net after faking Matt out. 2-2.
With each kick, each save attempt, the tension wound tighter. They rarely spoke, communicating only through the intense looks on their faces, the quick, assessing glances. Jack found himself watching Matt intensely – the way his muscles bunched under his jersey before he kicked, the sweat glistening on his hairline below the band, the determination etched on his face when he was about to dive. This fascination was just part of the competition, he told himself. You had to know your opponent, every nuance.
Matt saved Jack’s fourth shot, a soft one hit poorly due to nerves. Matt responded with a shot to the opposite side of Jack’s dive. 3-2 Matt. Jack’s heart sank. He took a deep breath, trying to recapture his focus. He still was given a chance to tie for ‘overtime’.
He walked up for his fifth shot. If he missed, Matt won. If he scored, it was 3-3, and they’d go into overtime. The pressure was immense. He looked at Matt who stood tall, arms slightly out, filling the goal. His eyes were piercing, fixed on Jack.
Jack ran up and struck the ball with everything he had. It rocketed towards the goal, aimed low and hard. Matt dropped, a long blur of motion. For a heart-stopping second, Jack thought he’d saved it again. But the ball squeezed just under his outstretched arm, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud.
“Goal!” Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 3-3.
Matt got up slowly, slapping his thigh in frustration. Good. Let him feel it.
Now came overtime. Each successful shot was met with the opponent’s successful reply. The score crept up – 4-4, then 5-5.
They both dripped sweat as the competition and morning air heated up, hair beginning to stick to their foreheads. Jack’s legs burned, his lungs ached. He stared at Matt, who looked equally spent, his chest heaving, the sweatband dark with moisture.
Jack was up for his sixth shot. Score was 5-5. If he scored, the pressure was all on Matt. He placed the ball, took his steps back. Jack’s mind flashed with thoughts he immediately tried to suppress: the angle of Matt’s neck, the way his chest rose and fell, the sheer presence of him. He ran up, connected. The ball flew true, high into the corner Matt had left open but hit the crossbar and banged back. A miss.
“YES!” Matt shouted, relief washing over him, with a chance to win.
Jack jogged towards the goal, ready to take his turn as keeper. Matt walked slowly to the spot, retrieving the ball.
Jack pulled on the gloves, trying to control his breathing. This was it. If he didn’t save this, he lost. If he saved it, the game went on.
Matt placed the ball. He stood behind it for a long moment, just breathing. Then he looked up. His eyes met Jack’s across the distance. The competitive fire was still there, burning bright. But beneath it, something else. Vulnerability? It was fleeting, gone before he could name it. Matt’s expression hardened into a mask of piercing concentration.
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