Soccer Rivals
Copyright© 2025 by Golden Ghost Pen
Chapter 4
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 4 - 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
The glow of the field’s large scoreboard in the corner mocked Jack’s patience from the sideline Tuesday night. It had been about nine days since he’d felt Matt’s soft, fluffy blonde hair brush his inner thigh, since Matt’s breath had warmed his groin.
Jack swayed back and forth on the sideline, antsy and ready for the semifinal game against the three seed, his cleats digging into the grass. His team had earned a bye this past weekend in round one as the two seed (as had Matt’s as the one seed) and there was now just one game and win separating their teams from facing each other for the state championship in their state group. He’d spent the last week oscillating between intense training, trying to burn off restless energy, and doing an uncomfortable introspection into who he was at his core.
Their matches were staggered, played on adjacent fields at the sprawling regional sports complex, the roar of the crowd and the sharp whistle of referees bleeding into each other.
Jack’s mind eased as his match got underway, focused on the thud of the ball, the surge of adrenaline as he weaved through defenders. He was a pure attacker, waiting like a snake to strike at any moment. Twenty minutes into the second half, the scoreboard showed his team up 1-0. A narrow lead, but his team’s defense was holding strong. Jack was itching to find the net. He’d had a few good runs, a couple of close shots, but nothing had clicked yet.
There was a quick stoppage for an injury, a teammate rolling around, likely embellishing to catch a break, that gave Jack a minute to retreat to the sideline for water. As he turned to listen to his coach barking strategic orders, his gaze drifted across the field, over the heads of the parents and younger siblings clustered along the fence, to Matt now standing with his arms folded, his blonde hair disheveled and just recently free from his usual headband.
Jack’s heart gave a strange, unwelcome lurch. His rival. His ... whatever Matt was. Matt gave a small, casual. A sudden, irrational need to impress him surged through Jack, overriding the game plan, overriding everything. He wanted to score, not just for his team, but for Matt. Before going back out on the pitch, he jogged towards the sideline where Matt stood as the medical team took a long at the fake injury on the field.
“Hey,” Jack panted. He gestured vaguely towards the other field. “How’d it go? You guys win?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but he was anxious, praying the team that he could never beat had in fact won and would now await his own in the championship.
Matt’s lips quivered into a small, cocky smile. “Of course we won. Four-nil.”
Jack felt his jaw clench. Four-nil. Of course. The suffocating midfield, led by Matt, rarely conceded a single opposing goal. Their number one seed status wasn’t just for show. Jack rolled his eyes, “of course you did...”
Jack heard his name being called to rejoin his teammates for the start of play. As he turned, Matt gave one more shout, “Jack ... go take care of business.”
The moment Jack stepped back onto the pitch, a fire lit within him. The whistle blew, signaling the restart. Jack was everywhere. His mind, usually analytical and focused on team play, was now singularly fixated on that tall blonde boy on the sideline, an electric current pushing him forward.
Ten minutes later, a through ball from his midfielder teammate sliced through the opposing defense. Jack was already in motion, anticipating, reading the play before anyone else. He ghosted past a flailing defender, collected the ball with a first touch, positioning it perfectly for his right foot. Two more touches, a quick glance at the keeper, and then he unleashed a low, driven shot that threaded the needle between the keeper’s outstretched hand and the near post. SWISH. The net rippled. Goal.