You Gotta Be a Football Hero
Copyright© 2026 by TheDarkKnight
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - In high school, I was a good soccer player, but I felt jealous of the guys on the football team. They got all the attention, playing before hundreds of adoring fans, and I won’t even mention the cheerleaders. When my soccer team played, we might be lucky to have 50-60 parents and friends watching us, and there was never a cheerleader in sight. So, when an opportunity arose for me to use my soccer skills to fill a need for a placekicker on the football team, I took a chance on it.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers Consensual Heterosexual Fiction School Sports First Oral Sex
Like most American boys, I dreamed of playing football when I was growing up, but even after my adolescent growth spurt supposedly kicked in, it was obvious I didn’t have the right genes for a pseudo-combat sport. I just wasn’t built for the game. Even as a sophomore in high school, I was 5’ 7”, and weighed 145 pounds, and I wasn’t fast enough to get away from large, angry defensive linemen who wanted to pound me into the ground. There was no way I could have survived. I tried out for the j.v. team in the ninth grade, but after a couple of practices, the coach took me aside and strongly recommended that I stick to soccer. I was relieved.
Fortunately, my parents had signed me up for that sport, the real football, when I was five. By the time I was in high school, I was one of the best players on our school team. As a sophomore, I made the All-County team. I also led my select travel team in goals and assists. I was beginning to hear from some college coaches. I should have been happy with that, but the problem was the jealousy I felt sitting in the stands at football games, in the middle of hundreds of fans, cheering for guys I considered idiots. When my high school soccer team played on the same field a few days later, there might be fifty or sixty family and friends watching us, usually in silence. It just wasn’t the same experience.
Then there were the cheerleaders. Just about the only reason I went to football games (and basketball in the winter) was to watch those sweet things prancing around in their short skirts and tight sweaters. I wasn’t the only one; I saw lots of my friends and more than a few dads who seemed more interested in the cheerleaders than in the game.
Today, cheerleaders are athletes with impressive gymnastic and acrobatic skills, but in my day, they were more like winners in a popularity contest and a kind of cult. They hung out in school together, ate lunch at their special table, and roamed in packs through the hallways, like she-wolves on the prowl, totally ignoring dweebs like me. Not that I was trying too hard for their attention, but it still hurt a little when Jessica Wallace, a cute little redhead I had known since the fifth grade, brushed by me to run into the arms of our star running back when I just wanted to say hello. After a game, especially if our team won, some of those doyennes of teenage sexiness would swoon over the players like adoring One Direction fans. There were even rumors that some of the cheerleaders would invite star players to “special” parties after the game, but I figured that was just another high school urban legend. Luckily, I found out it was true, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
When I was a sophomore, our football team’s almost-great season went down the tubes because we didn’t have a reliable placekicker. Coach Mack, the football team’s coach, asked Coach Dillon, the soccer coach, if he had any players interested in trying out for the upcoming season. Soccer-style kickers were just becoming a thing in those days.
Three of us wanted to try out. Two of them were going to be seniors who just wanted another letter for their jacket before they graduated. I was a junior, and my motivation was to share in all the excitement of being a football player. Kicking seemed like a safe way to do it.
The three of us showed up at the practice field one Saturday morning. Coach Mack and his assistant, Coach Collins, were there, along with a couple of players - a center to snap the ball, and a holder. The j.v. cheerleaders were practicing in a field next to us, which was a pleasant distraction. I found myself watching those younger wannabes with more interest than I should have. I guess if I had to admit it, I’ve always found girls in that age range more attractive and alluring than more mature girls. There was something about their adolescent bodies and sometimes awkward movements that was beginning to turn me on. I had to force myself to concentrate on why I was there.
The tryouts were simple. We started out kicking thirty yards from the goalposts. The center snapped the ball, the holder placed it, and we ran up and kicked it. We each had ten tries, then we moved back ten yards, rinse and repeat. I had been working on my technique with my club soccer coach, which gave me an edge. By the time we reached fifty yards, it was obvious that I was likely to get the job. The other two guys had stronger legs and could drive the ball further, but their accuracy was terrible.
After we finished, Coach Mack let us go with the dreaded line any prospective job seeker hates to hear after an interview: “We’ll let you know.”
As I was leaving, I saw the j.v. cheerleaders taking a break, their slim legs and partially developed breasts on display under their shorts and t-shirts. I was surprised when one of them called my name.
“Hey Matt,” a short brunette with a long ponytail yelled, “you looked good.”
Then I realized who she was, Vera Santiago, who had grown up in the home next to us. I had always had a thing for her, even though she was a couple of years younger than me. Her family had moved a year or so earlier, but we were still going to the same school. I hadn’t seen her around much, but now, I couldn’t help noticing how she had matured. I stopped for a moment and said, “Thanks, Vera. You’re lookin’... “ I paused. I had almost said “ ... hot...” but didn’t think that was the right thing to say to a girl her age, “ ... all grown up.”
“Yeah, and all the right places,” she replied, with a seductive wink. It seemed like she took a deep breath, just to show off the newly ripening mounds under her shirt, but that could have just been my imagination.
Their coach blew her whistle to restart their practice, sparing me from making any inappropriate comments. I had to remind myself that she was only fourteen.
Monday morning, as I was entering my second-period class, our teacher, who was also the soccer coach, pulled me aside and said, “Coach Mack wants to see you. I think that means you’re his pick. Congratulations, Mr. Wallace, and good luck.”
After lunch, I caught Coach Mack in his office and confirmed that I was indeed the new placekicker for Jefferson High. Practice started the following Monday. Some of the players wondered what the hell I was doing there, but after Coach Mack introduced me, I was accepted as part of the team. I didn’t have to do much during practice. The punter, Kenny Carter, who was also going to be my holder, and I waited until most of the other drills were over, then we did our thing. Apparently, that was good enough. Almost before I realized it, the season started.
The first time I had to line up for an extra point was at an away game, so I had several hundred people wishing me no luck at all, and I, of course, shanked it wide right. Fortunately, I had three more attempts that night and hit all three. After that, it was smooth sailing, or kicking. By the end of our regular season, I was 32 out of 33 on extra points. The really good news was that I was 5-for-7 on field goals, including one from 40 yards. I was turning into a real kicker, one that the coaches could count on, and most of the cheerleaders even knew my name. Mission partially accomplished.
I also discovered that those rumors of “special parties” for certain players were true. After a game, some of the senior cheerleaders would get together and pick the ‘player of the game’. His reward was to be invited to a party with just himself and those girls. According to rumors, our star quarterback had won the award five times, our all-state linebacker had won three, and the other two went to wide receivers who had long touchdown receptions. None of those guys said much about what made the parties “special”. It seemed like a vow of silence accompanied the invitation, which only made it more mysterious. I knew a lowly kicker would never be chosen. Oh me, of little faith.