8. Lane

The whistle blows sharply, and I launch my body across the field. I don"t see anything except the tiny orange cone in front of me, until I tag it and turn, racing back to the line I started at. Again, I turn, pumping my arms and running to the next marker, a little farther across the field. The drill continues until I"ve stopped and turned five times, the last marker on the opposite side of the field. I push myself through the last sprint, not slowing until I"ve tagged the next person. I slow to a jog at the bench behind the lineup, grabbing my water bottle. It"s empty again. Checking that I still have another four teammates in line ahead of me before my next round, I make my way over to the large jugs of water and refill my bottle.

Noah surprises me, appearing next to me as I down the water greedily. "You alright?"

I scowl at him. He"s struggling just as much as I am today, but it"s his own fault. He went out drinking instead of staying home after we lost our first official match of the season. He had to know Coach Carr was going to kick our asses at practice today. If he"d stayed home, he wouldn"t be hungover, wouldn't have missed his morning class, and I wouldn't be strung out from getting worked up over his bullshit again last night.

Noah rolls his eyes and jogs back to get in line.

I shouldn't be blaming him for my issues. It's not that I don't know my own limits, but sometimes pushing past them is the only thing that can get me out of my head. Tonight, though, I don't have anything left in me. This has been the longest, hardest practice of my life, and all I want to do is crash.

I was wrong.Yesterday was a cakewalk compared to today.

It's easy to forget how much better practicing in the evenings after class is, rather than the heat of the day. And Coach Carr is pushing us, determined to make sure we're ready for Sunday's match.

The day is a blur of sweat and exhaustion. I"m disappointed with my times and fumbling drills. I"m embarrassed by the poor impression I'm making. I can only imagine Coach is having second thoughts about recruiting me to his team.

I"d almost refused his offer, even though Harrison University has one of the best Division Ⅰ soccer programs in the NCAA. Harrison was Noah"s first choice, and I wanted to get away from him and anyone else I know, but they offered me a full ride scholarship, which meant less pressure on Scott and Hannah to help put me through school. And I admit I got a sick sense of pleasure seeing the look on Noah's face when my offer arrived—early, no less. I felt more pity for him every day he had to wait for his acceptance, but I wouldn"t admit that to him. Not when he was taking so much pleasure in making me uncomfortable.

I squirm a little at the memories, taking deep breaths and begging my body not to respond. It"s been months since the last time that happened, and I don"t want to think about it too much.

In my peripheral, I see Noah undressing to head into the showers. I briefly glance around the room, not actually looking at anyone. Everything is kind of blurry around me, and closing in. I hate the locker room showers.

I pick up my gym bag and walk out quickly, trying not to think about whether anyone noticed I didn"t shower. They"re all heading over to the dining hall for dinner, and while I know I should get to know my teammates, I'm not feeling it today. I"m tired and I'm peopled out, and I don"t think my mask can hold up to another few hours of interacting with other people. If I let it slip, they"ll see the real me. And I can"t let that happen.

The apartment is quiet and blessedly cool. I step into the shower before it's heated up, and it refreshes my heated skin. Blindly reaching for my shampoo and lathering my hair. I open my eyes in confusion when a familiar, but unexpected smell reaches my nostrils. Noah's all-in-one shampoo and body wash smells both spicy and soapy, and far too intoxicating. I"ve grabbed it instead of my shampoo.

His scent surrounds me, even after I rinse it all off. I try washing my hair a second time with my Irish Spring shampoo, but the cologne of the other stuff won"t wash away. It"s assaulting all of my senses, forcing my body to react.

I look down at my erection. Stare at it, really. For far too long. Wishing it would go away.

It's not that I think anything bad is going to happen to me. Every book and article on human anatomy and sexuality I"ve read, that isn"t sponsored by a church, says that masturbation is normal and healthy. I get that. But I still have my grandfather"s voice in my ear, telling me I"m immoral. Bad. Wrong. That I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity.

It kind of ruins the mood.

I could count on one hand the number of times I succumbed to the thoughts and feelings that plagued me until the day Noah pushed me. After that first time, I never did it without him forcing me to. Because it gave me an excuse. It wasn't my choice to be bad.

My hand wraps around my shaft, and I stroke it tentatively, but stop. There"s no point. I"m only going to frustrate myself, and then spend too long deep diving into erectile dysfunctions on the internet. I can get hard and stay hard, all day. But I haven"t been able to finish since the night of the graduation party, in a stranger"s pantry of all places. With him.

"It won"t happen again."

I lean my forehead on the wall of the shower and focus on my breaths. The water turns cold. Too cold. And the spray starts to feel different. It's sharp against my skin and takes me to places I don"t want to think about.

Quickly shutting the water off, I towel off and walk to my room to get dressed. Just as I"m pulling on some sweatpants, I hear the apartment door open.

"You didn"t go to dinner with the team?" I ask, stepping outside my bedroom to watch him lug in a large box.

"Nah, I wasn"t feeling it. Plus, I had a delivery."

"I see that. What is it?"

"Um… Well, come here, I"ll show you."

Noah tips the box and dumps out two rolled up foam mats, some blocks, and a bunch of what look like large rubber bands. He grins at my confused face.

"I thought we could try yoga," he says with the confidence of a guy who rarely gets turned down for anything. "I watched several YouTube videos last night, so I'm basically an expert. And I downloaded a meditation track for after, too."

I"m pretty sure my mouth is catching flies. My brow is pulled in so tight, last night"s headache is threatening to make a reappearance. "Why?"

"The internet says that stretching and meditation are healthy coping skills."

I immediately bristle, my entire face and body tensing. He said we"d figure it out. He"s trying to help. With some effort, I smooth out my features and try to look less like an ungrateful asshole.

"You really don"t have to do this."

Noah shrugs. "It"ll be good for both of us. All the biggest soccer pros do yoga."

"Did you read that on the internet too?"

"Actually, yes. Yoga is proven to improve balance, speed, and endurance."

"Proven, eh?"

"It"s science. And it"s good to do after a workout, because it gets you all stretched out and whatnot. So, come on, help me move this coffee table and we"ll spread the mats out here."

"Are you sure there"s enough room?"

He doesn"t look confident at all that there will be, but we come up with a plan. He puts his mat in front of the couch facing the TV, and I put mine at an angle between the sitting room and the eating area.

"If you weren"t such a damn giant, there"d be plenty of room."

"Aren"t you taller than me?"

"Yeah, but you"re like three of me wide. I don"t know how you fit into that little phone booth shower. Why don"t you just use the shower rooms? Not like you"ve got anything to be embarrassed about…" he trails off when he realizes the conversation has taken a turn for the inappropriate. "Sorry. I didn"t mean it like that. Anyone would notice. Not in, like, that way." Eyes wide, he huffs. "I"m just making this worse, aren"t I?"

"Little bit," I say, trying not to laugh. I"m just glad he distracted himself from his question.

Noah stands on top of his mat awkwardly for a long moment, before shaking his head like he"s dislodging whatever train his thoughts had taken. "Right, let"s do this. I found this video for beginners. It looks pretty straightforward."

"We"re athletes. How bad can it be?"

Famous last words.

Forty-five minutes later, neither of us can move out of the last position. Noah can"t even reach his phone to play whatever meditation track he was going to play, so we decide to meditate in silence, face first on the ground with our knees tucked under our bodies.

I feel ridiculous. I"m entirely positive we did very little correctly, and I hurt in places that I wasn"t aware had muscles.

Admittedly, it got me out of my head. Mostly because we were either straining or laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe. I nearly gave up entirely when Noah was doing a move where you have to touch one foot, twist to the side, and stretch your arm up to the air. When he fell over and farted, I thought it was over. I"ve never laughed so hard in my life, and I still can"t believe we found it in ourselves to keep going.

Noah manages to unfold himself and rolls over onto his back, and I do the same. We end up laying on the floor with our heads parallel with each other"s chests and our legs sprawled out in opposite directions. I only have to turn my head to see that he"s just as sweaty as I am.

"Maybe we should try taking an actual class. I"m pretty sure I was doing all of that wrong. Plus, hot girls do yoga."

"Feels like I did it all wrong," I admit with a groan. "And I"m not sure a room full of hot girls would appreciate the humor. Or the smell," I add, and we both start laughing again.

Noah punches me lightly in the side. I punch him back, and before I know it, he rolls to his side and pinches me. I narrow my eyes at him, reveling in the way his eyes widen before I attack. And just like that, we"re wrestling around on the floor like a pair of idiot children.

It"s only a few moments of scuffling around before I"ve got Noah in a headlock. He"s thin, but he"s strong, and he tries to get out of my hold by dropping his body weight and flipping me over. I chuckle darkly, because I"ve got at least eighty pounds of muscle on him. Just to prove a point, I pull his back against my chest and lock my ankles around his thighs. I"ve got him pinned with almost no effort at all.

"What now, big brother?" I mock.

"You. Giant. Fucking. Asshole." He chokes out the words between huffs of laughter, still refusing to give up even though he"s completely immobile.

Not ready to tap out, he wriggles his whole body to shake me off. It makes me laugh harder, but I lock my legs around him a little tighter. It pulls my ankles farther up his thighs and forces him to curve his back into my body.

Our laughter dies and I release him, all but throwing him off me and scrambling back to a seated position with my knees pulled up to hide my embarrassment. Noah"s stare is unreadable. I move my eyes away from his.

My skin is too tight, and every inch of me feels like an inferno. I"m blushing all the way down to my toes. I"m mortified, and out of fight or flight, my body is choosing to freeze. I can"t move. I"m struggling to even swallow.

I flick my gaze back to Noah, trying to think of what to say to get me out of this embarrassing situation. His eyes are locked on my throat. I don"t see any judgment in his gaze, but I can"t quite decipher his expression either. He looks confused, and a little pained.

I"ve made us both incredibly uncomfortable. I can"t just sit here and say nothing.

"I-I—" I can"t seem to get any actual words out, stuttering through an apology. "I"m sorry. I don"t know why that happened."

Noah shakes his head, a silent gesture not to worry about it. But I"m worrying about it. Especially seeing as it"s not going away.

"Do you want to try the meditation track?" Noah asks, but his voice is high, like he's not sure it's a good idea.

"I think I"m just going to go to bed." Never mind that it"s only just after dinner time, and neither of us have eaten.

Noah just nods, though. Like it"s normal. He probably wants to get as far away as possible.

The moment I stand up, it's painfully obvious that I still have a problem, and I quickly run to my room. As soon as the door is closed behind me, I lean against it, huffing out a breath.

My erection throbs in the confines of my sweatpants. Without giving it much thought, I wrap my sweaty palm around it and nearly moan. Within a minute, I"m panting and holding back a groan as the first orgasm I"ve had in months almost sends me to my knees. Cum shoots out of me like a geyser, painting my hand, the floor, and the wall in ropes of white.

I stare at my hand like it"s a stranger, at the mess dripping down my wrist.

What is wrong with me?

Why, God? Why am I being tested in this way?