Page 25 of No Going Back

I inhale sharp. Let just the tip of my cock nudge inside him… no lube, no prep, careful not to push deeper. The stretch burns sweet, perfect. He moans loud, head falling back, thighs shaking around me.

I keep it there, just the head, grinding shallow, letting him feel me without giving him everything. “That’s it… good boy.”

He’s already leaking, cock throbbing against my abs. The angle’s brutal. He’s babbling, nonsense, pleas, my name, hands scrabbling at my shoulders.

I wrap a hand around his cock, stroking fast and rough. “Come on… give it to me. Come for me, Remy.”

He shatters, back arching off the wall as he spills hot over my fist. I follow right after, growling low, pulsing just inside of him, filling him with shallow thrusts until we’re both shaking. I don’t pull out right away. Just hold him there, forehead pressed to his, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” I whisper. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He laughs shakily. “Feeling’s mutual.”

I kiss him again, slow this time, soft. Then carefully pull out, tuck us both back in, and zip us up. We’re a mess, sweaty, flushed, clothes rumpled.

I rest my forehead against his one last time. “We’re doing this right.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I kiss his nose. “Now fix your hair, pretty boy. We’ve got practice.”

He laughs, shoving me lightly. “Asshole.”

◆◆◆

I stand on the scorched turf in the middle of the practice field, sweat pouring off me in rivers, jersey plastered to my skin like a second, suffocating layer. It’s fucking boiling… July at its worst, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer and turns every breath into a hot, wet inhale. The whole team’s drenched, vests and shorts clinging, hair matted, faces red. Coach refused to cancel, but even he’s looking like he regrets it now.

We’re in the middle of a 7-on-7 scrimmage drill, me at QB, Remy lined up wide right, Tyler slot left, Jeb and Matteo blocking. I call the play: quick slant to Remy, option to Tyler if the corner cheats. The snap comes clean. I drop back three steps, eyes scanning. Remy explodes off the line, sharp cut, hips low, burning his man. I plant and fire, a tight spiral that hits him in stride. He snags it one-handed, tucks, and turns upfield like he’s got rockets in his cleats.

“Nice throw, QB!” Coach bellows from the sideline, clipboard under his arm. “That’s what I want to see… clean, crisp, no hesitation!”

The guys whoop. Tyler jogs over, slapping my shoulder pad. “Man, you’re making us look good out here.”

I grin, wiping sweat from my eyes. “That’s my job.”

Remy jogs back, helmet off, hair soaked and sticking to his forehead. He bumps my fist. “Perfect ball, Cap.”

“Perfect hands,” I shoot back, and he laughs loud, the sound that always makes the whole field feel lighter.

We reset. Next play: play-action fake, deep post to Matteo. I sell the handoff hard, drop back, pump once to freeze the safety, then loft it. Matteo tracks it like a hawk, high-points the ball over two defenders, and comes down with it in the end zone.

Coach claps. “That’s football, boys! That’s execution! Cole, arm strength, decision-making, poise under pressure. That’s why you’re QB. Keep that shit up.”

We’re all soaked now, jerseys dark with sweat, shorts sticking to thighs, cleats squelching. I rip my helmet off, toss it to the ground with a thud, grab my water bottle from the sideline cooler, and in pure desperation just tip it over my head. Cold water cascades down my face, neck, and chest… shock of relief so intense I groan out loud. The jersey clings even tighter now, outlining every ridge of muscle.

Tyler cackles. “That’s a brilliant idea!”

He follows suit, dumping his own bottle over his head. Half the team’s doing it now, water pouring, laughter ringing. And of course, the girls are watching. They always are, sideline cluster of cheer squad and randoms, phones out, giggling, whistling as my wet jersey molds to me, hair dripping into my eyes, mouth open in relief.

Then a towel drops over my head, rough and sudden. I laugh, assuming it’s Tyler fucking with me again.

Someone shouts, “Yo, Remy, what the fuck are you doing?”

The team’s laughing, good-natured ribbing.

Remy’s voice is casual but loud: “Just drying him off!”

I yank the towel down, still laughing, and scrub it over my head before letting it drape around my shoulders like a cape. I look at him standing there with that cocky grin, towel in hand, eyes bright.