Page 15 of Built To Perform

And then only the thud of my racing heart to concentrate on, drowning out the tango and Carlos’ delighted laughter alike.

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He leaned against the door frame, bare chested, arms folded. The picture of unwise decisions embraced wholeheartedly.

Given how my body still tingled, I couldn’t exactly proclaim temperance myself.

“I would be a bad big bro, Eoin, if I did not tell you this was a terrible idea.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “After you just got done teaching me how to dance, so that I could do it?”

Carlos shrugged. “I said brother, not parent.”

I stared at him for a moment. Wondering if I was meant to be making a case for my decisions, trying to persuade him I’d thought all this through.

“I was thinking... I might ask Jefferson if he’d come along. Just to, y’know, be there.”

Carlos’ expression was knowing. “Because things seem a little safer, don’t they, when our team captain is around.”

Something about the way he said it made it feel like an accusation not an observation. I could feel my cheeks flushing.

“It’s just... he’s...”

A chuckle. “Special. I know, lil bro, I know. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

It was impossible to defend yourself, not when you weren’t even quite sure what feelings you were being accused of.

“You think he’ll say yes?”

Carlos nudged me in the arm, playfully. “For his lil bro? I think Jefferson would do just about anything.”

The thought of that made my stomach do backflips.

Chapter Five

What’d felt like an obvious decision, the only thing a good teammate would agree to, seemed all the more ominous as the hours counted down. Brayden had texted me the details of the club, and I’d arranged with Jefferson that I’d meet him there. I was even feeling, not confident about dancing, but vaguely like I might not utterly embarrass myself with two left feet.

None of that stopped the churning, prickly sensation that I was about to make an absolute fool of myself. And while I’d done that regularly, in front of my bros on the wrestling team - and, for that matter, in front of my roommate - there was a gulf between that and a room full of strangers expecting me to be sexy.

I’d decided to take out my nerves on my wardrobe, namely by standing in front of it and muttering curses under my breath.

There’d been plenty of sacrifices, focusing so intently on proving myself as an athlete growing up, but one benefit had been sidestepping any concern about fashion. In competitions and training, there was a singlet; when I was working out or going to classes, there were sweatpants and t-shirts. You didn’t need date night clothes if there were no date nights to dress up for.

But what were you meant to wear for your first outing as a go-go dancer?

Brayden’s outfit in the video - white briefs, sneakers, and a mask - felt unspeakably brazen. He’d made it work, just like he could make a lot of things work that’d give me palpitations, but it wasn’t so much inspiration as a benchmark I couldn’t ever imagine myself meeting.

I knew what he’d say if I asked him. That the men there weren’t showing up to see fashion, but skin; that I could probably go out in a garbage bag with holes cut for my arms and neck, and - as long as I took it off eventually - I’d get rave reviews. Rationally I knew that was right, even before I imagined it in his voice.

Only I needed to feel sexy myself in order to look sexy. Needed to know I was alluring rather than comedic; to shed some of the normal self-consciousness that’d followed me since I was a little kid. Doubts that’d only evolved as I got bigger, and stronger, and more muscular, and which the cohort of people you could talk about it with grew smaller and smaller. Because who was going to listen, much less sympathize, when the guy who spends half his life in the gym complains that he doesn’t feel big enough?

I sighed, tempted to clamber into the wardrobe and pull the door shut.

“If you’re looking for your blue singlet it’s at the bottom of the laundry basket. It was stinking up the room; I don’t know how those things soak up so much sweat and cum.”

I turned at Adam’s voice. My roommate dropped his bag on the desk chair, nudging the door closed with his foot.

“There was no cum on it,” I told him, confused.