Page 92 of Built To Perform

Coach’s expression was frosty, despite the heat of the water. “I don’t think you really want me involved in this conversation, do you?”

Brayden grinned at Jefferson, as though that had been as good as a permission slip.

“That’s settled, then.” He turned the beaming smile on me, across the hot tub. “Lil bro, grab Jefferson’s phone from the table, won’t you?”

Donny’s hand on me froze. Much like my lungs had seized in my chest.

“W-what?”

Brayden cocked his head to the side. Just a little, but there was no seeing the movement as anything other than predatory.

“He set it down with his towel, on the picnic table. You don’t mind, do you?”

Asked with the biggest shit-eating grin you could imagine. If I hadn’t been suspicious about Brayden’s motivations before, now I was certain of them.

I glanced at Donny, hoping to see him looking as worried as I was. Or sympathetic, at the very least.

His delighted expression was either because this was some unmentioned exhibitionist fantasy coming true, or just because he liked seeing me embarrass myself. Either way, I considered yanking on the butt plug to see what that might do to his very obvious glee.

“If you want it, you get it,” I attempted, trying to sound stubborn rather than defensive.

Brayden tutted, the sort of noise you make when someone has shown themselves to be awkwardly ignorant.

“Fate of the freshman, lil bro. You’re the dogsbody, until you make it to sophomore and we add new meat to the team.”

It wasn’t like this was new information, I just didn’t really appreciate the reminder while my dick was rigid. Not that I could explain that, of course.

In fact, telling Brayden the reason for my reluctance would only encourage him.

I opened my mouth, to protest some more, then shut it again. This was not an argument I could win, and I knew it.

Ignoring Donny’s smirk - which only seemed to have spread wider, as the nature of my fate became more clear - I tried to quickly calculate the best way to stand and exit the tub with the minimum of exposure. Turning right was a non-starter, not unless I wanted to flash Coach and his boyfriend a front-row view of my hard, wet cock. Luke had said he’d seen plenty of naked guys before, but there was a difference between casual locker room glimpses and someone waving their erection in your face.

Which meant turning left, but even that was fraught. I had zero doubt that Donny, Brayden, and Carlos would not eagerly jump at the opportunity to embarrass me; heck, even Jefferson had a mischievous streak.

Gritting my teeth, and trying to make it look natural, I pushed myself to my feet.

Feeling the water sluice off me, the sudden cool of the evening air on wet skin. Fighting, too, the urge to cover my crotch with both hands: not only would I need them to clamber out of the hot tub without adding “falling onto my face” to the list of mortifying things today, but it’d be a clear sign that I was self-conscious. That would be a red rag to a bull.

“Damn, lil bro.” Brayden sounded delighted. “Were the bubbles tickling you or something?”

I ignored him, focusing on getting out without incident. Aware of the eyes watching my ass as I took the few steps over to the picnic table, where Jefferson’s phone was indeed tucked under the edge of his towel.

Somewhere along the way I’d given up on protesting about them watching the video, I realized.

And now, with their collective gaze raking my naked, dripping back - Jefferson, and Brayden, and Carlos, and Donny at the very least, even if the two older men were showing more restraint - I had to ask myself how any of my teammates would handle the situation, were the roles reversed. Whether they’d be shy of their bodies or their arousal, or proud of it. Would they fear turning, revealing just how hard they still were, or do so proudly, practically crowing about their condition?

Jefferson would have no qualms, and he’d tell me I shouldn’t either, I knew. Would do what he’d always done, ever since day one in the locker room; back when I’d been practically quaking with nerves and anxiety. Compliment me in that level, blunt way which left no reason for doubt and no question of flattery or unearned generosity.

Even the version Clay had drawn of me, the “WrestlerBoy” Eoin of his fantasies, had figured out the confidence than I was struggling with.

And yet the video on the phone I clutched tight in my hand, the man in it, that was unarguably me. Not really a stripper, no, nor a go-go dancer, but still that same guy up on stage, and I hadn’t let it stop me then.

Maybe, the little voice in the depths of my brain suggested, I shouldn’t let those lingering hangups stop me now, either.

I turned, still feeling their attention as clear as the water dripping off me. Steeling myself against that shiver of self-awareness; of the knowledge that not only could they see all of me, but no mistaking the thick jut of my erection, either. The arousal from Donny’s hand, and from the proximity of my handsome, teasing big bros in the hot tub, and even from the simmering awareness of Coach and his boyfriend there too, and the things they’d learned of me these past few weeks. All blending with a thrill of exposure that ran through me now. The sense that good, normal boys didn’t flaunt themselves to their teammates; that good, normal boys weren’t achingly, painfully hard at the thought of those teammates crowding around a cellphone’s screen, to watch him jerk off in front of a room full of strangers.

“All those bench presses are paying off, lil bro.”