Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (13 page)

If Coach knows about us—and if the other guys find out—that's it. Things will change. Hawk will probably go back to acting straight, and I'll be stuck as the lone gay guy on the team. Again.

I know it's unfair even as I think it, but considering my past, it's hard not to.

By the time I get into Coach Garvey's office, I've already got a chip on my shoulder. I pull the door closed behind me a little harder than necessary, and Coach looks up, one white brow raised high.

"Somebody piss in your Cheerios this morning, son?"

"Just didn't get a lot of sleep last night, Coach," I lie.

He nods toward one of the two chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat, Griffin."

I do as I'm told, trying not to fidget as I wait for him to just spit it out. He has his reading glasses on, and he's looking at some paperwork. The top seems to be stamped with some kind of letterhead from a lab, and I wonder if it has anything to do with why he's brought me in here.

"Reiner won't be playing in Saturday's game. Do you think you'll be able to get enough sleep between now and then?"

He looks at me over the rims of his glasses, and I just stare back at him, a little baffled. Whatever he's getting at, I'm not really following. So Reiner isn’t starting? What does that have to do with me?

"Don't worry, Coach. I'll be fresh for practice. It won’t affect my game."

"Good," he says, and I hear the swish of his pen tip as he signs a piece of paper.

We sit there in silence for a minute, and I wonder if he's trying to sweat me out like this is some kind of interrogation. Coach was a big help to me when I first came to Eastshore, but maybe he's decided I've just been wasting his time this year. Maybe I haven't made the progress he hoped.

"Make sure you don't overwork yourself at practice. I want you starting on Saturday."

He says it so offhandedly that it takes a moment for the words to words sink in. I play them on a loop in my brain, and at first they just jumble into a mess that doesn't make any sense. When they finally click, I can feel my mouth open, and I see the corners of Coach Garvey's turn up just a little bit.

Cheeky bastard.

“Thanks, Coach,” I say, trying to hold in the gushing.

I don’t want to end up being the ‘aw shucks, do you really mean it’ kind of kid who doesn’t realize his own worth to the team. Then again, I’ve questioned it lately. I’ve worked my ass off at practice, but without the chance to play in a real game, I’ve felt like a serious third wheel when Hawk and I have hung out with some of the other starters.

“Don’t thank me. You worked for it. Good job, Griffin. I expect to see the same hustle on the field.”

We’re scheduled to play another school that’s just hit Division-I status, and an out-of-conference school, at that, so I know this is a trial run. But I’m thankful to have it.

I wait in the chair, buzzing with energy, until Coach waves me off.

“That’s all. Get out of here. And don’t drink too much. I expect you here for practice, five o’clock sharp.”

“You got it, Coach.”

He knows us too well, and I’m suddenly glad he isn’t one of those hardasses who doesn’t let his players have a little fun during the season. The Tigers Den would see a lot less business, for one, and it’s a harder to celebrate such a huge thing when you’re sipping on a Coke Zero or something.

I let myself out of Coach Garvey’s office and Hawk is standing on the other side of the door. An image of him with his ear pressed against it flicks through my mind, and I have to hold in a laugh.

“Everything okay?”

Do I fuck with him? I think I have to fuck with him a little bit. I decide to keep my voice somber, like I’m trying to force the emotion out of it because I’m afraid of my teammates seeing me disappointed or, God forbid, sad.

“Yeah. No big deal.”

I walk out into the locker room, and Mills, Carter, and West are waiting, too. They try to cover it up and act like they were just hanging by Hawk’s locker, but all three of them look up when I come back.

“Oh, cool. You’re all here,” I say, and I’m this close to losing it already. I’m such a terrible liar. “I wanted to say thanks for helping me out this season.”

“Shit,” Mills says, tossing his balled up jersey into the bottom of his locker.

I can’t watch this anymore. Hawk looks like someone kicked his puppy, and the other guys are about one step away from marching into Coach’s office and telling him what for.

“…Because I’m officially starting on Saturday.”

“No fuckin’ way!” West jumps up from the bench, throws an arm around my shoulders, and yanks me into him hard enough to bruise.

“You guys free? Drinks are on me tonight.”

“You bet your ass they are,” Mills says, moving in to clap me on the shoulder.

The guys congratulate me and give me shit about not pissing my pants in the game Saturday, but the whole time, I can’t take my eyes off Hawk. He looks… proud. Almost bursting with it. I’ve never seen that look in his eyes before, and it means more to me even than the chance to start.

Knowing I’ve done something to please him makes everything that much more worth it.

We get to the Den around seven. Pretty early for the regular crowd, so we have our pick of tables. It’s the five of us, plus another couple guys who tagged along. I offer to buy their drinks, too, and get a couple pitchers sent over to our table, along with a couple baskets of hot wings.

Once the beer starts flowing, the guys get a little crazy. Dante and Carter are always super competitive when they drink, and just an hour into it, they’ve roped everybody else into an argument about whether or not SCU’s penalty was justified all those years ago.

I don’t really have a horse in the race, so I give up pretty quick. Besides, I’m more focused on Hawk, who sits right beside me. Close enough that I can touch his thigh with mine, and I do it pretty frequently. The first time he jumped a little, but he’s slowly gotten used to it, despite giving me a very weak ‘knock it off’ look.

Normally I wouldn’t be so aggressive in a public place, but with a little buzz and some amazing news, I’m feeling great. So as the other guys are deep in their argument and at least three glasses down each, I decide to kick it up a notch.

I slide my hand under the table casually when no one’s looking, and run my fingers along the outside seam of Hawk’s jeans. His knee bumps against the table, and I grin.

He looks at me, and I slowly slide my hand over his thigh. I can see the heat in his gaze, along with the warning, but he has two working hands. If he wants to stop me, he can. Since I feel no resistance whatsoever from him—and he even moves his thighs a little further apart—I continue with my plan.

I check to make sure the guys are still talking about whatever the hell they’re talking about. Mills is flailing his arms about the way he does when he gets really drunk and really opinionated. West looks close to climbing over the table and punching him in the face. None of them are even remotely paying attention to anything else.

And then there’s Hawk. Poor, unsuspecting Hawk, just sipping his beer. I grin as I realize he’s probably going to have a little trouble concentrating on that soon.

My hand moves further inward, just brushing over his crotch. I feel the muscles in his thigh jump, and see him look at me out of the corner of his eye. My grin broadens, and I pretend to look at the TV, just to keep up the facade.

Thursday Night Football is on, but I couldn’t tell you who’s playing. All my focus is on Hawk as I do everything in my power to make him as hot for me as I am for him. I want to blow this place and blow him, and I’m only going to get that if I can get him to want me.

I squeeze lightly. He isn’t hard yet, but he isn’t completely soft, either, and I know it won’t take much work for me to get him where I want him. I flick my gaze back to him and see him swallow down a gulp of beer, and I run my fingers over his bulge.

I keep it up for a good five or ten minutes, rubbing slowly as he comes to life beneath my hand. At one point, it looks like he has to bite his lip to keep from moaning. I just grin like the cat who ate the fucking canary. I know I’m getting to him, and it isn’t much longer before he caves.

“Bored with you assholes. I’m going home.” His voice is so strained, and I look over at the guys to see if they’ve noticed.

But only Carter even realizes Hawk said anything. “Your loss, dude.”

“Probably not,” I hear him mutter thickly under his breath, and I bite my own lip. “Stand in front of me when we walk out.”

He says it in the same tone of voice, just loud enough for me to hear, and I grin. “What? Am I your boner shield now?”

“You cause it, you take the fall for it.”

“Gladly,” I say, putting my hands above the table again and taking one last drink like I haven’t been rubbing another guy’s dick under the table.

“Hawk’s my ride. I’m out, too.”

A few distracted, slurred ‘later’s and ‘congrats again’s come from the guys, and I pay for my shit before taking up my post as certified boner guard. Hawk walks close to me, acting like he’s just keeping track of me in the now-thick crowd, but I know he’s trying to get me back for the game I played earlier. I can feel his breath tickling the back of my neck, and it’s driving me crazy.

As soon as we get outside, I look for someplace we can go. But the downtown strip is pretty busy, filled with pedestrians and drivers. And there’s no way I’m going anywhere near one of these alleys. So I tug him toward the parking garage, figuring it’s the safest—and closest—place we can be.

He didn’t bring his car. We both knew we’d be drinking more than a few beers tonight, and it’s not that long of a walk to the dorms. But I just can’t wait. I pull him into the elevator with me and look for a security camera. There’s one outside, but not inside.

Feeling half-starved, I shove Hawk against the wall so hard the elevator rocks a little. He’s not even surprised. Instead, he meets me step for step, his lips crushing to mine in a fiery kiss. We’re a flurry of lips and teeth and tongue, and I can’t seem to get close enough to him, pressing my whole body to his, grinding my hips like a needy whore.

When I pull back, he looks drunk, and not just from the beer.

“Think I can make you come before the elevator hits the top floor?”

“No,” he rasps out, but I’m already unzipping his pants.

“Give me a head start and make sure that door stays closed.”

“That’s cheating,” he says, but moves over to the side of the elevator closest to the buttons, finger poised over ‘close elevator.’

“You’re the one about to get blown here. You really care if I play fair?”

He lets out a husky laugh, and I start to hate the fact that he wears boxer briefs. He told me he likes the support, especially playing football. But it’s fucking inconvenient for blowing him in public. What an inconsiderate asshole, right? I smirk as I tug his pants and underwear past his hips, watching his cock bob free.

My boy’s already hard for me. I might actually win this bet after all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

- Jason -

I can’t believe we’re doing this.

Maybe it’s the beer or the high of knowing Griff’s going to start on Saturday. Maybe it’s just the fact that feeling his hand on my dick the whole time we were in the Den made horny as hell. But right now I don’t care that we’re in a very public elevator; that we could be caught at any moment, arrested and probably put on probation.

Right now, I just want him, and whatever he’s willing to give.

His words are hazy in my mind, but when his knees hit the metal floor of the elevator, rocking it again, I realize what he said.
You’re the one about to get blown here.
Oh, fuck. Griff’s going to suck me off in an elevator. Right here, right now.

The doors start to open, and I slap my palm over the button, closing them as quickly as I can. We’re hidden from immediate view, but that isn’t going to stop somebody from seeing us if they mash the button on the outside.

My heart races, but all of my anxiety fades away the moment his hand closes around the base of my cock. He jerks me hard, just the way I like. My impulse is to moan, but he claps his hand over my mouth before I can get the sound out. Right. Public elevator.

It’s a good thing he did it, too, because when his tongue traces the length of me from base to tip and back again, I can’t control myself. My moan is muffled against his hand, my hips buck forward, and the elevator rocks for the third time.

“Easy, cowboy,” he says with a throaty chuckle.

Easy for him to say.

He repeats that same stroke a few more times, runs his tongue around the crown of my cock, and I suddenly wish we were still on the back wall so I could hold onto the railing. When he flicks against the slit and then presses firmly to the underside of the head, I damn near lose it.

He may win this bet after all.

The elevator threatens to open again, and I slam my fist into the button. It’s a lot to concentrate on at once, and when he finally swallows my cock, I’m not sure how useful I’m going to be as a lookout.