I shoot Reid aWTF?look before turning back to Coop. “I told you to double bag that shit. Bet it burns when you piss too.”
“I don’t have an STD, asshole.” Coop yanks his pants down and inspects his junk as I lace up. “I always wrap it before I tap it.” The volume in the locker room begins to climb and there’s more yelling and cussing than usual. Coop kicks off his cleats and strips off his pants before lifting his jockstrap for inspection. “Which one of you assholes put itching powder in my jockstrap?” he yells, holding up the flimsy garment. “That shit’s not funny!”
Reid and I both snicker. Coop’s one of the biggest pranksters on the team. He probably had it coming.
“Payback’s a bitch.” I extend a fist to Reid and he bumps it, just as my dick begins to itch.
“Oh shit.” I glance down at my cock, panic taking root as the itch intensifies, demanding my attention.
Motherfucker.
I untie my pants and yank them down as the sensation spreads, marching across my skin like goddamn fire ants.
I have to scratch. For relief.
Scratching will only make it worse.
Fuck that. I can’tnotscratch. My boys are under attack.
Reid inspects the jockstrap in his hand and decides not to risk it, instead tossing it on the bench as I peel mine off.
The locker room erupts in chaos and Coach storms in, square jaw set. “What the hell is going on in here?” he roars, glancing around at his half-dressed team. His gaze lands on our team captain. “Reid, care to tell me why you aren’t on the field yet?”
Reid sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, sir. It seems—”
“Spit it out, son.” Coach waves his hand impatiently, and suddenly my itching cock doesn’t seem so important.
“Someone put itching powder in our jockstraps,” Reid explains.
“Fuckin’ pranks,” Coach mutters, shaking his head. “Who did this?” he demands, face flushing a deep shade of crimson as he scans the locker room, thick brows pulled low.
It’s a waste of time. No one has ever confessed to a prank without a case of beer and a damn good buzz. Not that Coach will let a little thing like a confession stop him from punishing us. The man believes in team punishments, so we’ll all pay the price.
“Y’all wanna win a national title and you’re wasting my time with this kind of romper-room bullshit?” he bellows. “You have ten minutes to take care of business and get your asses on the field. And when I find out who did this…”
The rest of the threat is lost in the pandemonium of the locker room as he stomps back to his office.
“Who do you think did it?” I ask Reid, using a towel to brush off my junk.
“No clue,” he says warily, “but I hope it’s not one of our guys.”
9
SUTTON
I scarfdown the last of my banana and drop the peel in a trashcan outside Coach Miller’s office. Her door is closed, so I sit down in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs that line the cinderblock wall, and make myself at home.
She emailed me this morning to request a meeting, and while she didn’t say what she wanted to discuss, there’s a small part of me that hopes it’s the role of team captain. To build bench strength, Coach Miller typically selects one senior and one junior.
With any luck, that junior will be me.
Nervous energy courses through my body and I drum my fingers on my knees to dispel it. I’ve been like this all day. Twitchy. Excited.Hopeful.
Being named team captain is a big deal. An accomplishment even my parents can’t minimize. It may not be Olympic gold, but it’s something.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Right. For all I know, Coach wants to talk choreography.
