I wasn’t shy. I just didn’t trust myself.
My eyes tried to stay high—faces, lockers, floor, anywhere but the slopes of wet shoulders, the curve of backs, the long lines of legs, the casual way cocks hung between thighs as guys soaped up or turned under the spray.
But it hit me all at once anyway: the heat, the noise, the closeness of it. A dozen naked men under running water, and I was supposed to act like it didn’t affect me.
I stepped under a showerhead, turned it on, and bowed my head into the spray. A few guys were talking about class schedules. Someone further down the row was complaining about blisters. The freshman cox was arguing about fantasy football picks.
But the longer I stood there, the more their voices blurred into background static. Steam clouded the room. Water beat against tile. And it was just me—me and the space inside my own head I tried so hard to lock down.
I closed my eyes.
And he was there again.
Liam.
I imagined what he’d look like standing in the shower, water sliding over the curves of his shoulders, muscles taut from training, breath heavy from the heat. Droplets running down his chest, his abs, lower—tracing lines I wanted to follow with my hands, my mouth.
The thought hit me like a blow, sharp and hot. Too real.
Heat flooded through me, instant and undeniable. My cock stirred, thickening against my thigh.
Fuck. No.
My pulse kicked. I swallowed hard, trying to drown the image before it swallowed me, but it was too late. Blood rushed south, my body responding with brutal efficiency. I was getting hard—right here, surrounded by teammates, water streaming over bare skin.
Don’t. Not here. Not around them.
I turned, letting the water hit my back instead of my chest, angling myself toward the wall, hoping the spray and steam would hide what was happening. But my cock was already half-hard and climbing, pressing heavy and obvious against nothing, and panic crept up my spine.
Think of something else. Anything else.
My grandmother.
Okay—no, not my grandmother, that was weird and didn’t even work. Uh, taxes. Did I even pay taxes? My dad’s accountant handled that.
Shit. Organic chemistry. The Krebs cycle. Citric acid, acetyl-CoA, ATP synthesis—
Liam turning under the water, rivulets running down his back, over the curve of his ass, muscles flexing as he reached for soap. My cock gave another insistent throb.
No no no.
Baseball stats. I hate baseball. Perfect. The 1986 World Series, Bill Buckner, ground ball through the legs—
Then my hand reaching out, fingers tracing the line of his Liam’s stomach, following the water down. Wrapping around his cock, feeling the weight of it, the heat.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Dead puppies. The DMV. That video of the guy getting his wisdom teeth out. Coach Eldridge in a Speedo—
Oh god, that made it worse somehow.
My cock was fully hard now, standing out from my body like a traitor, and I was out of options and out of time.
I couldn’t stay.
I reached for my towel, wrapping it around my waist in one practiced motion, keeping it tight enough that no one would notice the bulge straining against the fabric. I kept my head down as I slipped between teammates, heart pounding like I’d sprinted an erg piece, every step making me hyper-aware of how hard I still was underneath.
Almost out.
