Alfie almost ran. Coach made a circular motion with his finger, and Alfie obeyed by turning his backside. Coach yanked down his pants and made a sort of harrumphing sound at the sight of Alfie’s ass.
“Still in a jock, I see. Well, I guess it could be helpful. Easier access.”
Easier access to what, Alfie wasn’t sure. He’d worn the jock, even though Coach had sort of told him he wasn’t worthy of a jock, because the cage swung around too much in regular boxers, clanking against his thighs as he walked in a way that was both irritating to his thighs and a constant reminder that his dick was locked up.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Coach said, pinching and squeezing Alfie’s ass cheeks. “A little bruising, but you’ll live.” He slapped Alfie’s ass once, then pulled his pants back up.
“Um, Coach?” Alfie said when Coach went back to the roster he’d been staring at. “The cage?”
Coach made an exasperated sound and pulled Alfie’s pants down again, this time with Alfie facing him. He pried the pouch of Alfie’s jock away from his body and peered into it. “Looks fine. Make sure you clean in there good.” He released the jock and returned his attention to the roster.
“Aren’t you going to take it off? You said if I learned my lesson…”
“Lessons aren’t learned in a day, Alfie. You think Gretzky took one shot on goal in Peewee hockey and signed himself up for the draft? Greatness takes time.” Coach spun him around so he was facing the door, smacked him hard on the ass, and said, “Now go out there and do your best.”
Alfie wandered slowly out of the office. He didn’t understand what had just happened. What kind of greatness was he meant to achieve? And how long would it take to achieve it? He didn’t want to achieve greatness. He just wanted to come. What was the point of being around all this eye candy—of inhaling male pheromones like they were oxygen—if he couldn’t take advantage of it because his dick was locked out of reach?
He wanted to cry, but the team had started to filter in, and he didn’t have anything set up, so he scurried around trying to be of service like Coach wanted him to, trying to prove he had some sort of greatness. The guys were rowdy, still high from last night’s win, and they cracked jokes as they changed into their practice jerseys, letting everything hang out the way they always did so that Alfie’s dick did its by-now accustomed routine of inflation followed by a quick deflation as the cage punished him for perving.
Which was exactly what Coach wanted.
Alfie could see why Coach had left the cage on—because he’d known Alfie would go right on perving no matter how many lectures he got—but he didn’t like it one bit.
Then Coach came out of his office and clapped his hands to get their attention. The team fell into an immediate silence. Everyone respected Coach, which was wise of them considering how devious he could be with his punishments.
He went through the usual pre-practice business of talking about what kind of drills they were going to do and assigning people to practice groups. Alfie didn’t really listen. He never did. But then he heard his own name.
“And since he’s attracted to men,” Coach was saying, which made Alfie nearly jump out of his skin with surprise, “he’s willing to offer services beyond those of the usual equipment manager. So if you’re in need of relaxation or release, hit him up. Oral, anal, whatever floats your boat.”
Alfie didn’t remember agreeing to that. Or wait. Had he? There’d been something about him wanting to get with the guys, but he didn’t realize he’d volunteered to be the team’s sex doll.
“Any questions?” Coach asked.
“Um, Coach?” someone said. Ryan. One of the team’s forwards. He was tall but very thin with it and he ducked around the locker room like he was almost as scared of the guys as Alfie. “I don’t think most of us are gay. I mean, I know I’m not.” He threw a nervous smile at his teammates then withdrew it when none of them smiled back.
“Son, you don’t need to be gay to use a willing mouth. And I’d rather you find something quick and easy than be at the bars every night chasing pussy. Just make sure you use a condom for penetrative sex. I don’t need the whole team coming down with a venereal disease. It’s all about the protective gear, am I right? Any other questions?”
“Can we spank him?” a senior named Bruiser asked.
“If he needs it.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Coach shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, he probably always needs it. Kid has a perverse streak a mile wide. You’d be doing him a favor.”
Bruiser smirked and flexed his right hand. Bruiser wasn’t his real name. Alfie didn’t even know his real name. It was just what the team called him because he was easily the biggest guy not just on their team but on all the teams in their league. And because he had a habit of bruising his opponents and occasionally—though not as badly—his teammates. If Bruiser spanked him, he would probably die.
“Any other questions?”
“How’s his oral technique?” one of the other seniors asked—a guy they called Max.
Coach made a noncommittal noise. “It’s not the best, but he’s only a freshman. How good were any of you when you were freshmen? Practice—that’s the path to greatness. So give him some practice. Any other questions? All right then. On the ice in fifteen.”
Coach went into his office, leaving behind a vaguely uncomfortable silence, which was broken by the sound of Bruiser giving Max a high five.
“This is awesome,” Max said. “Remember when we had that other guy?” Max was tall and blond and stacked and easily the best-looking guy on campus. Alfie didn’t know how he’d gotten his nickname. Maybe just because Max was the absolute max.
“Totally awesome,” Bruiser agreed.
