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And then, before I had a chance to protest much less cover myself, Brayden had his phone out. Pointed at me, and no question that he was taking my photo.

“Dude!”

He ignored me, tapping on the screen. A moment later he grinned.

“I told you. Harvey thinks you’re a fuckin’ wet dream.”

Wet, certainly, I thought. I only wished I was dreaming, so that I could wake up from a situation where my teammate sent naked photos of me to random people.

“Not okay, dude,” I complained.

Brayden shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, lil bro. Like when a hot lil wrestling squad stud refuses to believe he’s a fuckin’ grade-A boner-maker.” He pawed at his crotch, the heft of his junk clear through the gray sweats. “Just watching you now is enough to get me hard.”

“Everything gets you hard,” I reminded him, sourly.

He gave me an exasperated look, fingers still wrapped around the heavy swell of his cock.

“Just for argument’s sake,” I said, dragging my stare up from his groping. “How many times a week would someone have to do it. Y’know, in order to hold your place, there.”

“Like, a couple of times a week. That’s all.”

Frankly, ‘that’s all’ sounded like an understatement to me. I’d just about got used to my bros on the team seeing me undressed in the locker room; the idea of a room full of strangers watching me - and not even hiding their attention - was enough to make my skin prickle under the warm water.

“And they really can’t hold your place for you while your ankle gets better?”

“They have to fill the spot, and then it’s down to whether that guy drops out later.”

I nodded, slowly. There wasn’t much my teammates had ever asked of me, not really. Just to do my best: to work out, and practice, and give it everything I could when I was out on the mat. And in return they’d given me the friendship - no, the brotherhood - I’d been too naive, too socially-starved to even realize I craved so intensely. Just some wide-eyed freshman who’d spent his whole adolescence focusing on one thing and one thing alone, and it took his older, wiser big bros to show him that it took a family to make you an amazing athlete.

I twisted off the shower, watching Brayden watch me. Not really sure about my decision, not confident about it, but knowing that certainty was a luxury. One I didn’t always need, anyway; not when I knew I could count on my team.

“I really can’t dance,” I warned him.

“We can handle that,” Brayden said, stare still intent.

“And the other stuff, the...” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it. Touching myself in front of strangers; exposing myself; jerking off. “I... I’ve never really done that.”

“You’re gonna be a fuckin’ natural, dude.”

His grin said he knew he had me.

Which was silly, really. Because my bros “had me” ever since day one.

“Let’s do it, then.” I hoped I sounded more decisive than I felt.

Brayden tossed me a towel. “Fuckin’ A, lil bro.”

Chapter Four

My high school prom had been the same night as a wrestling competition half the state away. While the guys in my class were trying to coax their dates horizontal with corsages and sweet-talk, I was taking a much more aggressive approach with my partners on the mat.

I won first place, and headed off to college still a virgin.

Anyway, the thought of trying to dance while wearing a poorly-fitting rental suit would’ve been reason enough to cry off, even had the timing not clashed. Having seen the video of Brayden at the strip club, I could only conclude that either he had some natural aptitude for rhythm, or that he’d made very different choices at high school. Managed, in a way that had always escaped me, to carve out just a little more space to fill with a little more normalcy.

Carlos narrowed his eyes at me as I stood - nervously shifting from foot to foot - on his doorstep.

“You need to dance, lil bro?”