Page 10 of Brat on the Ball

“Just keep that prick away from me,” I muttered. I headed back to the changing room, ignoring the mutters and the stares. I didn’t want to deal with them. I didn’t need them to tell me I’d done wrong. I dried myself off and got dressed in my tracksuit, and pushed past Tim as he walked into the room. I might lose play time. I might lose my week’s salary for fighting. But I didn’t care. I just needed to get out.

It wasn’t until I was in my car and five minutes from the stadium that I realised where I was driving. Towards Cardiff city centre. Towards the club. And, I thought, towards him. The man who would make it all feel better.

* * *

I parked the car in my usual spot by the museum and walked with my hood up toward the back alley that housed Wings. I could hear the dullthump-thump-thumpof the music through the pavement and my pulse quickened. I was nervous. For the club, for the atmosphere. But more than anything, I was nervous that my man wouldn’t be there. I didn’t know his name, or his job, or even how old he was. But I knew his eyes, the feel of his stubble on my skin. How his hands liked to explore.

I waited in the line for the club with my hood over my face, scared that any passer-by might recognise me. It was risky for me even being here. But John wouldn’t have recommended the place if the clientele weren’t discrete.

I got to the front of the line and went to step past the short bouncer, but she held out a hand to stop me. “You can’t go in dressed like that,” she said.

“I can take the hoodie off?”

She cast a look up and down my whole body. “Tracksuit bottoms. No. Hoodie. No. Workout shirt…still no, I’m afraid. No dice.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, turning away. It was a stupid journey to have made anyway. One week away from a guy and I was ready to jump him again. If he was even in the club two weeks in a row and not balls deep in another guy.

“Honey,” a guy shorter and skinnier than I said, “just take it all off.”

“What?” I asked. He was just behind me in line and wearing a similar get-up to me. “They won’t let you in if you’re dressed like that, but they will if you’re dressed likethis.”He shimmied out of his tracksuit bottoms and pulled off his hoodie. He stood in the freezing alleyway in nothing but a pair of golden hot pants and his trainers.

“Oh, I can’t…” I started, and then something took hold of me. “Fuck it. Fuck. It.”

I ripped off my hoodie and then struggled out of my tracksuit bottoms. I heard a couple of wolf-whistles in line as I revealed the little blue pair of briefs I was wearing, and I thanked whatever god might be watching that I hadn’t put on a jockstrap after the match.

“Come on, sweetie,” said the other guy, leading me by the hand into the club. He showed me the cloakroom, where I could put my clothes before pulling me further into the club. He was cute, but not at all what I was looking for. I didn’t want someone breakable. I wanted someone who’d break me. A very particular someone.

I felt more self-conscious than ever, in so little clothing in the middle of all those dancing people. And I was watching out for him the whole time. A couple of people tried to grope me, but I was firmer this time, and so not-hard that no one could mistake my lack of clothes for consent.

Then, like some Bible story, a gap opened in the middle of everyone as they parted for a second. And there he was.

Chapter Seven - George

Cardiff Old Navy had won our game, and I celebrated with everyone else as we normally would. But after just a couple of pints, I had slipped out of the celebrations and headed to Wings. I’d been sitting at the bar, watching over the crowd. I didn’t really have a type, exactly. Normally the gorgeous twink in the bright pink jockstrap would have caught my eye, or the leather otter with twelve different piercings on show. But I was looking for one particular man, as unlikely as that might be.

I’d ordered myself a pint of beer, and a glass of Shiraz sat next to it. I was waiting, and I hated myself for it. I didn’twait. I took. I fucked around with who I wanted, when I wanted, and my natural confidence tended to get me exactly that. I growled at a guy who tried to take the barstool next to me and he backed off. I scanned the crowd, desperately seeking a flash of those blue eyes or a hint of smooth alabaster skin.

And then, for just a second, the crowd of dancers thinned, parted. And I saw him. My Cinderella. Our eyes caught first, and then I let myself look down at the rest of him. He was dressed in just a pair of briefs that cupped his package and barely covered his arse.Fuck. I’d told him to loosen up. But a shiver of jealousy ran through me that he wasn’t loosening up with me. I saw the beautiful, confident, hot pant-wearing guy he was with, and I was off the barstool and striding across the dance floor before I could stop myself.

I hadn’t even noticed that I’d picked up the drinks, so when someone danced into me and threatened the balance of the glass of wine in my hand I glared at them until they backed far enough away to give me a clear line to the man.

“You came,” he said breathlessly as we met. I wordlessly handed him the wine glass. “You waited?” he asked.

I nodded, feeling self conscious. For a second, we swayed together to the beat of a song I wasn’t paying attention to. I wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to make sure everyone around us knew he was spoken for. But I wanted that on both a primal and an emotional level, and it was weird to think how much this guy had wormed his way into my brain in the space of a week.

In the end, the club made the decision for us. Someone bumped into him and knocked him into my chest. A little wine spilled down my chest where I’d unbuttoned my shirt, staining my body hair and skin red, but it was worth the excuse to curl my free arm around his waist and hold him close to me, our faces inches apart. There really wasn’t much difference between our heights, which meant it was easy to lean in and capture his mouth with mine.

His hand gripped my chest like I was supplying him with life, and I liked it. I enjoyed being needed by him.

“What do you want?” I asked, moving my hand up his back slowly to gently grip the back of his neck. To keep his mouth close to mine.

“I want…no…I need you to help me forget what an idiot I’ve been today,” he muttered in my ear.

“Do you want to be punished?” I asked.

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Can I take you home?”

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