Page 32 of Sweat

Swear, the dude can’t coach without a whistle. I roll my eyes and reach behind the door, where I know there’s a hook Coach hangs his coats and his—bingo.

“Here.” I toss him the whistle, then motion for Tommy to come in. “Hey, Coach, this is my boy, Tommy. He’s trying out today.”

Once the whistle is around McDonough’s thick sun-browned neck, coach-mode is in effect. His face hardens and his arms cross over his chest. “Your boy?”

I steel my jaw to keep from frowning. Forgot how inept Coach is with any type of slang that came out after the nineties. “My friend.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Tommy reaches his long arm across Coach’s desk.

Probably impressed by thesirbit, Coach shakes Tommy’s hand good and firm. “Rowan is going pro next year,” he says. “In the thirty years I’ve been coaching, I’ve never had a more talented player than him, so if he says you can play, you must be something special.”

The bashful dork he is, Tommy stammers. “I, uh, I—I don’t know about—”

“He’s special,” I say. “He can play.”

“You’re big for a freshman,” McDonough tells Tommy, sizing him up like he’s sure he’ll find a flaw.Good luck.

“I’m a Sophomore. A Junior, I mean, in the Fall.”

McDonough nods like that’s the flaw.Asshole.“So you haven’t played since high school?”

“No—”

“He plays,” I interject, “with me and with some of the other guys. Just not officially.”

Tommy adds, “I played at Johnson for four years. Varsity for three. Captain my senior year. I actually had a scholarship to play at San Diego, but I had some family stuff come up and had to put soccer on the back burner for a minute.”

A scholarship to play in SD? It makes sense with how good he was at Johnson, but why the fuck would he give that up? I know why I stuck around in the ball-sac of California, but why did he?

“Huh.” McDonough twists his lips and puckers his brows the way he does when he’s using that meatball brain for actual thinking. “Alright well, go out there and give it what you got. I’ll be sure to keep a close eye on you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tommy shakes McDonough’s hand again before slipping back out into the hall.

I’m halfway out the door when Coach tells me that since I’m here, I can help him and the assistant coaches manage tryouts. Not my idea of a good time, but at least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Tommy.

This whole affair begins with a tedious seminar where Coach brags about Sac State, the team, and his extraordinary coaching skills to a group of around sixty kids. Not actual kids, but more than half of them are fresh out of high school, so they may as well be kids. Toward the end, Coach parades me in front of everyone like some sort of living after-picture. As if I’m what these chumps will turn into if they’re privileged enough to be coached by the great Hank McDonough.

Nah. I’m what I am because of willpower, diligent training, and the expertise of better, and worse, coaches than McDonough ever will be. I’ll let McDonough think he’s the shit today, though, if it’ll help give Tommy a leg up.

“Couldn’t have done it without this guy right here,” I tell everyone, slapping my palm behind Coach’s shoulder. “Coach McDonough is like a father to me. You can be sure he’ll always have your best interest in mind, and he would never push you to do something you aren’t already capable of.”

The proud look on Coach’s face is nauseating, but he lets me sit back down after that, so it’s worth it.

After all the yapping, Coach dismisses everyone to the field and tryouts officially begin. The assistant coaches lead everyone in stretches before dividing the crowd up into four “teams” according to the positions they wish to try out for. Tommy’s a center-midfielder. He’ll be the best one the coaches see today.

He wears a practice jersey with the number 19 on it. The assistant coaches don’t know I brought Tommy. They talk to me like I’m one of them, asking my opinion and letting me know their thoughts. Whenever they bring up number 19, it’s either to comment on how good he is or how big he is. I want to tell them Tommy’s slimming down, but I also don’t want to blow my cover.

Watching him lift his shirt up to clear the sweat from his face, I realize what a tragedy it is that he should have to lose an ounce of weight. Not sure I’ve ever seen a more perfect body.

When I think I can get away with it, I show Tommy a thumbs-up to let him know he’s doing great and to relax a little. He won his scrimmage match 4-2, and after a rest break, the coaches mix up the teams and have them go again. Again, Tommy’s team prevails, this time 8-0. A bloodbath.

I knew he could do it, but seeing it with my own eyes is a whole other feeling. Pride, but something else too. Arousal. Every time he steals a ball, every time he kicks a goal, my cock twitches against my fly.

Tommy is wilting by the end. The sun is high, and it’s hotter than hell out. He’s used to evening trainings, not mid-day scorchers. His fair skin in pink all over, and he’s sweating enough to water the lawn.Poor thing.

As everyone’s leaving, McDonough pulls Tommy aside and chats him up. It must be good shit, because the handshake after is even firmer and lasts twice as long. Plus, Tommy is smiling like he just got engaged.

“Told you,” I say, meeting him halfway as he walks off the field. Most everyone else is gone by now, so I don’t care about keeping a cover anymore.

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