Page 69 of Sweat

Tommy

Rowan has been going easy on me. He’s not running me as hard, pushing me as much, or chiding me when I’m whiney or lazy. He’s giving me days off out of the blue, or picking me up just to take me to Sonic. I don’t complain, because who doesn’t love eating Coney dogs and being lazy? But my game is slipping, and Rowan’s might be too. Coach is yelling at him a lot more at practice, and second string won the last two scrimmages. Failing is one thing, but I don’t want Rowan failing because he thinks I’m too depressed to train the way we were.

Mentally, I’m a wreck. Even though Erica is feeling okay, tensions at home are high. The better Erica feels, the shorter Ma is with her, like she’s trying to punish Erica for choosing the path she has. I’m trying to be accepting. As accepting as I’d want her to be of me if I had enough courage to tell her the truth.

Rowan knows I want to date him for real. Not because I told him that in so many words, but because it’s pretty glaringly obvious. That might be another reason he’s going easy on me, like sucking my dick and buying me junk food is his form of a consolation prize. Again, it’s a tough thing to complain about, but we’re well into August now, and the first match of the season is only two weeks away.

Coach pulls me into his office after Friday’s practice and tells me straight up I’m plateauing.

“I’ve got Rowan in here nearly every day telling me you belong on the starting roster, but I’m just not seeing what he sees in you. You paying his rent or something?”

“We’re just friends,” I say, hanging my head a little. It’s embarrassing the way Rowan pushes me to Coach like an overbearing parent, but then I think back to what Xiamara said about how Rowan shows affection, and my heart swells a little.

“Rowan doesn’t have friends.” Coach shoots a wad of paper into a wastebasket like it’s a three-pointer, misses, then drops heavily into his desk chair. “Rowan is a machine. Crank the pin in his back, and he goes. Last thing someone like him needs is a friend.”

“Well, I’m his friend and he’s mine. If I’m plateauing, it’s not his fault.”

“Is it your fault he’s slipping?”

“What?”

“How would you feel if I benched Rowan for the first match of the season because you want to take him out partying, or line-dancing, or whatever kids do these days?”

My ass scoots to the edge of my seat, probably looking like a deer in Coach’s headlights. “Rowan is getting benched?”

“You tell me.” Coach puts his focus on his computer monitor, like he’s said all there is to say. He cued the rain cloud and leaves me stranded in the downpour with a dry mouth.

“Listen. Sir… It’s true our training has slipped, but it’s only because I’ve got personal stuff going on at home, and Rowan’s been trying to help. It’s my fault.”

“I know it’s your fault. That’s what I said.”

“My sister only has six to twelve months left to live,” I blurt out, only because it might aid Coach’s opinion of Rowan. “She has stage four pancreatic cancer that’s spread to her lungs. She stopped treatment last month. Rowan’s been… We don’t party, sir. We just get food, listen to music, and talk.”

Taking his focus from the computer, Coach sizes me up silently while his countenance softens bit by bit until he gently says, “I see.”

I walk out of the meeting with the realization I need my neurotic drill sergeant back, not just for my sake but for Rowan’s. I go straight to his locker and tell him everything Coach said, and everything I said back.

“Fuck McDonough,” Rowan responds, whipping off the towel around his waist and shoving it into his locker.

To stave off a public boner, I avert my eyes. “He sounded real serious, man. I think we need to drill in.”

“Let him bench me,” Rowan mutters. “When we’re losing miserably to the Gators, he’ll be shitting himself to put me back in.”

“Rowan, I’m okay. I wanna train. I wanna be on that field with you. I want Erica to see me play.”

Rowan pulls on his underwear and shorts in silence, brows furrowing contemplatively.

The locker room is still half full, so I put my back to the lockers and lower my voice real quiet when I say, “But you’re the daddy, so I’ll do what you say.”

Got him with that one, but I mean it. I will do whatever he says, but if it’s not what I think is best, I’ll speak my peace. He sticks his shoulder to the locker and leans in close. “You ready to grind, babyface?”

“With you?” I smirk. “Always.”

Rowan chuckles at that, face turning a shade pinker than what the sun did to it. He sticks his head halfway into hislocker so no one notices, but I see him nod, and I hear him say, “Game on.”

And for the next week, we grind. Early morning runs before work, yoga before practice, and grueling drills after dinner that make it all come up more than once. Reps in the gym, laps in the nat, and more fucking running. We stick to Rowan’s diet plan with minimal detours, drinking chalky protein shakes and green smoothies, and eating baked chicken and hard boiled eggs every goddamn day.

It makes me push harder when Rowan calls me names, like I’m some sort of masochist. But it’s all for the game. Okay, it’s not all for the game. The harder we grind, the harder my cock is by the end of the night, and the better the orgasm when Rowan drains my balls.

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