Page 15 of Player
Except Dixie can't read my thoughts. She'll never know that I masturbated thinking about her mouth wrapped around my cock. Hissing. I stroke quickly. No, she'll never know that I came imagining spreading my cum over her breasts.
No little girlfrom the backwoods of Alabama is going to make me waver!
The mantra runs through my head while working out in the team weight room. The Jaguars don’t half-ass anything, and we’re expected to lift and practice, all to make sure we’re in top condition for our games.
Each player has an individual program based on their position on the team and their personal needs. In my case, Coach Johnson, the strength coach of the Jaguars, determined that Ineed more shoulder strength, specifically in my rotators. So here I am.
"Player, come here!"
Used to Coach Johnson’s booming voice echoing through the gym, none of the players are surprised. I step forward and Coach's steel-blue gaze scrutinizes me before his verdict falls:
"Ten sets of two minutes jump rope. Get some conditioning in."
Without questioning the orders, I grab a rope and start jumping rhythmically. I alternate between jumping with both feet and hopping on one foot, sort of an Ali shuffle from time to time.
My heart rate increases, but I'm far from my limit. When Johnson’s watchful eye finds me, I pick up the pace some. He doesn't correct my posture, a sign that I'm at least not fucking up.
"Coach! I need your help," calls a guy from across the room.
Johnson walks away without a word.
"Well, looks like you've got some fire in you today."
I shoot a sideways glance at Emery who just joined me. He's circling his torso with a large black medicine ball that he handles as if it weighs nothing, though the thing, about the size of a basketball, weighs around twenty pounds.
My cold attitude doesn't discourage him, because he continues, "Do you hate her that much?"
"Who are you talking about?" I ask.
"Dixie."
The rope slaps the floor rhythmically as I continue jumping.
"I don't give a damn about that girl," I mutter.
Emery moves back and forth lifting his ball, clearly working his midsection. When he comes back to me for the third time, he says, "I'm not so sure about that."
I pause between two sets and retort, "Nobody asked for your opinion."
"That's clear, but I'm giving it to you anyway."
I glance at the large clock hanging on the wall to make sure it's time for me to resume jumping.
"She's nice, and I appreciate the quiet life of the dorm when you're not making a mess, Player."
I don't respond to his comment and start my next set. My calf muscles are starting to heat up, a few more sets and I'll feel that familiar burn I've learned to love after years of training. It's a sign that it's working. Not to mention that the more I move, the less I think, which isn't a bad thing considering the nature of my thoughts since this morning.
"I know you, Player."
My friend's gaze locks with mine, and I can follow his train of thought, he's thinking about our shared past. As for me, I believe that anything that isn't today and now doesn't deserve my attention.
"You're going to mess her up," Emery predicts.
I continue jumping and respond, "Why do you care? You don't even know Alabama."
"I don't need to be friends with her to find your attitude fucked up."
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "You're saying that, Em? The guy who hooks up faster than his brain can say ‘this is a bad idea’ wants to give me advice! That's rich!"
