August

“Goddamn, that feels good.”

It looked good.

Asa swallowed hard and watched as Scott lay back and let the water envelop his big body, his black boxer briefs soaking and clinging to his legs, to his waist, to . . . goddamn, Asa reminded himself, you’re not gonna think about his cock.

But he was. Inevitably.

It had been Scott’s idea to go to the quarry, to take a cool dip after practice.

He knew it wasn’t possible, but it felt like this was the most bare skin of Scott’s he’d seen since January, since the night they won the National Championship, and he’d been rocked on his heels by this crazy attraction he still couldn’t explain.

“Uh, yeah, it does.” Asa slipped his feet in, and then let the rest of him follow, hoping that the water might cool him down enough so he wouldn’t feel like he was ten seconds away from exploring what Scott’s slick, wet skin might feel like against his palms.

He stayed underwater for ten seconds, then twenty, and finally raised his head, spluttering and pushing his hair back as the water cascaded off his face.

It was August, so it was always busy here at the quarry, but it was a weeknight, so while there were a few pockets of what looked to be teenagers, they were mostly alone.

In his head, Asa imagined that was why Scott had suggested they come.

More and more it felt like they were both finding excuses to be alone.

Nothing happened, but Asa felt like they were teetering there, right on the brink.

Scott flipped onto his back and did a lazy backstroke around Asa. “You think the team’s lookin’ okay?”

“You know I think so.” Asa had said it to them, even, after practice today. He wasn’t stingy with praise—he’d found you could trap so many more flies with honey than with vinegar, a fact that many college and NFL coaches had yet to realize despite all the evidence to the contrary—but he did like to hold back, especially in the early parts of the season. Too much praise, and the kids wouldn’t work hard enough.

And, someone might realize that all his gruff exterior was hiding was a bleeding heart.

Sure, he wanted to win.

But more than that, he wanted these kids to succeed at whatever they set their minds to. Maybe it was football. Maybe it wasn’t. As the years went by, Asa discovered that it mattered less and less to him if it wasn’t actually football.

Sure, the national titles felt good. The acclaim felt fucking wonderful. But now that he’d amassed all of those, he’d discovered the bragging rights didn’t mean much.

“Yeah, I think Marcus is even gonna give up his dream of setting the sack record,” Scott said, his smile glimmering in the dusk.

Asa rolled his eyes, kicking his legs to stay afloat. The quarry was deep. Even with their height, neither of them had any chance of touching the bottom.

“That kid is gonna be the death of me,” he said. It was true though, with Scott’s patience, and Asa’s tenacity, they might actually convince the guy to play well enough to make the first team.

“It’s always tough when there’s that much potential,” Scott said.

Half the time now, it felt like they were talking in double speak.

Were they talking about Marcus still? Or had they moved into deeper waters? Asa didn’t know. If he asked, then it would be out in the open, and while he felt . . . less terrified . . . of that possibility, was he ready for it yet? Was the reward finally greater than the risk?

“A lot of risk. But then there’s the upside, if it works out,” Asa agreed quietly.

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