Twisting out of his hold, the blond backsided over him, took one arm around Joey’s neck, another to the crotch in a near-nutpull. Don’t you dare, he thought.
Joey wriggled about, his arms useless, his hamstring spasming in a frenzy, his throat wheezing, sweat stinging his eyes, his headgear mashed against his temples at a wrong angle. His opponent squeezed, shoved. Joey’s face flattened sideways against the mat, his cheek smashed against his teeth. He gasped, gulping air, feeding his little heart.
Looking at the gymnasium sideways, his arm feeling like a chicken wing about to be dismembered, Joey could see each light of the ceiling reflected in the glasses of someone’s mother. Nearly all the bleachers were empty, the long rows of warm blond wood. Chrissie and Kimberly kept their seats, cheering him on from behind the scorecards. 11-8. What color was he again?
Somewhere behind them his dad must have been cheering. He heard his name sprinkled in among the shouts. Coach Cleshun paced over to face him. “Get out of there!” he screamed. Yeah, easy for you to say.
He twisted his head to try another grip, then bit his lip.
Tasting his own blood, he swallowed, took a deep breath in, then relaxed a tiny moment. So did his opponent, as if they were both agreeing: This is crazy, who are we doing this for? The guy’s grip on him loosened, the ref stood back, not thumping around, Cleshun stood silent. As often happened in matches, where not a lot of people attended, nobody cheered. A fraction of near-silence filled the gym.
Joey’s opponent broke it as he let out a little sigh. Nobody heard it but the two boys, the grunt lost under the tangle of their bodies. Joey wriggled out of his opponent’s hold, noticed a faint smell of deodorant.
Almost charmed, instead of weakening, as he usually did when a sliver of desire forced its way into a match, he made it the other guy’s weakness, his fault. He could win, even if he liked this guy. He drew breath in, sucking in another trace of sweetness from the guy’s armpit. It fueled his last lunge in what he sensed as his few remaining seconds of energy. He fully tensed every muscle, let out an anguished bellow, imagined himself exploding.
The noise of the gym rose with him as he twisted out, grabbed the guy in a cradle, picked him up fully off the mat for a small moment, squeezed in. Joey shoved his chest into him, pushing, digging with his feet, pushing like a snow shovel, until he ground his torso up, over, shoving his belly against the guy’s crotch, clamping his arm under a knee, forcing the leg up, the Bayonne guy onto his back, until he locked in, groin to groin, between the guy’s upraised legs.
The ref spun around in his range of vision, arm raised, then slammed his palm onto the mat.
He’d done it.
Joey glanced up at the ref to see a slight nod of assurance, then released the guy, pulling his arms out from the tangle of their bodies. He crawled up to standing, turning away, looked out to see who was cheering. The hooting and applause rose.
His posse was on its feet, high-fiving, his coaches strutting away in satisfaction.
Yes.
They crouched before the ref, whose belly nearly poked out under the striped shirt. They both shook hands, glanced at each other. More hoorays. He looked out, too exhausted to manage a grin. His dad stood, clapping. Good. That’ll shut him up for a while.
They shared a glance between pants for air, when the Bayonne guy leaned in, gave him the briefest hug, a pat on the back.
As he returned to the bench, hands high-fived him. Coach Cleshun patted his butt, then Assistant Coach Fiasole too, the double seal of approval.
“Good goin’, dude,” Bennie patted him.
“Awright, Neech, my man.” Hunter chucked him on the arm. Joey sat on the bench, dropped his headgear between his legs. He licked his lips, the salt of his blood and sweat mixing.
Joey merely high-fived Dink, who was up next, always after him. He hoped the energy of his win would magically pass over into Dink’s body from their brief touch.
As he sat in a dizzy state, wiping down, his sweats clung to his skin and singlet. He sucked in air as the spasms and quivers in his muscles calmed, the sweat drying to a light salty crust. His hamstring throbbed. Somewhere in there his wrist got crunched a bit.
Sitting to his left, Anthony hadn’t said a word, but sat with his arms crossed, furious.
Joey tried to reassure him. “Hey, man, I lost my whole first season.”
“You did not.”
“How do you know?”
“You brag about your record all the time, like it’s some kind of–”
“Stow it.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” The photographer seemed frightened for a moment, but became slightly more relaxed as Joey talked with him. He wore a too-long flannel shirt. The strap of his camera made it bunch up.
“You got some pictures a me, huh?”
“Yeah, some pretty good ones, I think.”
“Well, how’s about makin’ me some copies?”
“You. . .you want some prints?”
“Sure, if it’s not, I mean if they let ya.”
“Sure. No problem. No problem at all.” The photographer adjusted his glasses, awkwardly fumbling with his square-shaped photo pack.
“I’m Joe.”
“I know. Tom.”
“Nice ta meetcha.”
“We’re in History together.”
“Oh, really?” Joey’d never noticed him. He didn’t even remember the guy ever speaking in class. “Oh, yeah, in the back.”
Anthony approached the photographer. Did he want photos to remember his pathetic loss?
“Right,” Tom said. Seeing Anthony, he blurted a soft, “Hi,” as if they were friends. “Well, I should have the photos done in a few days.”
“No rush. Just thought I’d ask. Good for the ego, ya know.” Joey backed away.
“Sure.”
Joey saw his father and brother waiting by the bleachers. “Well, gotta go. See ya in class.”
“Right.”
“Hey, kid, good job.” His father’s arm came around him, patted his back while hugging him.
Mike jumped off a bleacher, landing on the floor, eying two other young boys who were already playing on the mat.
“Take your shoes off.”
“We gotta go,” their dad said.
“It’s awright,” Joey said as a few other younger kids rolled around on the mat, terrorizing each other while the coaches chatted with parents, shaking hands. Chrissie Wright walked by. “Hello, Mister Nicci.”
They both watched her go by, then Joey watched his father watch her. “I’ll just be a few minutes.” Joey said.
“Okay,” his dad, said, turning back. “We’ll be out in the parking lot.”
“Go talk to my coaches.” Joey steered his father to other side of the gym.
“Awright, awright.”
Walt asked one of the Shiver brothers a question in the showers. Joey crossed between them, and because of the conversation bouncing back and forth, he got to steal a few choice glances at his buddies. In previous years, Joey would count what he called Sightings, which were merely seeing another guy’s dick. That got replaced with Maybe Bigger than Last Time, which got replaced by Butt Shots.
But Joey felt less than amiable scoping his teammates’ bodies when he realized what their conversation was about.
“No, it’s a part of their brains.”
“What’s that called again?”
“The fag part.”
Everybody laughed, but then shut up when Brett Shiver said, without stuttering at all, “The Hypothalamus!”
Hunter broke the silence with, “Hypothalamoose.” Everybody started making what they thought were moose calls.
He’d already memorized every detail of their bodies, the way soap suds slid down their muscled curves, the freckles on Walt’s back, Raul Klein’s appendix scar where his oblique met his hip bone. None of that felt very sexy when he figured they’d hate him if they knew he could do a better moose call.
Still, Joey mooed his way back to his locker when he saw Anthony sneak out quickly. Joey dressed in a rush to catch up to him.
“Nine-ish. Saturday,” Bennie said with a fake British sneer. He dropped his gym bag on the bench next to Joey, began combing his wet tangle of hair into the look of an AWOL marine.
“What?” Joey fumbled with his laces, tied them in front of Bennie, who stood before the mirror. Joey stole a long glance at Bennie’s dick. Bennie never raced through the showers like other guys, but stood, slowly rinsed off, back to the wall. He was very comfortable watching guys notice him, notice It. When he put his pants on, he stood up on the bench, claiming it prevented his pants from getting wet, but everyone knew. He showed off like the statue he thought should be made in his honor.
“Saturday. Party at Hunter’s.” It began swaying as Bennie toweled his back.
Joey had to look up, Bennie’s cock at his eye level. Bennie caught him looking. “Hunter’s havin’ a party?”
“Firm grasp of the obvious. Bring brews.”
“As if! I’m fifteen.”
“So bring munchies.”
“I gotta ask my parents.”
“Sure.”
It excited him, getting together with them, but he couldn’t help wondering why Hunter hadn’t invited him. “The guys on the team coming?”
Bennie re-wrapped his towel. “Not all brethren.”
Weird. Bennie was weird.
Joey raced to the parking lot. His dad wasn’t there yet. He scanned for Anthony’s junker of a Pinto. Once when it stalled in the street on the way out, a bunch of guys laughed at him. Nobody offered to help except Joey and Dink, and even Dink had to be coaxed.
He found the Pinto parked at a curb half a block down the street. Anthony sat inside, holding his hands to his face. At first Joey thought he was praying, but when he saw his breath steam through his fingers, he figured he was just warming his hands.
He knocked on the window. Startled for a moment, Anthony unrolled it.
“What, you got no heat?”
“No.” Anthony looked up, smiling. “You need a ride?”
“No. I. . .” Joey looked back to the lot. “My dad’s here somewheres.”
“Oh. Then, what?”
“You know that photographer guy?”
“Tom? Yeah.”
“He said he’d get me some pictures. He ever give you any?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
Silence.
“So you don’t need a ride?”
“Naw.”
“So?” Anthony wanted to leave.
“Look, I just wanna, you gotta keep tryin’. I know it’s tough, but. . .” Joey felt awkward talking through the window, like he should be in confession or asking for a Bomb Pop. “You tried, right. That’s what counts. I know you can do better.”
“You are so clueless, Joseph.”
“I just thought I could help you–”
“What do you care?” Anthony’s eyes burned with a new anger. “When have you ever cared?”