Page 11

Chapter 11

Bubble Butt

Isaiah

I t’s half past ten when my alarm goes off, but I’ve been awake for the last hour thanks to some texts from Robyn. I should have expected as much.

Hey. I didn’t realize you worked at ChaCha’s.

Can we talk?

I haven’t responded yet, and I don’t know if I’m going to. She’s going to tell me how she and Dell are a thing, or how pissed she is that I ruined her night, and I can’t take that.

Because I’m a fucking coward.

So, instead of texting her back, I’ve been doing what I do best: stalking her online and letting her presence comfort me.

But as I scroll through her comment section, I see an account handle I’ve never paid attention to before, but it has a verified icon next to it. It’s on a video of Robyn explaining that body mass index doesn’t matter. She’s going around to all her teammates asking what their BMI is as they work out in the gym together.

@TheGymBreaux: Bullhorn emoji Say it louder for the cheap seats in the back!! Clapping hands emoji

Instantly, I click on that handle because that’s not a common enough last name to go unnoticed.

Holy mother of god.

It’s Dell… and he has a huge social media presence. Two point six million followers. How the fuck did I not know he was internet famous?

Suddenly, my queer little heart stutters when I find a rainbow flag emoji in his bio.

Your favorite bi personal trainer rainbow flag emoji muscle arm emoji Sign up for my Bubble Butt Bootcamp!

Oh my god, he’s queer too. He’s queer! He’s always been flirtatious with me, but I assumed that was just his personality. As much as we’ve talked and grown a friendship, I’ve never been able to suss out his sexual orientation. I had inklings and hopes, but nothing confirmed. Not until now.

I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, but it’s useless when I open the first video. It’s a version of Dell I’ve never seen. Sure, that same silly, cocksure persona is there, but he’s wearing the tightest, thinnest gray leggings I’ve ever seen. Sweat soaks through, creating dark creases under his voluptuous backside. His quads are bulging—as is every blessed muscle on his body—as he hangs from a pull-up bar to demonstrate what he calls a “flying lunge.”

Dear god.

As soon as the video ends, I watch the next one. And the next one. And about forty more. He really likes to focus on glutes. Loves to show people how to get a bubble butt just like his. All of it with that smile I’ve come to crave. All of it with that wink—like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Bricked up under the sheets, I surrender to his image. The phone drops from my hand as I stroke myself, thinking about that delicious peach he’s rocking. What I wouldn’t give to take a bite of it. To hear him grunt as I sink into it.

Dell—at my mercy—squeezing my cock and begging me for more.

“Zay,” he’d sigh. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Ughh, yes. Just like that.”

“Do you need me?”

“Yes,” he’d groan as I pump into him harder. “Only you, Zay. You treat me like a fucking queen.”

I understand it’s my brain fabricating his words and not him, but fuuuck me, that’s what I want to hear. To know I’m appreciated. To know he needs me.

My balls tighten to my body as I approach my climax, but before I do, sexy dream Dell flips me over, pinning me to the bed. He kisses me and our facial hair scratches beautifully against each other. His sweaty, god-like body takes control over me, and I willingly submit. Lost to his moans, his tongue opens me and he takes what he wants.

“Daddy,” I whisper aloud.

“I love you, Zay,” he pants into my mouth and I fucking lose it. Every muscle in my body constricts as hot stream after stream shoots out on my chest and I arch my back. “I love you,” he says again. “So good for me.”

Dream Dell fades away as I regain consciousness and let out a conflicting grunt. I miss him already.

No. I should be focusing on Robyn. She’s been the object of all my dirty desires for fucking years. Dell has stayed at bay as a crush that’s recently formed. He can’t be here taking up my fantasies too. That’s my future wife’s domain.

There’s a buzzing from my phone, which momentarily distracts me from my internal war. I pick it up to find an email notification. When I see it’s from my old college teammate, Kermit—or Kurt, if we’re going by the name his parents gave him—I quickly sit, wipe my jizz with a tissue, and toss it into the trash before reading the email .

Hey IceMan, he starts, using my rugby nickname that’s followed me ever since I took my shirt off to play a winter pickup game my freshman year of college. I knew it was a mistake after the first five minutes, but I was too stubborn to admit I was freezing. As a result, my nipples almost popped off, and I was covered in scratches from the snow and ice.

That's when my chest hair really filled out. My body was like, “Alright, we’re not doing that again. Protect him!”

Good times.

Hey IceMan,

I think it’s time we pull the trigger on that training program. We’ve been talking about it for years now and I’m in a place financially that I can make this move.

Let me know what you’re thinking.

Cheers,

Kermit

Kermit and I have been tossing around the idea of starting an East Coast training program for rugby teams that need temporary, dedicated support. Whether that means conditioning or coaching, we want to help teams build on what they have. Think of us as rugby team consultants, if you will. We would come into teams, identify areas that need support, and help them repair and build.

It started out as an idea when we’d been drinking years ago, but the more we thought about it, the more we loved it.

Now, I’m not so sure. I like my job with Alliance Security, but it would be nice not to work nights anymore. The harsh reminder that I can no longer play full-contact rugby comes roaring in like a bulldozer once again. Being back around rugby, running this training program, could scratch that itch .

But there’s also—no. Don’t even think about it. I’ll jinx it.

Ughh , but it’s impossible not to. The head coach job with the USA Valor has been at the forefront of my mind for the last couple weeks. Thanks to the internet sleuthing on my burner account, I saw Robyn’s post about her team needing a new head coach. I’ve never applied to something faster in my life. I reached out to my old coach with the London Hornets and received a glowing recommendation letter along with a phone call from him telling me I’d be a fool to pass up this opportunity. I’ve been through two rounds of interviews so far and have been studying the team harder than ever.

Being head coach of a professional team is the dream of most retired players. With so few opportunities in the United States, it’s a big fucking deal. The sting of never being able to play rugby again would certainly ease if I was offered this position.

The job won’t pay very much, in fact, significantly less than what I’m currently making as the manager of a security company, but it’ll be worth it to be near her again. Near her in a way that will feel safe. I won’t be able to touch her the way I’ve dreamed of, but I’ll be closer than ever and able to watch her. I’ll be part of her life again.

I considered reaching out to Robyn to see if she would put in a good word for me, but thought better of it, wanting to earn this position on my own merit. Plus, I’d feel so shitty asking for something like this when I’ve been actively avoiding her for years.

After leaving London and playing professional rugby, I moved back to Philadelphia. I could have called her up and hung out the way we used to—Lord knows she was trying to get my attention. But by that time, she was cemented in my brain as my person, my future. I dedicated myself to rugby, to my dreams, for her. I had our future planned, and chilling with her as just friends felt entirely wrong. But when this coaching opportunity came up it created the perfect reason for me to be around her again in a way that fits in with my plan. Our plans.

So as much as I love the idea of working with Kermit on the training program, the opportunity to be head coach of the USA Valor is too tempting.

Hey Kermit,

Can I get back to you in a couple weeks? I have some irons in the fire and I’m trying to see what happens. If nothing comes of it, I’m fucking ready.

Cheers,

IceMan (Cumeth)

Alright, so some people just call me Cumeth.

Ruggers are a disturbing bunch.

The message is sent and I climb out of bed, throwing on a pair of discarded gym shorts. I head downstairs to get a pot of coffee brewing before I shower and start my day. But when I get to the main floor, I’m greeted by Rugger and Yogi, my brother’s two giant Great Pyrenees dogs.

I groan but scratch their enormous heads. “Why are you here?”

Yogi gently holds my wrist in his mouth and pulls me toward the kitchen as Rugger follows.

“You know I’m not livestock, right?” I grumble, but find Jonah rifling through my cupboards. I repeat the same question to him. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t even look at me as he continues his search. “I’m out of cereal at my place. Where’s yours?”

“I don’t eat cereal.”

“What? Everyone eats cereal.”

“Wrong,” I mutter, grabbing the ground coffee bag and filling the machine. “You do, because you’re a man-child.”

Giving up, he shuts the cupboard and peeks over to watch me fill the coffee maker. “How much are you making?”

“Enough for me.”

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t live here and are capable of buying cereal and coffee on your own.”

“Can’t a guy simply want to spend some quality time with his oldest brother?”

“If he can give some warning.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

I sigh deeply and level him with a stare. “I assume you’ve already eaten my leftover chicken parm?”

“I’m a growing boy,” he smiles.

I push off the counter to head for my shower. “I hate you.”

“Hey, can you give me a ride to Dad’s tonight for family dinner?”

That has me stopping in my tracks to turn back around. “Why? What happened to your car?”

He fiddles with his fingernails. “It, um…”

“Jonah,” I growl.

“I gave it to Shirly—to borrow!” he adds quickly.

“The drug addict that hangs around your block at all hours of the day and night?”

Jonah shrugs. “She said she had a job interview.”

“So let her take the bus!”

“She said she would give it back next week,” he says, as if that’s reasonable.

“Next week?” I bellow. “Why would she— It’s one—” I grunt, then take a deep breath. “She’s never going to give you that car back, bro.”

“You barely know her. She’s really nice.”

“She sells crack, and from the looks of it, she’s her best customer. ”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a liar.”

I shake my head and sigh. “Just wait until Angie hears about this,” I threaten, giving up and heading back upstairs to shower. Hopefully, the fear of our older sister will knock some sense into him.

“No! Don’t tell her!”