Page 18

CHAPTER 18

ASHTON

"Marcus! Wait up!" I rush to slip through the door before it slams closed, nearly running into Marcus when he comes to a sudden stop just outside the door. His hands are resting on his hips, and he's breathing like he just finished doing Coach's favorite uphill sprints. "Dude, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Or I will be. I just need a minute."

"I thought that went really well."

Marcus stares at me like he can't believe that came out of my mouth, but it did go really well. The interviewers were happy, Coach was happy. Why isn't he? I know he was nervous about the interview, mostly because of the pressure the coaches were putting on him to pretend to be something he's not, when who he is as a person outshines everyone one else on the team. That's why I put so much emphasis on his skills and what he brings to the team, because whether or not the other guys want to acknowledge it, he's fucking awesome and deserves to get recognition.

"I can't figure you out," he says finally.

"Well, that's on you. I'm not really a complicated guy," I joke, trying to ease the tension. I can barely hold Marcus' gaze. The instinct to look away is intense, almost primal. Like we're animals and he's the alpha, his intensity permeates the air between us. Goosebumps raise on my skin.

"When other people are around, you're a different version of yourself. You strut around like you're hot stuff, talking shit like you think you're better than me—the way everyone here does. Then whenever it's just the two of us, or whenever you think no one else is looking, you act like you want to know me. You stare at me like you're expecting me to do or say something to validate you the way everyone else does. And then you go and say all that stuff?—”

"It was all true, Marcus."

"And what am I supposed to say to that? What do you want from me?"

"I didn't say it because I want anything from you. I said it because it's true, and because you deserve recognition for the way you play, not because of where you come from or how you got here." I cross my arms, feeling oddly defensive about doing something nice for once in my life. "That interview doesn't just get watched by die-hard ACC fans. NBA coaches, fans, and players all watch these interviews, just like college scouts watched your local after-fame interviews when we were in high school. It's part of your resume now, and you're starting your senior year with recognition and personal appeal. It's a good thing."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

Holy fucking shit he can be fucking bullheaded . I can't decide if I want to stomp my feet and scream like a pissed off toddler or drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness.

"What do I have to do to make things right? Why can't you take the fucking peace offering?" I'm practically trembling with pent up… something. Rage. Guilt. Humility? So many unnamed emotions are tearing through me. All I want is to get through to him somehow. "It's owed to you, Marcus. I owe it to you, and so much more."

"Don't be rid?—”

"I have spent every single day for the last four years thinking about what happened that night. About what I caused by doing nothing, and how you suffered because I was the worst kind of coward. You're better than me, Marcus, both off and on the court. You always were. Then suddenly you were out of the picture, and I got everything that should have been yours." I swallow thickly. "What's worse is that I squandered it, while you never stopped working to be the best. And now here we are. I finally have a chance to change my future for the better, but all I can think about is how I can give you your chance back, too."

"I don't need your pity. Or your help. I can handle myself."

My lips quirk, trying to hold back a smile at a memory of him saying something similar when we were fifteen at basketball camp. Even back then, he'd been the only one to be blunt and honest with me. I wish more people had talked to me the way he did. Maybe then it wouldn't have been such a shock to move out into the real world.

"I know you can, tough guy."

There's a flash of recognition in the way he looks at me, but then his eyes cloud over and his scowl returns. That was the year his life changed irrevocably. I can imagine it was even worse than the year I crushed all his scholarship dreams.

"You and I are going to make it, and we're going to do it by working together," I tell him pointedly. "And I'll do whatever it takes to show you how serious I am when I say I think about that night every single day. I've thought of you every single day. I've rehearsed what I would say so many times that the words don't have meaning anymore. How I would show you that I'm truly sorry."

Trying to keep the tremble from my limbs, I step into his personal space, forcing him to back until we're hidden in the shadows of an awning, and his back hits the wall. He leans his face away from me, like he's afraid I might do something stupid, like kiss him again.

"Unless you're about to drop to your knees, right here, right now—stay the fuck out of my way."

Keeping my eyes firmly on his, I do exactly that.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Submitting.

"Showing you I'm serious."

"Ashton—"

"Ever since you flashed your dick around in the locker room, and then said those words to me, it's all I can think about. I want to?—"

"Absofuckinglutely not. First of all?—"

"You can't pretend you don't like the idea," I say, looking pointedly at the rapidly swelling appendage tenting the front of his dark purple basketball shorts. Holy fuck that thing is huge.

Marcus snorts. "You look terrified." It's very obvious he doesn't hate it.

"I'm not afraid of a little challenge." Big challenge. Big, big challenge. Fuck.

"I don't believe for a second that?—"

His words cut off with a short intake of air when my mouth presses to his bulge, mouthing and blowing hot hair over his shaft until there's a wet spot and he's fully hard. His hands grip my hair tightly. When it seems like he's not going to punch me or push me away, I bring my hands up to the waistband of his shorts, tugging the elastic down enough that his fat, bulbous cockhead peeks out, purple and weeping with pre-cum. Leaning forward, I lick the fluid off his tip, my eyes rolling back at the burst of his flavor on my tongue. It's salty with the slightest edge of bitterness. I immediately lap up more like I'm savoring the flavor profile of a fine wine. It's not enough though, I need more.

"You like it," Marcus says, his voice low, husky, and with an edge of surprised curiosity. "You think sucking my dick is going to make it all better, but it won't."

"I still want it."

"I'm not sure you do, Princess. Because I won't take it easy on you."

With the confidence of a man who's done this many, many times before, I yank his shorts down violently. His cock, thick and heavy, bobs between us. Spitting in my palm, I wrap my hand around the base and pump him, getting a feel for just how long and wide he is. I marvel in every inch of him, licking and stroking him, measuring the weight and girth with my hand and mouth.

"Uh-uh," Marcus growls, removing his cock from my grasp and pointing it towards me. "I'm not playing around out here where we can get caught. If you're going to take it, you better open that big fucking mouth.

Fucking Christ . I groan like I'm being paid for my performance, shivers electrifying all of my erogenous zones without ever being touched.

The head of his cock is at my lips before I can even part them. Marcus pushes inside, slowly but firmly, and I think I must look like a snake unhinging its jaw. I take him so far back in my throat that I surprise myself. My eyes are watering, and my jaw already hurts from how widely it's being forced open, but I don't gag when he hits the back of my throat. I assumed I'd gag, worried that I'd embarrass myself or give away that I have no reason to act as confidently as I have. Because I've definitely never tried to swallow an anaconda whole before. I haven't sucked a dick before. I've had my dick sucked plenty of times, by both women and men, and I've been impressed by people that didn't gag, or did and kept going. So I'm feeling pretty full of myself.

Until Marcus pulls out and shoves back in in one fluid moment, pushing even harder into the back of my throat.

"That's right, Princess. Take it. Take it all."

Fuck. My hands grip his thighs, but I don't make any real attempt to stop him. I don't want him to stop. I have an all-encompassing urge to prove myself to him, as if taking his whole cock would make me worthy of his forgiveness. Not that it would, and not that he'd give it to me.

What he gives me is a tonsil beating, increasing the pace of his thrusts, holding my head steady while he uses my mouth. He's grunting and cursing. I'm moaning and sputtering, sucking in breaths through my nose. There's drool and snot and tears running down my face, and Marcus stares down at me like it's pissing him off that I'm not failing or giving up. I gaze up at him defiantly, both aroused and afraid of what he'll do. My cock is hard and aching, begging to be released and touched. Releasing my grip on one thigh, I drop my hand to my lap and palm my erection through my shorts. A deep moan turns into a grunted gyuk as Marcus' cock pushes so far into my throat, I feel him slip past my swallowing reflex.

"Fucking hell, Ashton. Jesus."

So far, I haven't been able to determine if I really like this. Despite being harder than I've ever been in my life, it's not particularly pleasurable for me, actually it's pretty uncomfortable and hurts a little. But the look of awe on his face, when he forgets to be angry and is just marveling at how I take him, is enough to make me want to let him face fuck me every day for the rest of our lives.

Marcus' hand wraps around the base of my head, palming it like a ball while he alternates fucking my throat in slow, long thrusts, and short, hard ones. His head tips back, and he lets out a shuddery breath. I squeeze my cock through my shorts, trying to stave off from busting in my shorts at merely being used like this. Finally, I give up and put my hand inside my shorts, pulling my cock out. Wiping some of the drool from my chin, I use it to jerk myself while Marcus takes my throat.

The sounds we're making in this shadowy corner, where we're barely hidden from sight, are salacious. There's the wet sounds of my breathing and the squelch of my stretched mouth, the soft smack of Marcus' balls hitting my chin, his soft grunts, heavy breaths, and deep moans, the fap fap fap of me jacking myself, and the repeated involuntary gyuk gyuk gyuk of my throat being pushed to its limits.

It’s all too much, and I tip over the edge. My eyes screw up tight as the force of my orgasm rushes over me. I gag hard on a shout that’s muffled on a thick cock, and cum splashes against the brick wall behind Marcus’ legs.

"I'm tired of hearing you talk shit at school and with the team," Marcus growls. "From now on, the only thing of mine that should be on your tongue, is what I put there." He pulls out, stroking his drool and pre-cum drenched cock in long, hard tugs. "Do you fucking understand me?"

My voice abandons me as I rasp for breath. All I can do is nod.

"Good, now stick out that filthy tongue."

I do as he says, wide eyed and trembling, opening my mouth wide and sticking out my tongue. Marcus grunts out a curse, and then a hot spurt of cum lands on the corner of my mouth and across my cheek. The next paints my tongue, then drips down my throat as Marcus moves in closer, jerking off directly inside my mouth. I'm not sure what he wants me to do with it, so I hold it in my mouth and wait for instruction.

But none comes. Breathing heavily, Marcus stares at me wide-eyed, like he just woke from some kind of trance. Then he tucks himself back into his shorts and walks away as fast as possible.

Falling back on my heels, I stay on the ground until I can't feel the soreness of my knees digging into the concrete. The tears of my exertion dry on my face, along with my snot and Marcus' cum that has dripped down my chin and onto the front of my uniform. Coach is definitely going to notice the mess on my jersey. Since it's ruined anyway, I pull my shirt up to wipe at my face, suddenly feeling freaked out by what just happened. Not so much that I sucked him off, because I had been thinking about it almost constantly since that day outside the Sports Complex. Maybe since before then, if I'm being honest with myself.

But how unhinged and rough—how detached—Marcus was aside from those little flashes of surprise or awe, is throwing me for a loop. It's not that I expected him to be sweet and gentle with me. I didn't. I don't know what I expected. Hell, I think most of me expected that he'd push me off him and run away.

A mixture of nerves and numbness from being on the ground has my legs shaking as I stand and try to straighten myself up. The doors to the auditorium where the ACC Tip Off festivities are being held loom only a few feet away. Looking back and forth from the doors to the shadowy spot that definitely wouldn't have hidden us if anyone came out here, I marvel at how fucking stupid that was. I've done some reckless shit before, but never something like this, and never sober.

The mental turmoil threatens to make me crack, and I hold back laughter as I open the doors and make a beeline for my bag, and then the bathroom. I'll need to come up with a good excuse for why I changed out of my uniform, but I have a team hoodie and t-shirt that I planned to wear on the plane ride home. Once I get dressed, I can find Marcus and talk to him about what happened. I need to make sure he's okay, and part of me wants him to do the same for me, even if I don't deserve it.

The scrimmage is a shit show. We pull off the win, which was expected considering it was against a smaller Division Two team. It would have been, should have been, a shutout, but Marcus and I seem to have lost whatever camaraderie we had on the court before the ACC interview. Coach laughs it off for the row of media reps that came to watch, since this is an open scrimmage to get the fans excited for the upcoming season. Most of them are here reporting for local news, but because we've been getting so much attention nationally, there are a few well-known sports news sources that have reporters here. None of them look impressed, and I know we're going to get our asses handed to us once we're back in the locker rooms.

"Well, it wouldn't be very sportsmanlike to embarrass the other team when they came all this way, now would it?" Coach says to the reporters. "Don't you worry, though. These boys are ready to dominate this year. They won't be pulling any punches come time for the season to start."

A reporter tries to pull Marcus aside, but he sidesteps them and keeps walking like he didn't notice them trying to get his attention. I'm not so lucky.

"Congratulations on the win tonight, Ashton. It seemed to be a tougher game than expected. After tonight's performance, do you anticipate any adjustments to the team lineup or how do you plan to move forward to ensure the team meets the high expectations for CVU basketball this season?"

Looking down at the woman, who is easily two feet shorter than me, I struggle to keep a pleasant smile on my face. Thankfully, there is no camera, just a recording device that she holds up to my face and waits expectantly for an answer.

"Thanks. We're looking forward to the season beginning and showing everyone what the Cumberland Valley Cougars are made of. We had a bit of an off night, but the team came together and came through for the W. Make no mistake, tonight was a fluke, and we're coming for that championship." With a rushed thanks, I excuse myself before anyone else can try to divert my attention.

Before I can escape into the locker room, Coach pulls me into his office, where he already has Marcus waiting. He sits in one of the chairs on the opposite side of Coach's desk, but it's pulled out to face Coach Burke, who is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. As soon as I pull out the other chair and sit, he slams the door and rounds on us.

"What the hell was that out there tonight?"

"We won, Coach, isn't that what matters?"

Coach Burke focuses his angry gaze on me, and I wonder if I should be concerned for his health. His face is getting redder by the second, accentuating the loose skin around his mouth and neck.

"Are you even paying attention?" Coach shouts, his face flushed with rage. "When your father hears?—"

Shit. Him calling my dad, when I've been avoiding his phone calls for the past two days since the interview, is the last thing I need. "Please, Coach. I'm sorry. It was an off night. It won't happen again."

"It better not. Do you know how much is on the line here? I stuck my neck out for both of you." He juts a finger out to each of us. "This team didn't need another player, but your father went out of his way to make sure you got a starting position. I turned away other prospects to make room for you, and you repay us both by not taking this team's chances for a championship seriously," he says to me, then turns to Marcus.

"And you. Do you know how much bullshit I've had to wade through to ensure that you were a good fit? Do you know how many complaints I've gotten from players and parents that my quote-unquote 'pet project' has taken court time away from them?" Coach puts his finger down, crossing his arms again, looking down at us like a disappointed parent who found his kids vandalizing a children's hospital. You'd think we'd committed a crime, not had one shitty night.

"For the past couple weeks, you were showing them the potential I've seen in you, but something happened in Charlotte. You acted like teammates, maybe even friends, on the flight there and during the interview. But then you both disappeared, skipping out on the rest of the event and flying back home in silence. Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" He looks back at me. "Or would you like to tell me why your father is calling me day and night, making a fuss about the two of you playing together?"

I try to glance at Marcus, but he pointedly avoids looking back at me, dropping his chin to examine the threads of his uniform.

"It doesn't matter. I don't care if you don't get along. You're going to stop acting like children and start acting like teammates, or you'll both be benched. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Marcus says. I echo him quietly.

"Hit the showers. I expect you to come back from the break with new attitudes, and ready to play as teammates."

Without another word, Coach ushers us out of his office, shutting the door hard behind us. I pause, thinking I hear Coach say my name through the closed door. No, not my name. My father's. He's on the phone with my dad.

Fuck, this is bad. I didn't even consider that my dad would see the interview. He’s not into sports and never watched any of my games or interviews before that I know of. Probably someone tipped him off. That's how it usually goes. One of his buddies will see the game, or hear about a win or loss, then use it in conversation to try to forge a bond with my father. Aside from getting me to agree to attend CVU so he can have more control over my life, so I won't embarrass him further, he doesn't actually care about my place on this team. Clearly, he didn't do any actual research about the team, because it was Marcus' name on the roster that was the deciding factor for me. I wanted nothing to do with CVU until I saw he was here. And I've purposefully left out any mention of Marcus being here in the two conversations we've had in the past three months, because I knew he wouldn't like it.

But considering how many missed calls and messages I have from him since Wednesday, it's safe to say the cat's out of the bag. And now that fall break is here, I won't be able to avoid him.

Marcus and I are the only ones left by the time we make it to the locker room. I open my mouth to say something, but Marcus doesn't spare me a glance, walking straight to the showers and locking a stall behind me. Figuring he needs time to cool off after that meeting with Coach, I let it go. For now. But we need to talk.

I get my chance sooner than I think when I run into him in the lobby, looking out the glass doors at the shitty turn the weather has taken. It's pouring rain, and wind is thrashing the surrounding trees.

"Jeez. It's really coming down," I say, pulling a hoodie from my bag and slipping it over my head. "Do you, uh, want a ride?" I usually walk to practice, but today I had a class on the opposite side of campus, and I didn't want to walk in the rain, so my car is parked less than twenty yards from the door to the basketball complex.

Marcus shakes his head, still avoiding my gaze. "It's a short walk."

"It's fucking torrential out there, dude. You'll be soaked before you get to the sidewalk."

"You using big words to try to impress me, now?" I don't think Marcus meant to make the joke, considering how quickly he schools his face to hide his amusement.

"Well, I've tried everything else. Chivalry, humor, letting you beat the shit out of my tonsils." Seriously, my throat still hurts. I didn't talk on the flight home because I fucking couldn't. "Not much left to try," I say with less playfulness.

"Look, Ashton, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have?—”

I shut him up by pressing my mouth to his.