Page 60 of Smut Lovers

Chapter Nine

Vik

“ A lright men. This is it. The big championship meet. Every one of you are capable of winning your weight classes. I want fair and hard-fought matches. C’mon, let’s pull it in.

” Coach Greg stands with his arm out-stretched, palm facing down.

Jersey, Paxton, and their teammates all join him in a circle.

“Let’s go!” he bellows. They all raise their arms in unison, then fist bump around the circle.

Sitting on the bench with the team iPad in my lap, I watch Greg coach the lower weight classes from the team.

We don’t have a wrestler in all ten weight classes.

Our guys who qualified for the championship are Jersey in the one-eighty-four class.

Paxton is in the one-seventy-four class.

Felix takes on the one-sixty-five opponent.

Steve is one-fifty-seven, Frank is our one-forty-nine wrestler, and Tom holds the lowest weight class in the one-forty-one slot.

We hope for a sweep this year for the first time in school history.

As the matches play on, I mark the scorecard for our guys. A quick glance around the gym, and I find Mom sitting with Pam. They’re dressed from head to toe in black and silver. They each have pom poms like the cheering squad. I smile and wave to them, they shake the pom poms at me.

After our first four wrestlers finish second in their respective weight classes, it’s Paxton’s turn. He’s ranked number one in the state for his weight class, and I expect him to win. We all do.

In the familiar wrestling stance, he waits for the referee to raise his arm, signaling the start of the round.

He wastes no time as he goes low with a double leg takedown. He flips his opponent over, pinning his shoulders to the mat. The referee blows his whistle, pointing at Paxton. The team hoots and howlers, cheering him on.

The wrestlers break and take their starting positions again. The whistle blows, then the ref raises his arm at a slight angle.

Paxton is just too quick for his opponent. He wraps his arms around him, throwing the poor guy to the ground. Another pin, meaning Paxton is the winner two to zero. The ref blows his whistle. Paxton and his opponent stand on either side of the ref as he lifts Paxton’s arm, declaring him the victor.

Jersey jumps from the bench, and congratulates Paxton with a fist bump, and shoulder hug. I stand and make my way toward my team. Smiling, I say, “Great Job, Paxton. I had no doubt you’d win..” I toss him a towel.

“Thanks, Coach,” he says, draping the cool towel around his broad shoulders.

“Your turn, big guy,” I say to Jersey.

“No worries, Coach.” He winks, then heads to the big circle.

Greg stops him as he places his hand on Jersey’s muscular shoulder. It’s too noisy for me to hear what they’re talking about, but I’m sure it’s a pep talk. Greg loves to rile up his guys. They fist bump, then Jersey jumps up and down several times. He does this before every bout.

I sit back down on the bench, iPad in hand to make notes on Jersey’s file.

My heart races as I watch him slap his biceps.

He’s an amazing specimen of a man and the uniform, or singlet, as it’s called, hides nothing.

I know I’m supposed to score this as his coach, but my pussy has other ideas.

It throbs hard. My clit tingles. My breasts quiver, making my nipples peak.

I tug my jacket across my chest to hide my obvious need for Jersey.

My body never reacts this way to the other guys on the team and they all wear the same damn little singlet. Jersey, though, fuck. Mmm.

“Take your places,” the ref says. His whistle sounds, and his arm shoots upward.

Jersey and his opponent grab at each other, ending in a tie-up. They move around and around, their bodies bouncing. Suddenly, the other wrestler drops and grabs Jersey’s legs, taking him down with a thud.

I jump from the bench, my eyes glued to Jersey.

The ref blows his whistle, then points to the other teams guy. “Point.”

Jersey stands, shaking his head. He huffs out a breath, stomping around the mat before getting into position for round two.

I’ve never seen Jersey lose a point. Never. I move closer to Greg, and nudge him. “Is he okay?” I ask, nodding toward Jersey.

“He’s fine. His ego got the best of him. This kid from Cleary is the real deal. Jersey just needs to settle down and focus.

“Jersey, focus!,” Greg yells to him.

He nods, then enters the big circle. The whistle sounds, and they tie-up again. There’s no way Jersey lets this guy take him down again.

Jersey moves swiftly behind his opponent, wrapping his strong arms around him, then taking him down with a strong throw. A second passes, then Jersey pins him.

“Yes!’ Jersey yells, clapping his hands loudly.

Our eyes meet. He winks. I nod and smile.

“One to one. Next point wins the match, Let’s go gentlemen.” The ref waves his arms for them to enter the big circle. When both are in position, the whistle blows.

This last round lasts a bit longer than the other two as both wrestlers grapple on the mat after Jersey made a take down, but his opponent was able to reverse him.

My heart pounds fiercely as I watch Jersy try to pin him, but he escapes each time. Then he does another reverse, getting Jersey in a bad position.

I gasp audibly, then cover my mouth with my hand.

Another minute of them grappling before Jersey makes his move, getting his opponent in an armbar. He leans back, tugging hard. His face is red, his teeth clenched. He puffs out a breath, then tugs harder.

His opponent slams his free hand on the mat, calling out, “I’m out, I’m out!”

I jump up from the bench, dropping the iPad as I clap my hands, bouncing from foot to foot.

I let out the breath I’d held in relief.

My entire body vibrates with joy for Jersey.

I’m so fucking proud of him. My heart’s bursting inside me as I smile wide and wait for him to join the team waiting for him along the side of the wrestling mat.

Jersey releases his hold, and jumps to his feet. The ref blows his whistle to end the match and the meet. He lifts Jersey’s arm, declaring him the winner.

He runs back to the team, they circle him. Congratulations given with high-fives, fist bumps, and chest bumps.

“Great job, kid,” Coach Greg says, patting Jersey’s back.

“Thanks, Coach.” Jersey glances my way, smiling wide. He walks toward me, full of confidence.

“Congratulations,” I say as he stands as close to me as possible.

“Thanks, Vik. Can I have you as my winning trophy?” He hangs his arm over my shoulders.

Tilting my head up, I say, “You know the answer to that question.”

“I’ll wait,” he says smartly, then pats my ass before heading to the locker room.

I gasp, and hold my breath. Pressing my hand to my chest, I let out my breath, and swallow back the desire inside to say fuck it all and be with him. With blurry vision, I watch Jersey as he disappears into the lock room.

I wish so damn much that things were different. How I wish that I could be his winning trophy.