Page 17 of Taste Test

An hour later I emerged from my bedroom with considerably lighter balls and a new appreciation for just how vinegary my coworker’s ball sweat really was.

It had notes. Complex ones. Like a crisp sauvignon blanc with hints of unwashed teen male and workplace dehydration.

I’d also learned that Jared must’ve had a decent sniff himself, because he hadn’t been wrong about the Rexona Sport.

That citrusy gym bro sting? I’d smelled it too.

Not long after, Dash appeared at the door and I almost didn’t recognise him.

Gone were the piercings and his hair was styled normally for once instead of aggressively spiked.

He was dressed in a Waikato rugby jersey and trackpants.

It was like looking at a different person—the boy who’d grown up in Tokoroa and loved rugby, not the pretend punk who spent his dad’s money on overpriced band tees and skinny jeans.

He was clutching a six-pack of beer, nervous but buzzing.

When I introduced them, I watched Jared’s easy charm work its magic and felt pleased with myself.

Seeing Dash’s face light up as they bonded over rugby made me feel like I’d done a good deed, even if my original motivations had been less than pure.

My coworker’s smile was infectious and I too found myself in a good mood.

Unfortunately my good mood didn’t last for long. Within an hour the pair had turned our lounge upside down as Jared demonstrated tackle techniques on our couch.

“See, the key is getting low and driving through with your shoulder,” Jared was saying, completely in his element as he repositioned a throw pillow for the third time.

“You want to wrap your arms around here, lock them tight, and then...” He executed a perfect tackle on our defenceless couch, sending cushions flying.

“Fucking hell, that’s brilliant,” Dash gasped, looking like he’d just witnessed the second coming. “Do the one from the Canterbury match. The try-saving tackle in the 73rd minute.”

“You want to see that one?” Jared’s eyes lit up. This was dangerous territory—give Jared an audience for rugby stories and you’d be here until Christmas. “Right, so imagine the guy’s coming at me at full speed...”

I watched in horror as my flatmate launched into an elaborate reenactment involving our coffee table as the opposing player and a floor lamp as the try line. Dash was hanging on every word, occasionally dropping stats I was fairly sure he’d studied up on just for this.

And it went on. For another hour.

An hour of Dash asking increasingly specific questions about Jared’s rugby career while Jared drank his beer and soaked up the attention like a cat in a sunbeam.

I’d introduced them with the resigned air of someone feeding Christians to lions, but instead of the awkward disaster I’d predicted, they’d bonded like pups from the same litter, united by a shared love of obscure provincial rugby facts.

“Casey,” Jared said, pulling out his wallet and flopping it onto the coffee table. “Can you take my card and nip to the shops for me?”

“What for?”

“We’re out of milk.” He took another sip of beer. Foam clung to his upper lip, and he licked it off with a quick stab of his pink tongue. “And I need protein bars.”

“Can’t you just grab them tomorrow on your way to training?”

“No can do. The only place that sells the bars I like is Countdown out in Te Rapa. The ones with the salted caramel layer? Best in the game. I need them tonight.”

“Te Rapa? You know that’s basically a pilgrimage, right? That’s like… a different time zone from Hamilton East.”

Dash let out a low snigger from the other end of the couch.

“Casey, just go,” Jared said, more firmly now, all traces of teasing gone. “The men need to talk.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The men? What am I, the au pair?”

“Fine, the flatmate . Either way, I need my bars. Do me this solid and I’ll shout you a box of donuts from the bakery on the way back from training tomorrow. Deal?”

“Donuts don’t make up for an hour-long round trip,” I muttered, snatching his wallet. “But fine. I’ll get your bloody milk and bars. And I’m buying the expensive milk.”

“Get whatever you want, mate,” Jared said, already turning back to Dash like I’d stopped existing.

Cycling out to Te Rapa was not my idea of a fun Friday night.

Countdown sat across the road from The Base, the massive shopping centre that had sucked the life out of Hamilton’s CBD for years.

The city had been clawing some of it back lately, but The Base still loomed like a sprawling concrete temple, pulling half of Hamilton into its carparks every weekend.

I locked my bike outside Countdown and grabbed the stupid protein bars Jared swore by, plus the milk, then hauled it all back onto my handlebars for the long ride home.

The trip back was worse. My thighs burned, the bags swung dangerously with every bump in the road, and the entire way I couldn’t stop imagining what the hell Jared and Dash were talking about in my absence.

Jared had that glint in his eye before I left, the one he got when he was scheming.

And Dash? Dash would’ve lapped it up. I pedalled harder, trying to shake off the thought of Jared feeding Dash stories about me, setting me up for some humiliation.

Didn’t help that I had a semi practically the whole way.

Riding across town with a hard-on isn’t something I’d recommend.

But every push of the pedals just made me think about the pair of Bonds I’d stashed under my pillow, still carrying Dash’s sweat, his smell.

I’d already jerked off into them once, and I knew I’d be doing it again tonight.

The more I tried to think about literally anything else—the streetlights flicking on, the roar of cars over Cobham Bridge—the more my brain dragged me back to the feel of those sweat-dampened briefs stretched over my face.

By the time I rolled back up the driveway nearly an hour later, I was sweaty, sore, and more than a little paranoid. And when I opened the door, I wasn’t imagining it: something in the room had shifted.

Dash kept throwing me little side-eyes, like he was seeing me differently now. And Jared had that smug look he always got when he’d stirred the pot and was waiting for the bang.

Whatever fireworks he was hoping for didn’t go off though, because barely five minutes later Dash glanced at the time on his phone and declared it was time he went home.

After I saw him out, I came back to find Jared had ditched his shirt and was sprawled across the couch.

“Okay,” I said. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cut the crap, Jared. Dash was looking at me like I’d grown a second head. What did you say to him while I was gone?”

“Nothing bad.”

“So you did say something?”

“If you must know, I was helping you out.”

“Helping me how?”

“I may have mentioned that you give the best head known to man. And that technically it’s not gay to get sucked off by another dude. Only gay if you’re the one doing the sucking.”

Something between a streak of rage and a bubble of embarrassment welled inside of me. “I’m going to kill you, Sutherland.”

“You’re going to thank me when he asks for a demonstration.”

“I repeat, I’m going to kill you.”

“Come on, I was being a top-tier wingman. Spent twenty minutes selling you as a blowjob legend. Least you could do is show a little gratitude.”

“Great. And what happens when he finds out I’m not?”

Jared frowned, concerned. “So you’re shit at sucking dick?”

“No, I’m pretty fucking good. But that’s not the point.”

He perked up. “How good? Like, natural-born throat goat? Or years-of-dedicated-practice good? Do you tongue the balls? Please tell me you tongue the balls.”

“I’m not discussing my technique with you,” I snapped. “And of course I tongue the balls. It’s just lazy head otherwise.”

“Niiice,” he said, nodding appreciatively.

“What isn’t nice is me turning up to work with Dash thinking I’m gonna suck his cock.”

“But you do wanna suck his cock.”

“Again. Not the point.”

“Look, just chill. If you get the opportunity, enjoy it. And if you do end up sucking him off, make sure you swallow. I want to know who tastes better.”

I blinked at him. “Why the hell would you want to know that?”

“Because I’m a professional athlete. I’m competitive about everything.”

“Semi-professional.”

He waved that off dismissively. “Same thing. Still competitive as fuck.”

Just as I was fighting the urge to throw something heavy at Jared’s head, a text came through on my phone. It was a message from Dash.

Thanks so much for inviting me over. Jared’s such a cool guy.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Who was that?” Jared asked.

“Dash. Saying thanks for inviting him over. He said you were cool.”

“I am cool.” He flexed his biceps with an exaggerated grunt, then shot me a goofy grin. “I’m also the superior product.”

I frowned at him. “What are you on about now?”

He stretched his arms above his head like he was trying to air out his armpits. “I’m just saying... I’m objectively better than Dash. In every measurable category. Height, looks, raw athleticism, sexual charisma. Want me to keep going?”

“Oh please do.”

“Better jawline. Better rig. Better banter. And let’s not forget: elite stamina, incredible aim, and a cock worth writing home about.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” he said way too quickly. “I just think you’ve got shit taste in men and it’s offensive to me as a hot person.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

It was sort of cute. The big boofhead was jealous. Not in some serious, possessive way, more like a labrador sulking that someone dared to pat a different dog at the park.

“And for the record,” Jared said. “I bet Dash never buys you presents like I do.”

“Since when have you ever bought me a present?”

“I bought something for you days ago,” he said, and heaved himself up from the couch. “Hang on, I’ll go get it.”