It was late. The sun had already begun its descent over the ocean, and I had survived the first soccer practice of the year. I was never any good in new situations and certainly wasn't any good at meeting new people. My sister had told me not to worry, that everything would be fine. She always said that though. And even though she was usually right, I still hadn't figured out how not to worry.

"Alex! Are you paying attention?" our coach asked, looking up from his clipboard and squinting into the waning sun.

I was paying attention, just not to him. My mind was all over the place. First, I was cold. The ocean breeze I could live with. And the sweaty soccer uniforms were fine. It's just when they mixed together that it became a problem. They shouldn't build High Schools and athletic fields on bluffs overlooking the ocean—places where you could freeze to death in a comfortable seventy degrees. Also, I was fascinated by a new boy who had just joined the team.

At seventeen, both he and I were competing against the upperclassmen for a spot on the team. And even though I never had any doubts about my abilities on the field, I still felt awkward playing against him during our scrimmage—more awkward and uncomfortable than usual.

That's because he looked familiar. He had a pleasant, friendly face like I'd known him my entire life. But the longer I thought about it, the less certain I became.

I made a solemn face and nodded to our coach. He had us over on the sidelines, directly in the path of that frigid offshore breeze, and was telling our group of seventeen and eighteen-year-olds that we might be the most remarkable varsity squad he'd seen yet. I didn't think he was lying. I just thought he omitted the part where we were his first team. My sister had taught me about lying by omission at a very early age.

"Thursday, next week," he went on, "we've got a scrimmage match against those goofballs at Bayside. So get your permission slips signed. The girls will be joining us, so it will be cramped. We'll be taking the bus."

There were groans from the other players in our huddle. I didn't know why they called our bus the bus. It was a bus, an old bus, sure. But it seemed to do bus things just fine. The new boy looked around, brow raised and searching for answers. He didn't get any though, and when he turned my way, I just shrugged.

He had a lot of features I was curious about. For starters, he was more pretty than handsome. He was even prettier than the girl I dated last year. I remember telling my sister on a Monday about my girlfriend. She insisted she was "a very smart girl who had good taste in boys." But when I was dumped later that week, she had become a "conniving cum dumpster."

It was his hair that did it, that made him stand out. It was just long enough to stuff into a ponytail. And from where I stood, only a few feet behind him, a detail like that combined with the rest of his unusual figure could easily have him mistaken for a girl. I began to doubt who or what he was the moment I saw him. And as he casually pulled his shirt up and fanned himself with the damp cloth, those doubts got worse. Little beads of sweat streaked down the golden skin of his back and onto his shorts.

They said the practice shorts they gave us were "one size fits all" but we knew they only bought the girls' set and then handed the extras over to us. The girls deserved every luxury they could get though. Their team was good. And I didn't mind anyway, I was small for a High School Junior. After a while, I even found myself enjoying how snugly the material fit when it wrapped over my body. The blonde boy looked a little less comfortable though. His hips were rounder, and his butt fuller than mine. As he held his shirt halfway up his sticky torso, trying to get some cool air on his skin, the wedgie in his shorts worsened.

It had been like that since practice began. And no matter what the team was doing, I just kept finding myself right behind him. It all started during our stretches when he marched out onto the field and took the spot directly in front of me without saying a word or even looking in my direction. His hands were busy fussing with his uniform, pinching and plucking at his shorts and running down his backside, trying to smooth out the wedgie. All the other boys were used to how they felt and ignored them but he just kept adjusting himself even as he began to stretch.

I was hard the moment he bent over and grabbed his ankles. His light gray eyes peered back through his legs. They stared curiously at the nervous boy behind him. I was dizzy, my palms started to sweat, and I mashed my thighs together so he wouldn't see the embarrassing little bulge in my shorts. My underwear bit into me. It dug into my waist and clawed into my thighs so hard I wished I hadn't worn any.

The sharp blast of our coach's whistle saved me. The confusion evaporated like a thick fog being overwhelmed by the sun when it came up over the bay. It was a relief, that is until I remembered. The whistle was a harbinger of doom.

The warm-up lap came next. Normally, this wasn't a problem. But of course, there he was, right there in front of me again. Out of all the people in our little group, it had to be him. Naturally, I pretended to be interested in the watch on my wrist, the birds flying overhead, and running in a straight line. But no matter how hard I tried I kept seeing it out of the corner of my eye until I couldn't help myself. I casually glanced at each of my neighbors before slowly, and very stealthily, lowering my gaze.

His butt bounced with each step, and both his cheeks were wrapped so tightly by his shorts that they just kept pushing them higher and made his wedgie that much worse. He fought with it the entire jog too. He'd carefully pinch the material around his thighs and tug. And for a while, it worked. He'd straighten himself out, look around, and keep running. But eventually, they'd climb right back up. It even looked like at one point he became so frustrated that he tugged down with such force that they slipped a little too far.

I felt like a giraffe the way I leaned forward and squinted at his lower back. There, just above his butt were the same back dimples that my sister had. They were impressive, something I thought only ballerinas and gymnasts had as if they could only be earned through strict diet, yoga, and stretching. But his shorts rose back up so fast that I didn't have time to even appreciate how he was flashing the top halves of his cheeks. I was too flustered to even notice.

We'd only just begun practice and already I felt out of breath and tired. That's what concerned me. I didn't like the way my body was behaving, I didn't like the sensation between my legs as my penis stabbed into my underwear. None of this should have been happening. I shouldn't have felt that way about a boy. I made a fist and blew air through my nose.

Coach coughed into his clipboard. "Christ son, how do you even tie your shoes in the morning? Can you at least pretend to pay attention so we can finish this and no one has to freeze to death?"

"Tie my... Shoes?" I checked the state of my cleats. They were fine.

"Aw, to hell with it. Everyone, take a shower, change, do what you have to do, and get out of here. Well, everyone except Mr. Space Cadet over there. Alex, you and the new kid can tear down the field. Here are the keys to the storage shed. Lock up when you're done. See you all at 3:30 tomorrow."

Our practice uniform consisted of short blue soccer shorts and a white jersey with a little blue bird logo. Bluffwatch High felt it necessary for the dignity and prominence of their brand to embed that damned bird on everything they owned, even their students. I was staring at that bird on his chest. The sweat caused it to stick to him, and the white material had become nearly transparent. I rubbed at the sweat on the back of my neck. Don't say anything stupid, Alex. You're seventeen for Christ's sake. You're not a kid anymore.

"Hi, I'm Alex. What do your parents do?"

He raised his eyebrows. They almost detached from his face and stood above his head like in a cartoon.

"Hi, I'm Justin," he began. Then, there was a very long, very quiet pause. He narrowed his pretty eyes and studied me. Eventually, he continued, speaking slowly and cautiously, "Well, my dad doesn't do anything, and my mom—she does something with medical insurance or medical records or something like that. So, uh, what do your parents do?" But he finished his answer as a question like he wasn't sure if it was correct.

"I live with my sister—oh... Right..." I looked down at the ground. This time, everything was not fine, I thought. "Sorry, I... I get kind of nervous sometimes. Well, most times."

"Me too," he said.

"Really?" My voice cracked.

"No."

I frowned.

Justin's face lit up, though. His light gray eyes sparkled and came to life. "Come on, it's OK. And besides, I wanted to finally get to meet you."

I looked at my pale legs, then over to his jersey, still bunched up and sticking to the tanned skin just above his stomach. "You... You did?" I croaked.

"Sure, you're actually pretty good. I think you and I are the best players on the team."

"Maybe, but we're a pretty small school and—"

Justin suddenly raised both arms behind his head and began to redo his ponytail. He grimaced as he squinted into the sun. It was the first time I'd seen him from the front, the first opportunity I'd had all practice. And as he stood there, feet apart and blinded by the sun, I saw it. Something was warping the front of his shorts. It hooked to one side and stuck to his thigh. I could see the curve of his shaft and the outline of the head imprinted onto his shorts. It looked like it was wiggling around, like it was coming to life.

"Hey, Alex, are you OK?" he asked.

"Huh?"

He waited for a bit, then continued to fidget with his uniform. The shape between his legs shifted and slipped a little lower. Finally, Justin turned his gaze to his shorts and sighed. "Ah, I get it," he said.

"You... What?"

"The uniforms are awesome, aren't they? My last school got their uniforms from the same place a 300-pound gorilla would. It's nice to have something that fits, right?"

I wanted to tell him that if his penis kept slipping, it would be coming out of his leg. But instead, I swallowed my saliva and nearly choked.

Justin hit me on the back. "Yours don't look so bad either—hey, don't die, OK? At least not until we finish doing whatever that guy wanted us to do."

I coughed again.

"Well, lucky for you, I had my first health class today. I'm pretty much a doctor. And right now, you are doing something called choking."

"I just coughed, that's all... So what?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Seriously, you don't look so good. You're really pale."

"But, I'm... This is how I always look."

"Didn't you go outside during the summer?"

I coughed again into my fist. "Well, yeah, but I wear sunscreen—and wait, what do you mean?"

He didn't hear me. Justin was looking at all the equipment strewn about the field. The wind picked up, and clouds rolled in, blocking the sun. Our quaint little soccer field appeared desolate, almost hopeless like it was some dystopian future in which we were the last two people left on the planet.

I did my best to explain what was expected of us. There were cones, nets, balls, and scrimmage jerseys. Each needed to be placed in its designated bag. Some of it had to be folded. He listened quietly, occasionally nodding and shifting as I stretched out my arm and pointed.

Justin gestured toward the field. "So basically, we pick up stuff from here," he said, then directed his arm to the shed, "and put it in there?"

I blushed. "I mean, yeah, when you put it like that."

"Alright, I think we can manage. Come on."

It didn't take long, and when I thought about it, my explanation probably took longer than the actual work. But it was needed. I found a few cones inside the ball bag and a ball in the cone bag. I made a note to be more thorough next time. We saved the goals for last. The easy way to do it was to lower it down onto its face and unhook the netting. But Justin thought—well, I don't know what he thought—that we ought to hang from the crossbar and do it. He waited until I made a step with my hands.

"It'll be fun, trust me. And it's not too high. Just don't let me fall." He rolled up his shirt sleeves for no reason and looked up at the crossbar.

"I'm not sure. It looks dangerous, and why don't we just—"

"Exactly," he said, then stepped up onto my hand.

The cleats dug in, nearly causing me to drop him. He wobbled for a moment and then leaped up, connecting with the crossbar. My perspective changed drastically in an instant. The pretty orange skyline was filled with his shorts. And now that thing was right there, grazing against my forehead as he dangled. I could smell the sweat. I could taste it as his shorts swayed into my gaping mouth. I panicked and stepped back.

"Hey," Justin said, the muscles in his arm strained as he looked down at me, "where are you going? I need you to spot me. It won't take much longer."

"But how am I supposed to spot you when you keep moving around? Stay still!"

He flicked another section of the net downward. "Just grab onto me, grab onto my legs so I don't fall."

When I got back into position, it was thicker, the shape in his pants longer. It grew straight down his inner thigh. It was big, much bigger than mine. I was always self-conscious in the locker room after gym class. And before gym class. And even during.

Justin moved laterally along the bar. I hesitated, then followed. My arms slithered around him and locked together just below his butt. His clothes, his skin, and nearly every part of him felt slippery, making my supportive efforts seem futile. But I managed. Textbook spotting, I thought.

"Alright, with me now, take a step to your right. No! Your right! Perfect, last one. Just a sec," Justin said.

His pants began to bunch up. I think my bear hug had done it, had forced them higher and higher up his legs. I supported him with my interlocking forearms as best I could, right under the seat of his pants, but he just got heavier.

"Justin?" I asked, speaking into his crotch.

No response. He slipped a little lower. There, nuzzled against my cheek, was the tip of his penis.

"Justin!"

Still nothing. He definitely wasn't wearing underwear. It had escaped through the bottom of his pants. It was the same beautiful, golden complexion as the rest of him. I inhaled, breathed in that salty smell, and then quickly looked away.

I liked girls, I knew I liked girls. I liked their long, beautiful hair, their smooth, soft skin, and the nice curves of their figures. Just like—just like his. I found myself turning back, unable to resist, wanting to see it again. More than just the head was jutting out now. I could taste my breath bouncing off it. My mouth gaped. I thought about what it would feel like on my lips, what it would taste like. My small erection strained against my athletic underwear.

"Hey," Justin said, running his hand in my scraggly black hair, "you can put me down now. And you know what, you're a lot stronger than you look."

Just then, I remembered that he was heavy. I immediately felt unsteady on my feet. I took a step backward, looking for balance, but only wobbled more. The sudden change in my footing shifted Justin's weight forward. It was directly in front of me again, right in my face, so close it tickled the area between my nose and my upper lip. My knees buckled and then gave. We collapsed onto the grass.

I liked the smell of freshly cut grass. I never appreciated it during the off-season months, but it was always the first thing I noticed when I was back on the field. It was reliable and always calmed me down and helped me focus.

"Alex, are you OK?" he asked.

I opened my eyes. His face was hovering over me, and his hips were planted between my legs. It felt hot like his skin was touching mine, like our shorts had vanished without a trace, leaving only our thighs, stomachs, and private areas rubbing against each other.

"Alex?" he asked again. "You... You look like you're in pain. Just nod if you can hear me."

I tried to raise my head to see what was happening between our bodies, but it felt heavy like it weighed a hundred pounds.

"Relax, take it easy. I must have fallen on you."

I narrowed my eyes and glared as but I could about the absurdity of what he said, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find my voice. It came through loud and clear in my mind, though. First came the shouts, asking him if he seriously didn't realize he was lying on top of me. Then, the irritated, angry voice that followed, demanding to know why he was still there—why he was still lying on top of me! It was like he was doing it on purpose to show off. His face didn't give it away, though. It was stoic, expressionless, and beautiful. I tried again. I opened my mouth. But all that came out was a dry cough. Justin cocked his head.

I grunted. It felt like his full weight was bearing down on me and smothering me with it. His penis was twice the size of mine.

"Alex?" he called again.

I pursed my lips. And with all my strength, I blew my words right up into his face, "Justin. Justin!"

"Yeah? What is it?" he whispered back.

"What is it? Really?"

He leaned in closer. His elbows dug into the grass, and his chest hovered just above mine. That's when I noticed the dampness in my shorts. I could feel the embarrassing drops of hot liquid dripping out the tip and prayed that it would stop. There wouldn't be any way to explain the dark stain on those pretty, light blue shorts. My face scrunched up into an ugly, painful mess as I held my breath.

"Alex?" he asked in a soft voice. "Where does it hurt?"

I squirmed beneath him. My thighs came a little wider apart.

"Is it your back?"

Justin slid himself over my entire length, eclipsing my erection with his. More liquid bubbled up and smeared into my shorts.

"Seriously, just breathe. It'll be OK," he said, then let a cute smile wriggle its way across his face. "I had my health class today, remember?"

I hardly heard him. His thighs were touching mine, rubbing into my skin, and pushing my legs open wider.

"It was all my stupid idea. I should have been more careful. Hey, can you even hear me? You don't like, have a concussion, do you?"

I shook my head, and Justin, for once, seemed to really consider. He untangled himself and sat back again, still thinking, examining my body as I lay there heaving with my legs open. He didn't even notice the small bulge in my shorts and the darker, slicker material around it. I noticed him though. It was impossible to miss. His erection shot straight up his shorts and looked like it was threatening to escape beyond the cusp. Mine was never in any danger of doing that. My four inches never got me into that kind of trouble. He cleared his throat.

"OK, is it your stomach?" he asked. But before I could shake my head again, he placed his palm just below my belly button. "May I?"

His touch paralyzed me. It's like I was watching a TV show and was screaming at that dumb boy lying on his back, "He's taking off your shirt, you idiot! You know what he's doing! Are you gay?" But the truth was I wasn't even sure if I was hurt. I couldn't feel anything. My whole body felt numb. The nerves in my arms and legs tingled, and a barely audible but very constant ringing tiptoed its way into my head and wouldn't leave.

He gingerly tugged my shirt up to my chest and pressed his open palm into my stomach. "There, how does that feel? Does it hurt? What about now?" he asked, pressing his other hand into me.

I winced.

"Ah, that's it then. I must have landed on your belly."

My quiet whimper wasn't enough to convince him otherwise. He pressed into my skin, making gentle circles and very slowly veering closer to the elastic band on my shorts. My penis twitched. I could see it rising and trying to break free as I stared down my body and tracked his soft hands. He was just inches away. Soon, he'd find that little wet mess I'd made between my legs. His knuckles bumped into my shorts, and the stain grew larger.

Justin whispered, "Shh... Hey, relax. We're almost done. It's just... You... Well, you kinda look worse than you did. Are you sure it's your tummy? Because it looks like you're really sensitive right here."

He set his hand on my inner thigh.

I grunted. My eyes fluttered. More pre-cum poured into my shorts.

"I knew it," he muttered.

I made a peep. Finally, something—anything—came out of my mouth. Justin didn't hear me though. He gripped me tight and curled his thumb around my thigh. Another noise came out, louder this time. I bit my lip and concentrated hard on trying to hold it in. Then, his other hand was down there, pressing in. My butt came off the grass, and I squeezed my abs as hard as I could.

"Justin! Justin!" I shouted.

His hands came to a stop. But it was too late. The pads of his fingers were already shiny and sticky with my cum. A warm, hot color rushed into my cheeks.

"Hey, it's OK," Justin said in his soothing voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you w-w-what?"

"That I landed on your, you know... That's where it hurts, right?"

I nodded as convincingly as I could. The faster, the better, I thought. I must have looked like an unhinged woodpecker. "Yeah—no! Right! That's it."

Justin smiled. "It's no big deal, you know? Besides, we have ice packs in the locker room."

"Ice—what? Oh, no. I don't think that's necessary—"

He extended his hand, but before I could take it, he had me by my wrist and was hoisting me up. And even after I was on my feet, he didn't let go. He held me the entire way to the locker room. It was a long, quiet walk. I kept thinking that at some point, he'd stop and tell me this was all just one big joke. Then, we could have a conversation about how straight we were and how much we liked girls. But that never happened.

And something else was wrong, too. It was eerie. My mind searched far and wide for any memory or clue that I'd seen him before, to somehow explain that I knew this strange boy. It felt recent, too, like it was from the last year or maybe even more recent than that.

By the time we arrived at the locker room, the sun was just a tiny orange dot over the horizon. The room was empty inside.