Coach Able

A little tale of first love or at least first obsession.

All characters are over 18.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle.

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"What's the problem, Rich? You forget where the exit is?"

"No, coach. I was running over the mistakes I made in practice and telling myself to get started on my Freshman English composition."

Rich mentally congratulated himself on staying cool. He'd been busted, sorta. He'd been stalling, desperate for glimpses of his coach walking back and forth from this office to the shower. Coach was careful. He always had a towel wrapped around his waist. Rich didn't care. He'd been stalling longer and longer and now he was paying the price. His coach had not only noticed. He was calling him on it. He was sitting in the locker room and coach Able was standing with one foot on the bench, drying the inside of his leg, his cock and balls bouncing as he did so. This was a bit of a distraction, given that said cock and balls were less than two feet from his face.

"Uh-huh," his coach drawled. "Looks to me like you were running over what you intend to do with your girlfriend this weekend." His eyes darted to Rich's hardon, then back to the young man's face.

Rich looked down at his cock. He surprised himself by pushing it down and letting it go to slap up against his belly. He looked at his coach and grinned. "This? You know how it is, coach. I don't have a book to hide it behind, that's all. Besides, I don't have a girlfriend."

"Yeah, I know how it is. Get dressed and beat it."

Rich wondered two things as he watched coach Able walk away. Had he put an extra emphasis on the word "know"? And had the coach been making a double entendre when he'd said, 'beat it'? He wanted to beat it alright. He wanted to beat it all over the firm ass cheeks walking away from him.

Rich hadn't signed up for lacrosse because of the coach. He'd never met the man before the first practice. He signed up because he'd played in high school. He enjoyed the sport. The college he'd chosen to enroll at did not have any scholarship sports. It prided itself on old school values and a strong liberal arts education. Its student-athletes were just that, student athletes. The squad were all non-try out and intramural. The college was old school, as well, in its belief that a healthy mind required a healthy body. At least one physical education credit was required each semester, not just freshman year. It was a non-grade credit. You simply had to complete the requirement. The intramural teams counted.

Rich chose the college partly for its academic record partly because it wasn't as expensive as some of the other smaller colleges he looked at, partly because it was several hours from home, and partly because no one else from his high school was going there. By the time he was a junior, Rich knew he was gay. He didn't think anyone else did. He had no plans to spring out of the closet but he'd imagined he'd feel a little, just a little, less frightened of the idea if he wasn't surrounded by people he'd known most of his life. He'd told Cindy, his girlfriend, that he thought college would be a good time to take a break and to see what was real between them. He suspected, and in this he was correct, that she'd been relieved. His secret was not as impenetrable as he'd led himself to imagine. She had nearly asked him on several occasions, hoping to make it clear she didn't care. Well, she did, but only in the sense she didn't want to spend more energy on a doomed relationship. In the end, she let it slide. That was the easiest route.

Rich had been more excited than scared at the idea of leaving home. He loved his parents. They were sort of cute in their cluelessness about his life but he had no doubt that their hearts were in the right place. His roommate, Ben, was awesome - smart, funny and didn't have shitty taste in music. Ben had a girlfriend. When asked about it, Rich simply replied, "no" and Ben let it drop. Rich had been working on his answer, should Ben ever pop out with, "dude, are you gay?". In his head, the answer was always "yeah, you cool with that" but he wondered if he'd be able to get the words past his teeth when, or if, the question was ever asked. The fact he'd been able to handle his coach with relative ease was immensely reassuring to him.

He liked the coach, not

like

liked, well not at first anyway. Able was a good coach. Like all the coaches, he also taught. Rich was more inclined to art and language courses. He was good at math but he didn't enjoy it. Able taught calc, matrix theory, and a couple other things that Rich had no interest in. What he liked was that the man was smart and he was a jock. He was discovering, at least at a school like this, the two were not as incompatible as he'd assumed based on his high school experience.

Coach had waited until the students were out of the shower before he entered. He was not a sideline coach. He was out on the field, running, demonstrating and working as hard as any of the students. Once the shower room was empty, he came out of his small office, one of five offices along the side of the locker room. The offices weren't much more than glassed-in cubicles. He, as all the coaches, had separate academic offices in their various buildings. Given the small size of the locker room and, for that matter the small number of fields, the intramural sports were staggered. There simply wasn't enough space to have football and lacrosse or football and basketball at the same time. Only the lacrosse team had the field and locker room on Wednesday nights. Consequently, the other offices were dark.

Rich had noticed that coach always delayed his shower until the students were finished. He suspected that was the way the other coaches did as well, or at least the ones involved enough to need a shower after practice. He noticed and then tried to forget he'd noticed. But he found himself taking longer and longer to get his stuff ready to leave. He was stalling and he knew it. He also knew he was stalling in hopes of a glimpse of his coach in nothing but a towel.

His hopes had been realized. That was not a surprise. It was a fucking locker room after all. He'd sat on the end of the bench, pretending to pack up his bag while casting sidelong glances at the wide entrance to the shower room. The shower room was also old school. Four poles behind a chest high masonry wall, each with four shower heads. There was no door, just a five-foot gap in the wall and a three-inch high threshold. He could see the coach's head as well as his chest and shoulders above the wall. When coach lifted an arm up to rinse, Rich could glimpse the dark mat of hair under his arms. The first time he saw that, he bit back a moan, unsure if he was alone and unsure if coach would hear it over the sound of the water.

The lithe body, strong chest covered with dark curls, the flat stomach that sloped toward a towel barely big enough to go around his trim waist were, also, moan-worthy. The way the hair on his belly thickened above the top of the towel and the swaying bulge under the towel as he stepped over the threshold had nearly caused Rich to shoot a load on the floor the first time his eyes had feasted on the sight.

That had been a month ago, and several weeks into lacrosse. The intramural teams did not follow the college schedule. The sport was popular enough that there were fall and spring sessions. The fall session was almost over. There were two more intramural games and one more practice. Desperation had lead Rich to take more chances. He'd moved to a locker closer to the shower and the coach's office. He stayed longer. He stared more, despite trying not to. Coach Able's pattern had changed. Rich noted it and tried not to read anything into it.

Coach was now using one of the middle shower poles. Rich considered this a Godsend. This resulted in Rich being able to see his entire front or back - naked - for brief moments when he twisted and turned underneath the shower. He'd started putting his jock back on before he left to hide his erection. He always managed to time his departure with the coach entering his office. The shades would be closed over the office windows so there was no point in staying. As soon as the coach went in his office, Rich bolted for the door.

Not tonight, however. For one thing, coach Able had showered using one of the jets on the back side of the pole which put him facing the entrance to the shower room. Rich had been in heaven, right up to the point that coach shut off the water and walked over to him, not the office. And his towel was in his hand, not wrapped around his waist. It was then that coach asked him if he'd forgotten where the exit was.

Hurrying to his dorm room, Rich replayed the scene in his head. He groaned to himself as the memory of pushing his hardon down in front of his coach replayed in his mind.

What the fuck, dude?!

He scolded himself.

Are you fucking crazy?

That wasn't the loudest voice in his head. It also wasn't the only voice in his head.

Did you get a gander at his dick? Fuck! Was he starting to sport wood there at the end? Dude, he wasn't pissed. He was...

The louder voice roared back to life,

no he fucking wasn't, don't be a fucking idiot, he's a teacher. You need to knock this shit the fuck off and now!

***

Jerry Able plopped into the old leather desk chair. The leather was old and cracked and gouged at his ass. He didn't notice. He let his head fall back over the top of the chair and stared at the pipes that made a crazy expressionist painting out of the locker rooms ceiling. His hands were shaking. He wondered if the pipes were wrapped in asbestos. Mesothelium was one way out of this mess but it would take too long and probably be quite painful. He sat forward and let his head fall into his shaking hands. A crack in the leather pinched his ass and he shifted without being aware of it.

What was he doing? What had he been thinking? He loved this job. He could not have devised a more perfect job for himself. He loved teaching. He loved lacrosse. He loved men. He suspected most of the faculty knew that but he didn't advertise it. Sure, this was a college town but a very small college town. There were other gay men in town and on the faculty, but he found none of them romantically interesting. He'd not had a serious relationship since he took this job. When he needed a little excitement, he drove to Cleveland, made a weekend of it.

Rich would be surprised to know that Jerry was only twenty-seven, just eight years older than he was, less than that. Rich would turn twenty before his coach turned twenty-eight.

Jerry slumped back in the chair and shook his head. He liked Rich, liked him from the start. He liked the way he played, aggressive but not stupid. He liked the way he cheered when an opposing player made a good play. He liked the way he paid attention. And, goddamn it, he liked it when he realized Rich was eyeing him. He'd wondered if Rich might be gay. Personally, he thought 'gaydar' was mostly bullshit but he did wonder about Rich. He searched his thoughts, tried to organize them, turn them into a math problem. What was it that caused him to wonder if Rich might be gay? Before he realized Rich was eyeing him in the shower, that is. Rich did not 'act' gay. He had none of the stereotypical mannerisms or speech patterns. He didn't think he himself did either. Such mannerisms didn't bother him, they simply weren't part of him. He'd read about gay men going to speech therapist, trying to learn to talk 'straight'. He sort of understood but sort of didn't.

He reminded himself that he'd had an easier time of it than most, especially men a decade or so older than him. He'd simply grown into the realization he was gay. He didn't feel the need to tell his parents, teachers, or friends. It never occurred to him to do so. He realized that was a bit strange to most people. He realized it but didn't quite understand it. When he asked one of the guys in his high school to go to a movie, everyone nearly collapsed in shock. Jerry is gay? As far as he was concerned, Jerry was Jerry. Who cared if he was gay? He'd slowly learned that the answer was - a lot of people. He found it almost as hard to deal with those that treated him like some exotic animal, some rare species of flower, as he did with the homophobes. Why couldn't he live his life as Jerry, math teacher, and lacrosse player?

He wasn't naïve, not entirely. He was aware of the implications of a teacher showing an interest in a student. Hetero, gay, whatever combo would be viewed as unacceptable.

He's not your student?

Yes, he is. I teach him lacrosse. Even if he weren't, the college would not be pleased, even if technically it were allowed.

Why shouldn't it be? He's not a math or science major. He's never going to take a class with you. He won't be a degree candidate in any department you're affiliated with.

He's a student at a college that I teach at. That's enough.

Jerry had this debate with himself on more than one occasion. Despite that, he'd shifted where he showered, knowing Rich would be able to see more. And tonight, fuck, he'd practically put on a show. Worse, he'd basically acknowledged to Rich that he knew he'd been watching him. When Rich had pushed his dick down, Jerry had fled, feeling his own cock responding. He hadn't run but he'd fled nonetheless.

No more. This is it. Only a couple more games. No more. Get a fucking grip. Go to Cleveland. Go to the Eagle. Find someone to take back to the hotel and fuck until you're exhausted and come to your fucking senses.

He couldn't. They had a game Saturday. He got up and shook his head when he saw that his cock had been leaking. Jesus, he was a mess. He wiped the head of his cock with his finger, put it in his mouth, and got dressed.

He didn't jerk off, afraid, or maybe knowing, he'd think about Rich if he did.

He dreamed of him, though. You can't control everything.

***

"Dude, you okay?"

"Huh?" Rich looked at Ben, confused.

"You've been stirring your ketchup with the same French fry for, like an hour, or something." Ben's plate was almost clean. "Girl trouble?"

"Boy trouble." The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. He stared at his ketchup, afraid to look up.

"Same difference," Ben replied.

When he looked up, Ben was popping his last French fry into his mouth. "You okay with that?"

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Okay with you being an ass bandit?" He laughed at the look on Rich's face. "Dude, I'm sorry. Really, it was just too easy. No, I don't give a crap which gender you prefer. Waste of time, worrying about that shit, in my opinion." He took a drink of his Coke. "Sorry about the ass bandit crack. Don't be pissed."

"I'm not pissed," Rich replied, even managing a smile.

"So, how come you've never asked me out? I'm kinda hurt."

"You have a girlfriend," Rich exclaimed.

"True, and I'm not gay or bi, but still I have feelings. What's wrong with me?"

"How much time do we have?"

Ben cracked up, luckily, he'd swallowed his last drink of Coke or he'd have sprayed it all over the booth and Rich. "I fuckin' deserved that. Excellent. Well fucking played, dude." He nodded at Rich's plate. "Dude, eat. I got twenty pages of Dickens to read still. I'm still looking for one simple declarative sentence in his entire oeuvre."

"'Please, sir, I want some more.' 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times'?"

"Dude, I'm fine with a gay roommate but not a smart ass one. Eat your fucking burger before I leave your ass here to pine over Sir Lancelot."

"Lancelot? Why Lancelot? According to the books, Sir Gawain had the biggest dick."

"Dude, don't get all crazy on me now. Do I need to buy soap on a rope?"

"Asshole," Rich snorted, feeling better. "We don't shower together now do we?" He felt better. He also felt famished. He polished off his burger and fries and grabbed the bottle of Coke. "Come on, let's bounce, you homophobic twit."

"How come you don't have a lisp? Aren't you supposed to have lisp?"

***

Rich's squad lost the game. Coach Able coached both teams; he always had a perfect season. During the game, Rich was fine. His focus was on winning. It was intramural sports but he still wanted to win. It wasn't until he was in the locker room that he started to tense up. Each squad had ten players. There were twenty guys crowded into the small locker room. There were only sixteen shower heads. Rich waited; he stalled.

He entered the shower, tossing his towel over the wall as the last of players was finishing up. He jumped when his shower shoes squeaked.

Jesus, fucking relax,

he told himself. He took his time showering, spending a great deal of time on his crotch. He wasn't very hard because his brain kept screaming at him to knock it the fuck off and get outta there.

He was concentrating on forcing his hand to turn off the water, when coach Able appeared in the entrance.

"Oh, sorry, Rich. I didn't know anyone was still here. I thought someone must've left the water on."

***

The faculty handbook made it very clear that no coach, male or female, should EVER be in the shower at the same time as a student. EVER.

Jerry reminded himself of that fact, repeatedly, as he sat at his desk, pretending to fill out paperwork. He had seen Rich enter the shower and linger there. He was staring at the attendance sheet in front of him without seeing it. The faculty rule repeated on an endless loop in his head the entire time he was taking his clothes off.

He stood there for a minute, looking at Rich's body before he spoke.

"Oh, sorry, Rich. I didn't know anyone was still here. I thought someone must've left the water on."

***

"Uh, not a problem coach, I was just day dreaming. Water feels good after a tough game."

"You guys played well. A couple of breaks here and there and you would have won."

"Yeah, it was a good game, not as good as if my squad won but a good game." He looked at his coach. "Aren't you going to shower?" Rich couldn't believe he had the nerve to pull at his dick as he was speaking.

"No, against the rules. Take your time."

Coach, turned and left. Rich noticed him look back over his shoulder. Rich pulled at his dick. Coach Able seemed almost to shake himself before he walked away. Rich smiled. He had a full-on boner.

He left the shower and dried off, standing at the end of the row of lockers closest to coach Able's office. The lights were off in the office. The slats on the blinds were closed. Rich noticed they weren't completely closed. He imagined coach peeking out of his office, watching. As the fantasy unfurled inside his head, he stroked his cock. It's not until his hips jerked and he started to lay streams of cum across the floor that he came to his senses. Now it was his turn to shake his head, trying to clear it. He hurried to one of the sinks and pulled out a handful of paper towels. He wiped up his jizz and tossed the mess into the trash bin, jerked on his clothes and hurried out of the locker room.

***

Coach Able bit his lip, forcing himself to be silent. When Rich's cock began to erupt, he exploded as well. His dick flung cum all over the back of his door. He watched Rich wipe cum off the floor and wished it was on his chest, or face, or in his mouth, anywhere but on the floor. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked. It was cum but not the cum he was dying to taste. After Rich left, he collapsed into his desk chair and wondered what he was going to do.

***

Wednesday was the last practice and Saturday was the last game and Rich was losing his mind. His studies haven't suffered, quite the opposite. He'd buried himself in homework. That's the only time he can free his mind of coach's cock, the black curls on his chest, his bright blue eyes, incongruous eyes given his dark hair.