Chapter 1: Shower Secrets and Team Encouragement
Steam hung in the air like a thick, wet curtain, smelling of sweat, cheap body wash, and the faint, sharp tang of liniment. Water hissed against tile, a constant backdrop to the clatter of shower controls and the low, tired murmur of voices. Jasper Riley stood apart from it, his back to the row of lockers, fingers fumbling with the knot of his towel. The adrenaline from his first full scrimmage with the first team was leaking away, leaving behind a hollow, jangling nervousness.
The room was too loud. Griff’s booming laugh echoed off the concrete, followed by a playful slap and someone’s mock-offended curse. Jasper kept his head down.
“Come on, rookie, the hot water’s not gonna last all night!” Griff called out, already naked and padding toward the shower stalls, his muscular frame gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He gave Jasper a wink as he passed.
Jasper’s face heated. He undressed quickly, yanking his shirt over his head, shoving his shorts and compression tights down in one awkward motion. He kept the towel clutched around his hips, a pathetic shield. He could feel it, the insistent, semi-hard weight of himself, a source of dread rather than pride. It had gotten that way during the scrimmage, the push and grind of bodies, the raw physicality… it always left him like this, buzzing and confused. He hated it. Hated the looks, the comments, the way it made him an object before he could even be a person.
He ducked into the farthest shower stall, pulling the stiff plastic curtain across with a rattle. The water was blisteringly hot, a welcome punishment. He let it scour his shoulders, hoping it would wash the feeling away.
“Look who’s hiding.”
The curtain rings scraped back. Griff stood there, not invading, just leaning against the stall partition, a grin spreading across his face. His eyes dropped, sharp and assessing, and the grin widened into something genuine and impressed. He let out a low, slow whistle. “Well, damn, Jaz. No wonder you’re so fast. All that engine up front.”
Jasper flinched, turning his back. “Shut up, Griff.”
“I’m giving you a compliment! Mac! Get over here and witness the new team asset.”
Footsteps.Slower. Calmer. Marcus “Mac” Taylor appeared beside Griff, a towel slung around his neck. His gaze was different—sober, observant. He took in Jasper’s rigid posture, the panic in his eyes, and then his glance fell, just for a second. His eyebrows lifted slightly. Not a whistle, but a quiet, acknowledging breath.
“Give him some air, Griff,” Mac said, his voice easy but firm. He put a hand on Griff’s shoulder, nudging him back toward the other showers. His eyes stayed on Jasper. “You played well today, Jaz. Really well. That break you made in the second half? Lightning.”
Jasper just nodded, water streaming down his face.
Mac didn’t move. He studied him for another second. “You know,” he said, conversational, “this team’s tight. Like family. But family’s not just about what happens on the field.” He reached in, not touching Jasper, but turning the shower control, cooling the scalding water to something more tolerable. “Relax. You’re among friends.”
He let the curtain fall back, leaving Jasper alone in the steam. The words echoed. Among friends. They felt like a foreign language.
The showers began to empty. The roar of the hairdryer by the sinks started up. Jasper stayed under the water until his fingertips pruned. When he finally shut it off, the sudden silence was heavy. He wrapped his towel tightly, securing it with a desperate tuck.
The locker room was almost empty. Only Mac remained, dressed in jeans and a team hoodie, tapping on his phone. He looked up as Jasper approached his locker.
“All good?” Mac asked.
“Yeah. Fine.” Jasper kept his eyes on the combination lock. 36-24-36. His hands were slick.
He heard Mac stand up, the soft creak of his trainers on the damp floor. He came to lean against the locker next to Jasper’s, his presence both comforting and immense.
“Griff’s an idiot, but he’s not cruel,” Mac said quietly. “He was trying to include you. The way we do. It’s a lot, I know. Especially for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Jasper mumbled, yanking open the locker door, using it as a barrier.
“Quiet. Thoughtful.” Mac paused. “Modest.”
Jasper’s laugh was a short, bitter puff of air. That was one word for it.
“It’s just a body, Jaz. It’s a good one. A really good one. But it’s just the package. The player inside is what we care about. And the man.” Mac’s voice was steady, a anchor in the humid room. “But hiding it… that makes it a thing. A secret. Secrets fester in a group like this.”
Jasper finally looked at him. Mac’s expression was open, patient. There was no judgment there, only a kind of pragmatic concern.
Jaz couldn't hide it it started to grow.
Jaz couldn't hide it, it started to grow.
He felt the insistent, humiliating swell against the constricting terrycloth, a betrayal of his own body. He froze, hands gripping the locker door, knuckles white. He couldn't breathe. The ambient sounds of the emptying clubhouse—the distant bang of a locker, the hum of the coolant system—funneled into a silent roar in his ears. His heartbeat was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Mac didn’t look away.
He didn’t smirk or whistle. He just watched, his gaze thoughtful, tracing the undeniable outline tenting the towel. The air between them, thick with steam and the smell of clean sweat, changed. It became a held breath.
“See?” Mac said, his voice lower now, almost lost in the hum of the overhead lights. “That’s the thing. It’s not going to ignore you, so you can’t ignore it.”
Jaz made a small, choked sound. A plea, a protest. He wanted to melt into the locker, to vanish.
Mac pushed off from the lockers and took a single, deliberate step closer. The space contracted. Jaz could see the faint stubble along Mac’s jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow from a long-ago match. He could smell Mac’s soap, something simple and cedar-scented, cutting through the humid air.
“It’s just a response,” Mac continued, his tone clinical yet strangely intimate. “Adrenaline. Endorphins. The heat.The proximity. It’s biology, Jaz. It doesn’t mean anything unless you let it.”
Another step. They were close enough now that Jaz could feel the residual warmth coming off Mac’s body. His own skin prickled, a confusing cocktail of terror and something else, something deep and dormant that uncoiled in the pit of his stomach.
“We clear the air here,” Mac said softly. “In this room. So it doesn’t become a ghost in the locker room, a thing everyone whispers about. You own it. You understand?”
Jaz couldn’t speak. He gave a minute, tremulous shake of his head. He didn’t understand anything except the crushing weight of his own exposure.
Mac’s hand, broad and calloused from years of gripping balls and tackling opponents, came up slowly. It wasn’t a grab. It was a approach. He watched Jaz’s eyes, giving him every chance to flinch, to pull away.
Jaz was paralyzed.
Mac’s fingertips brushed the damp terrycloth, right over the prominent swell. The contact was electric, a jolt that shot through Jaz’s entire nervous system. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that felt like his first breath in minutes.
Then, Mac’s whole palm settled over him, a firm, warm, inescapable weight.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. The rough weave of the towel. The fierce, hot pressure beneath. The utter stillness of Mac’s hand, not moving, just… holding. Claiming the space. The shame didn’t vanish; it fractured, mixing with a shock of breathtaking sensation. It was the most terrifying and the most real thing Jaz had ever felt.
He was achingly, fully hard now, straining against both the towel and Mac’s hand.
Mac’s eyes never left his. They were dark, focused, reading every flicker of panic and dazed confusion on Jaz’s face. His thumb moved, just once, a slight, deliberate stroke along the length through the fabric.
“This,” Mac said, his voice a rough whisper that vibrated in the space between them. “This is just a part of the machinery. Impressive machinery. But it doesn’t run the man.”
Reluctantly Jax says I have only done something like this once before but I was told big and hurt him.
“It doesn’t have to hurt,” Mac said, his voice a low murmur as he slowly untucked Jax’s towel. The damp fabric fell away, and the thick, heavy weight of Jax’s cock swung free, fully erect and flushed a deep, needy red against his pale stomach. Mac’s gaze was steady, taking in the sheer size of him—the thick vein running along the underside, the pronounced head, the heavy sac beneath. “Fuck, Jaz,” he breathed, not with jealousy, but with pure appreciation. “That’s a beautiful piece of gear.”
Jax shuddered, his hands instinctively coming up to cover himself before falling uselessly to his sides. “He said it… it felt like being ripped open.”
“Then he didn’t know what he was doing,” Mac stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He kept one hand, warm and grounding, on Jax’s hip. With the other, he reached to the nearby bench where his kit bag lay, pulling out a small, half-used bottle of clear liquid. Slick.
The snick of the cap opening was deafening. Mac poured a generous amount into his palm, warming it between his hands before reaching down.
The first touch of Mac’s slick, hot fingers wrapping around his shaft punched a ragged moan from Jax’s throat. His head fell back against the cold locker with a thud. It wasn’t the hesitant, clinical grip he’d felt before. This was sure, confident, a perfect, moving pressure.
“See?” Mac said, his fist beginning a slow, deliberate stroke from root to tip, his thumb smearing pre-cum over the sensitive head. “It’s just about fit. And preparation. And listening.” His hand moved with a rhythmic, practiced ease, twisting slightly on the upstroke, applying perfect friction. Jax’s hips jerked, a helpless little thrust into that incredible heat.
“You don’t just shove it in,” Mac continued, his voice closer now, his breath hot against Jax’s ear as he worked his cock. “You make sure they’re begging for it. You open them up slow… one finger, two… until they’re fucking themselves back on your hand, desperate for more.” His pace increased, the wet, slick sounds of his hand on Jaz’s dick filling the silent room. “You learn their body. You find the angle. And then, when you slide in…” Mac’s hand squeezed, a blissful tightness, “...it’s a reward. For both of you.”
Jax was panting, sweat beading on his forehead, his thighs trembling. The pleasure was a white-hot coil in his gut, pulling tighter with every stroke. He’d never been touched like this—with such absolute authority and skill. It was unraveling him.
“You think about that,” Mac commanded, his rhythm becoming punishing, perfect. “You think about finding that spot, that deep, hot spot inside someone, and pressing right against it with this.” He gave Jax’s cock a firm pull. “You think about their face when they feel you filling them up just right, when they realize big doesn’t mean pain, it means being fucking claimed.”
Jax’s breathing hitched. The coil snapped.
A guttural, broken sound was torn from his chest as he came, hard. Thick, hot stripes of cum painted the locker door, his stomach, Mac’s still-moving hand. The spasms wracked him, waves of intense release coursing through him, draining the tension from his muscles and leaving him boneless, leaning heavily against the metal.
Mac worked him through it, his strokes gentling, milking the last drops until Jax whimpered from over-sensitivity. Only then did he let go.
Silence, broken only by Jax’s ragged breathing. The smell of sex, salt and musk, cut through the steam.
Mac wiped his hand calmly on his discarded towel, then reached for a clean one, handing it to Jaz. His expression was still that same calm, assessing look. “Nobody gets born knowing how to drive a rig like that, rookie. You need lessons.”
He nodded toward the largest, half-hidden shower stall at the end of the row, the one with the bench. “Go get cleaned up. Properly. I’ll be right there.”
Mac shows him how.
Jaz stood rooted, damp towel clutched over his softening cock, raw and exposed. Mac gave him a light shove toward the large stall, the movement breaking Jaz's paralysis and setting his trembling legs in motion.
TEAM BONDING BEGINS.
Jaz slipped behind the cracked plastic curtain into the half-hidden stall with its built-in tile bench, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He leaned against the wet tiles, the echo of his own release still buzzing in his veins, and jumped when the plastic rings rattled again. Mac entered the shower, pushing the curtain shut behind him with a final-sounding swish.
Mac's eyes gleamed with anticipation in the steam. The scrape of the curtain opening again startled him, announcing the arrival of Griff followed by two younger players—a flanker and a prop. His voice was a low, conspiratorial rumble before Jaz could react. The hot spray pounded his back as rough hands settled on his hips from behind and the others' gazes stripped him bare, freezing the words of panic in his throat. Jaz had a partner now, guiding him through each reckless physical thrill.
Jaz flinched as Griff's slick hands replaced Mac's on his hips, pulling him back against a hard, different body. "My turn to show the rookie the ropes," Griff chuckled in his ear, his cock already nudging against Jaz’s cleft.
"Do you trust us, Jazzy?" Griff murmured, working a thick finger slick from the bottle and pressing it past the tight rim of muscle. Jaz cried out, arching back against the intrusion as Griff’s other hand stroked his hip. "See? We go slow." He added a second finger, curling them, searching until Jaz jolted. "And we find what makes you shake." Another deep, stretching twist, and sparks shot up Jaz’s spine. "Now you’re ready to be ruined."
The last threads of his resistance snapped, melting away with the streaming water and Griff’s practiced touch. A broken, shuddering sigh escaped Jaz’s lips as his head fell back against Griff’s shoulder, his body going pliant and open. "Yeah," he breathed, the word barely audible over the spray, "okay." It was less agreement and more dissolution, a final giving over of the tight coil of anxiety that had defined him for so long. He was theirs.
The blunt, slick head of Griff’s cock pressed against him, an insistent, impossible pressure. “Just breathe into it, Jazzy,” Griff grunted, his voice strained with effort as he began to push, the tight ring of muscle yielding in a slow, burning stretch. An involuntary cry tore from Jasper’s throat, a raw mix of pain and shocking fullness as inch by brutal inch, Griff buried himself deep inside.
The thick, throbbing length of him split Jasper open, stretching him in a way that bordered on agonizing—until Griff’s hips finally met his ass, his balls heavy and tight against Jasper’s trembling thighs.
“Fuck,” Griff groaned, his voice thick with satisfaction as he gripped Jasper’s hips hard enough to bruise. “You take that like a champ, rookie. Look at you—so fucking tight around me.”
Jasper’s fingers clawed at the slick tiles, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The burn was still there, a deep, aching throb, but beneath it was something else—something hotter, needier.
Jasper’s body had gone liquid, his muscles trembling as Griff’s cock pulsed inside him, thick and heavy, stretching him in a way that made his vision blur.
“Fuck,” Griff groaned again, his voice rough with satisfaction. “You’re so fucking tight, Jazzy. Like a goddamn vice.”
Jasper whimpered as Griff pulled back, the slow drag of his cock sending sparks up his spine. The friction was unbearable, a slow, deliberate torture that made his knees weak. He braced himself against the tiles, his fingers slipping in the steam, as Griff began to move in earnest.