The Mascot - Chapter 8 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 8 

They started showing up at nine like it was a watch party.

Cole hit the door first because Nick had told him just beers and Cole believed things Nick said. Burnt redhead. Freckles across a nose that had been broken once. Rugby ears. A neck that made the college team hoodie look rented. He was already talking before the latch clicked.

“Coach said there’d be pizza. Coach lied. This is a crime scene with Red Bulls.”

Nick clapped him on the shoulder too hard.

“Shut up and come in. Don’t sit on the rope.”

“There’s a rope?”

“There’s a rope.” Nick confirmed.

Eli Park came with Vincent, which meant he came with a laptop sticker on a water bottle and a green streak in black hair that had started dying two months ago and given up. Lip piercing. Oversized jacket. He looked at the living room the way Vincent looked at a schematic.

“You live like this on purpose,” Eli said.

“We live like this because Nick pays more rent,” Vincent said. “Shoes off. House rule.”

Eli left the shoes on.

Grant Holloway arrived in a Saturday shirt. Brown hair combed. Thin glasses. The kind of polite that made the apartment feel louder. Nate let him in and did not touch his back, which was how you knew Nate was already in a mood.

“Grant. These are the animals. Animals, Grant. He files things. Be kind.”

“I’m always kind,” Grant said, and looked at me a second too long when Nate said my name like it was a full name on a pleading.

Dez came in on MJ’s noise. Dreads pulled back. Thin chain. Special-teams energy, shorter than MJ, already grinning at a joke nobody had told.

“This the house? This the night? MJ said there was a mascot. I thought he was lying for clout.”

“I don’t lie for clout,” MJ said. “I lie for fun.”

Rami came last because Omar texted now and Rami treated now like a suggestion. Dark beard. Dark eyes. Bomber jacket. New Jersey in the mouth and something older in the pauses. He bumped Omar’s shoulder, scanned the room once, and took the window ledge like it was a designated smoking section that had not been designated.

“This is stupid,” Rami said.

“You drove,” Omar said.

“I drove so you would owe me. That’s different.”

Eleven people in a living room built for six. Pizza from a second order Nick had not wanted to pay for. The mute TV on a game that did not matter. I sat on the arm of the couch because if I sat in the middle I was going to be in the middle, and I already knew I was going to be in the middle in a few minutes.

Before Vincent climbed the table to announce the game I got a minute with each of them whether I wanted it or not. That was the point of guests. The house stopped being six and started being a crowd with opinions.

Cole opened our fridge like it was a locker room and drank milk from the carton until Nick made a noise. He talked about a block he’d missed in the last scrimmage, about a girl in Delaware who texted k, about Nick’s squat numbers like squat numbers were weather. He called me mascot twice and coach’s roommate once and winked when he said roommate, which made Nick’s ears go red under the beard. Cole did not know the Saturday rules. Cole knew pizza and Polar Ice and the fact that Nick had said be cool. He was constitutionally incapable of cool. He filled space. He filled the kitchen. He filled the sentence.

Eli sat on the floor next to Vincent’s laptop and judged our Wi-Fi. He asked who had configured the router. Nobody had. He told Dez that special teams was just math with pads. Dez said say that on the field. Eli smiled with the piercing and said he did not go on fields. He watched me when he thought I was watching the TV. Not hungry. Curious. A guy who had found a glitch in a friend’s house and wanted to poke it with one finger.

Grant stood in the kitchen with Nate and talked about a partner at the firm who made associates cry on Fridays. His voice was indoor. His beer was untouched. When MJ yelled from the couch Grant flinched like the firm had a noise policy. Nate kept putting his body between Grant and the rest of us, a lawyer’s version of a screen. Grant still found my name.

“Troy. Nate mentioned you hate mock.”

“Nate mentions things.”

“He mentions you more than he thinks he does.”

Nate said Grant’s name like a warning. Grant smiled the expensive smile and let it drop. I filed it next to the booth and the favorite I had not said.

Dez did a lap of the apartment commenting on posters like he was on a tour. This the bathroom? This where the rope lived? MJ you live like a raccoon with a meal plan. He bumped my fist without asking and said you good, mascot? like the nickname had traveled across campus on a wind. I shrugged. He took the shrug as a yes. Dez was going to be a problem because Dez was having fun on purpose.

Rami did not lap anything. He opened the window two inches, even though it was cold, and let the street in. Omar stood next to him and they had a whole conversation that was mostly silence and one sentence in Arabic I did not have. When Omar finally spoke English it was to me.

“If you don’t want this, say it dude.”

“I want it.”

He nodded once, like he’d offered the exit and the exit had been declined, and his job was done. Omar’s mouth ticked. Proud or guilty. With Omar those sat in the same chair.

By the time Vincent clapped his hands the apartment had a temperature. Eleven bodies. Two pizzas dead. Nick already pissed and the game had not started.

Vincent stood on the coffee table. Somebody had to.

“New game,” he said. “Not truth or dare. Blind Captain. Troy is the captain. Blindfold. Line forms. He gets one minute per body. He can touch legs, cock, arms, chest, balls. No face. No beard. No hair. Those are identifiers and identifiers are cheating. He guesses a name. If he’s right, that guy gets a blowjob. If he’s wrong, he drinks and the line moves. Nobody finishes during the guess. Finishing is the prize. Prize is for a correct ID only.”

Nick pointed a bottle at him.

“Who wrote the no-hair rule.”

“I did,” Vincent said. “You have a beard. Omar has a beard. Cole has a forehead like a billboard. I’m keeping the data clean.”

Cole blinked.

“I’m in a data set?”

“You’re in a line,” Eli said, almost nice. “Try to be a good variable.”

Nate’s jaw ticked.

“He can skip.”

“I know I can skip,” I said. “I want to play the game.”

I didn’t skip. The official funny friend had left on the first game and had not come back. Nick was already watching my mouth like it owed him rent. Cole was watching Nick watch me. That was the start of the night.

Vincent produced a sleep mask from a drawer that should not have had a sleep mask. Black. Cheap. He fitted it over my eyes and the apartment became sound and smell. Pizza. Polar Ice. Cole locker room. Grant’s clean laundry. Rami’s jacket. Nick’s gym even when he hadn’t been.

“Hands out,” Vincent said. “Line. No talking from the waist up. Voices are cheating too if you do the voice. Breathe if you have to. Don’t narrate.”

Chairs scraped. Beer bottles clicked. Dez laughed once and MJ hissed bro. Somebody’s belt buckle tapped a hip. I sat on the edge of the couch with my palms open and waited for the first body to step into them.

First was easy to map and hard to name.

Tall. Not Nate-tall. Arms thick from a sport that hated rest. Chest like a wall that had opinions. A cock that was already interested, heavy, cut, sitting in my palm with a heat that made Dez somewhere to my left say oh no and then apologize to the air. Balls full. Legs like a man who ran because coaches told him to. I went up the forearms and found no ink. Not MJ. Not Dez. Not Omar — Omar’s chest was a trimmed secret and this chest was just skin and work.

“Cole,” I said. “The ginger guy.”

The room detonated before Vincent could confirm.

“That’s — that’s one,” Vincent said, shocked at his own game. “That’s Cole Brennan. Prize awarded.”

I pulled the mask down to my throat because I wanted to see Nick’s face when I said his friend’s name on the first try.

Nick looked like somebody had stolen a parking spot.

Cole looked like I’m Christmas and I had arrived earlier wearing a law-school T-shirt.

“I didn’t even do anything,” Cole said. His ears were red under the burnt hair. “He grabbed my dick and said my name. That’s witchcraft, coach.”

“That’s a tight end who doesn’t skip leg day,” MJ said. “And a mascot who does his homework.”

Nick’s voice came out flat. “Reset the line. He got lucky.”

“Shut the fuck bro, game was fair.” MJ shouted.

“He got Cole,” Omar said from the window. “Luck is a story you tell when you’re mad and jealous.”

Rami’s mouth almost moved. Almost a smile. He looked at Omar, then at me, and went back to being furniture that judged you.

Eli was already whispering to Vincent.

“Sample size one. Statistically embarrassing if he does it again.”

Grant had taken his glasses off and put them back on, which was Grant for I should leave and also I’m not leaving.

Nate said, “Prize is a prize. You wrote it.”

Vincent pointed at the carpet in front of me.

“Cole. You’re up. Nick, you don’t get a veto because you’re in your feelings.”

Nick laughed with no teeth.

“I’m not in my feelings. I’m in my living room watching my teammate collect a trophy I didn’t get to finish.”

“Saturday you finished on his face,” Vincent said remembering our little threesome. “We have cameras in our souls, bro.”

“Saturday was different.”

“Saturday was you standing on the couch,” Vincent reaffirmed. “Sit down or stand in the hall. Cole won a guess.”

Cole stepped in like he was lining up for a play he’d only seen on a whiteboard. The hoodie came off. The rest came down just enough. He was thick the way football made you thick, not pretty, a little ruddy at the head, already leaking because the minute of my hands had done the work the game said couldn’t finish. Freckles on his chest. Ice and grass and nervous sweat.

“I have a girlfriend,” Cole told the room, clearly nervous.

“She isn’t here,” Dez said. “I am. This is freaking amazing dawg.”

Nick sat on the arm of the couch, close enough that his knee bumped my shoulder. He did not move the knee. His jaw was a problem. His hand opened and closed on his own thigh like it wanted my hair and had been told no.

“Make it quick.”

“That’s not your prize,” I said, teasing him.

Nick looked at me like I’d keyed the car.

Cole’s laugh broke.

“Coach, if you stare at him like that I’m gonna forget the girlfriend on purpose.”

I got on my knees. Cole’s hands hovered, found my hair, didn’t know if they were allowed. Vincent: “Hands okay. Don’t choke him on the first down.”

“I’m not gonna—” Cole said, and then my mouth was on him and the sentence left the building.

He was louder than Nick. Nick went feral quiet. Cole went to church. A punched coach that made Dez fold in half. I took him the way a stall teaches you to take a stranger, except this stranger had drunk our beer. He filled my mouth in a thick, blunt way, a little too eager, hips ticking like he was trying not to fuck my face in front of his captain and failing a little more each second.

“That’s not — I thought it would be weird. It’s not weird. It’s a problem.”

Nick, over my head:

“Stop talking to me.”

“I’m talking to God.”

“Talk to the carpet.”

Cole tried to be polite. Polite lasted twenty seconds. Then his hand tightened in my hair and he started giving me inches he had not asked permission for, short jabs, the wet sound loud under the mute crowd on the TV. He apologized to the ceiling. He apologized to Nick. He did not stop.

“You guessed him first,” Nick said, low, just for me. “Out of ten bodies you put your mouth on my guy. That’s a choice.”

I didn’t take my mouth off. Cole moaned like the choice had been correct.

His thighs started to shake. Football thighs. The kind that did not shake for girls in Delaware, if Cole was to be believed. He pulled me deeper and made a raw noise and said wait and did not mean wait. A pulse hit my tongue, not the finish, the warning.

“I’m — coach I’m close. I’m too close. That’s not fair. He just — he just put it in and I’m already—”

“Hold it,” Nick said.

“I cannot hold it. I am a human person, bro..”

MJ wiped his eyes.

“Nick’s gonna put him in a locker and call it film study.”

“I’m gonna put him on the practice squad. He’s enjoying this too much.”

“I’m enjoying this the correct amount,” Cole got out, wrecked, laughing, eyes wet. “Which is a lot. Where do I—”

“Face,” Nick said. “Not in his throat. I want to see it. I want him to wear your stupid tight-end load so you remember whose house this is.”

Cole laughed, helpless.

“That’s sick, coach.”

“Do it, bro.”

Cole pulled out with a sound that was not a joke.

For a second nothing happened except his fist working, freckled stomach tight, mouth open, the head of him dark and angry over my face. Then it hit.

“SHIT, BRO.”

Dez.

The first stripe landed hot across my mouth and up my cheek. Thick. A lot. Cole made a noise like he’d been tackled from the blind side and kept coming.

“What the fuck.”

That was MJ, standing up without meaning to.

Second pulse. Third. It caught my eyelid, my nose, a heavy splash that ran into the corner of my mouth and kept running. Cole’s knees bent. He was still stroking, still cursing, sorry sorry oh my god I’m not sorry, hips kicking, more than any joke in the room had budgeted for.

“That’s massive, dude.” Eli, faint, piercing clicking.

“DAMNNNNNN.” Omar, actually loud, which almost never happened.

It kept arriving. A fourth rope down my chin onto the law-school logo. A fifth that overshot and hit my hair. Cole bent over me with his forehead on the top of my head, laughing and dying, freckled chest heaving, still leaking onto the floor like the play would not blow dead.

The living room lost its mind.

MJ howled. Dez was on the floor saying shit bro on a loop. Vincent said volume like a prayer and dropped his pencil. Grant said Jesus Christ in an indoor voice that had cracked. Nate had a hand over his mouth and his eyes were dark. Rami swore once in Arabic and then in English. Nick did not laugh. Nick watched my face get painted by his teammate and breathed through his nose like he was benching a number he hated.

Cole finally stopped shaking enough to look at what he’d done.

“That’s — that’s a lot. That’s a civic event. Somebody call the building.”

Dez, wheezing:

“SHIT, BRO. What the fuck. That’s massive, dude. DAMNNNNNN. Cole. Hydrate. Immediately.”

“That’s a firehose,” MJ said. “That’s special teams. Cole, bro. You should really hydrate.”

Vincent, faint:

“Volume exceeds expected output for a first-time prize. I’m writing that down.”

Eli had both hands in his hair.

“I want to go next. I also want to leave. These are simultaneous.”

Grant had gone very still. Nate was watching Grant watch me, which was its own sport. Omar’s green eyes were half-lidded, pleased with the chaos he had imported. Rami said, quiet, to Omar:

“You didn’t say it was this.”

“You would have still driven.”

Cole stepped back on unsteady legs and pulled his shorts up like the shorts could undo a huge facial. He looked at Nick. Nick looked at my face. At Cole’s work. At the fact that the first correct name in the new game had been his guest.

“Wipe him,” Nick said.

“You wipe him,” Cole said, still grinning, still wrecked. “You’re the one who called the face, coach.”

Nick didn’t wipe me. He dragged a thumb through the mess on my cheek and pushed it past my lips like a signature on top of a signature.

“Line resets,” he said. “He doesn’t guess anybody else tonight without me in the room. House addendum.”

Vincent’s mustache twitched.

“You don’t get addendums because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m logistics.”

Dez raised a hand.

“Does the line still happen. Because I did not come across town to watch Cole cum like a breeding bull and then go home.”

“Line still happens,” Vincent said. “Blind Captain isn’t over. That was one ID. There are nine bodies left and a captain who just proved he can tell a tight end from a lawyer with his eyes closed.”

I sat back on my heels. Face wet. Mouth used. Nick’s thumb still a ghost on my lip. Cole on our couch like he’d been unplugged.

Nine more.

Guests who now knew my name.

A redhead who had said coach while he painted me.

And Nick, standing over the reset like the next guess was a threat he had not figured out how to sack.

Vincent picked up the sleep mask.

“Again,” he said. “Hands out, Troy. No faces. No hair. Somebody step up.”

Nobody moved first.

Then somebody did, green streak and all, because exploits start with whoever is stupid enough to volunteer.

The rest of the night was gonna be intense, whether Vincent had written it or not.

I was blind again… waiting for the next dick.