Enemies with Benefits
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Nobody understands the animosity between Leo and Littlefeather. Not even Leo and Littlefeather.
Enemies With Benefits
by
Rusty Slocum
I'm walking down the crowded hallway, locking fingers with my girlfriend and minding my own business, when a heavy weight smashes into my back. I stumble, almost fall, spilling the notebook and texts in my free hand. Anger surges up, cramping my belly, and, letting go of my girlfriend, I clench my fists and spin around, already guessing the culprit. Conversation dies in the corridor, everyone moving back to give us room.
Sure enough, it's Jack fucking Littlefeather, smirking. "Oops. Excuse me."
I take a step forward; he sees me coming and doesn't flinch away. "What is your problem, Jack-off Littledick?"
He sniggers. "Wrong on both counts, asshole. Ask Diana."
I take another step forward, crowding him, close enough to almost taste his cinnamon-and-sweat scent, and my girlfriend lays her hand on my arm. "He's not worth it, Leo. The dictator threatened to expel both of you next time, remember?"
Her annoyed voice cuts through my building anger, and though I hate to admit it she's right. I hold Littlefeather's gaze, dueling. Communicating. He knows as well as I do we're on thin ice with the martinet who calls himself a principal. Not to mention with our families; my dad promised severe retribution if he got one more call from the school about me brawling, especially with my archenemy. After a long, tense moment Littlefeather raises an eyebrow and I allow him a minute nod.
See ya there, prick.
The crowd around us murmurs disappointment as we wheel around and stalk off in opposite directions. "What is it with you two?" my girlfriend demands, shoving the books she'd retrieved into my belly. "It's been over a year now and the slut dumped him as fast as she dumped you. Y'all used to be best friends, can't you patch up an argument over a stupid twat?"
"You don't understand," I mutter. Nobody understands, sometimes not even Littlefeather and me. Especially not Littlefeather and me.
"No, I don't. And since you won't explain I guess I never will!" she snaps, and flounces off. No afterschool handie for Leo today. Fucking Littlefeather.
I seethe the rest of the day but as I'm trudging home (we live ten minutes from the high school) the anger begins to change into sort of a, I don't know, restlessness. Not yearning, of course—why would it be yearning? As if!—but still . . . anticipatory. My blood tingles in my veins. My balls tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen. Even my dick feels it, sliding around half-chubbed in my boxers, and I curse Littlefeather again for cockblocking me. When I close myself in my bedroom I decide to work on homework instead of jerking off; for one thing every time I close my eyes I see Littlefeather's fucking smirk instead of bouncing boobs or sweet pussy and for another I want to hang on to the bitter edge, use the frustration tonight. In battle.
The evening drags. Chores. Board games with my sibs. Dinner. TV with the `rents. All with that annoying half-hard.
"Leo, if you can't be sociable and stop biting people's heads off you can just carry yourself upstairs. Goodnight!" Wonderful. Now Mom's pissed too. Fucking goddam Littlefeather!
10:00. I lay on my bed in the dark, dick hard as a bloody diamond. I'm gonna kick that motherfucker's ass. 10:15, the `rents climbing the stairs after news and weather but before sports. 10:26, my mother giggling in their bedroom; knowing my parents are about to do the wild thing at least drops my temperature. 10:37, Dad's snores echoing down the hall; Mom asked him once during an argument if he were proud of being a minuteman in the sexual revolution and I almost pissed myself laughing. 10:59, and I wonder if Littlefeather's laying in his own bed as wound up as me.
11:25. Fuck it, so I'll be early. I slide out of bed, slide into the oldest, nastiest, most stained jockstrap I own, the one almost too small for me that Mom keeps throwing away and I keep retrieving. Jack fucking Littlefeather doesn't deserve anything fresher. Jeans. A random tee. Socks and shoes.
Out the window, down the oak tree, up the sidewalk. Not running. Walking fast, sure, but the temperature's dropped since sunset. My balls bounce with each step and my dick, settled back to a more manageable half-chub again, nestles into the worn cotton of my jock.
He's early too, jogging up to the gym's back door as I come around the corner.
"Cocksucker," he greets me.
"Buttmunch," I retort.
Social niceties complete, Littlefeather pulls out the key Coach Slocum gave us and opens the door. "I understand, boys, I get it, I had a rival myself in high school," the coach commented. "But not only are y'all a threat to seriously hurt each other one day, you're gonna get your tails expelled if you keep on. What college team wants to take on a couple hotheads who scrap like kids in the hallway, right? So I'll give you an outlet like my coach gave me and my rival back in the day." He explained, stressing the importance of restraint and secrecy too. "When you're done, clean up after yourselves. Understand?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Yes, Coach."
The gym is dark, empty, quiet. Eerie, even, and I feel better when we close ourselves in the locker room. Smells like feet, sweat, and testosterone. Sour but compelling. Familiar.
We slip out of our clothes. As usual, Littlefeather strips buck naked, the overheads gleaming off his toned, smooth body, darker than mine by at least two shades. His uncircumcised cock, as plumped in anticipation as my own, swings from his hairless crotch.
"I see you still haven't found a pair of scissors," he sneers, nodding downwards, where my scruffy pubes and hairy balls are barely contained by my jock.
Wow, Leo, you're getting fur already? I'm still smooth as a stone down there. But I think I'm a little bigger than you. I brush away the memory and growl, "Don't worry, when I trim I'll make sure to save some for you. I think I got a tube of superglue too."
He sneers again. So close to the way he used to smile at me. "Keep the superglue for yourself, I imagine you need it for your loose asshole."
I narrow my eyes. That one almost hurt. "You ready to go down?"
"You wish." He grabs the oil Coach Slocum keeps hidden for us atop a row of lockers and pads along behind me, and I flinch at his wolf whistle. "Them cheeks startin' to get jiggly, what you can see under the yeti pelt." Tame after the remark about my loose asshole and for a reply I only shoot a bird at him over my shoulder. He snickers.
Neither of us are on the wrestling team, but the practice room is probably my favorite place in the gym. Hell, the entire school. Big enough to fit several pairs of grappling teenage boys, small enough to feel cozy, almost intimate. Wall mirrors expand the space into infinity anyhow. Smells like the locker room, feet and sweat and testosterone, but stronger, edged with competition. Generations of strain have accumulated in the carpet despite the frequent shampooing. Leaving the overhead off so the only light pours in through the open door, Littlefeather and I dig out "our" mat tucked away at the bottom of the stack, so far down as to go eternally unused. Good thing, too; much like the carpet's eternal odor, no matter how we scrub the mat's surface remains shiny and slick.
Grabbing up the oil again, Littlefeather pours a generous amount over his shoulders and down his chest, tosses the bottle to me. "Back in Greco-Roman days," Coach and history teacher Slocum explained, "boys wrestled naked and covered in oil as a matter of course. Not only does the slipperiness add a finer layer to the struggle, making both work harder, it helps protect against serious bruising and scratching, as you're likely to do less damage when your punch or slap slides right off. Plus, you want to keep these meetups secret. No torn clothes for Mom to worry about, no suspicious fight marks for Dad to notice. Everybody wins!"
I pour the liquid down my own torso, rubbing it through the fine fuzz covering my arms and chest and belly, through the denser fur on my legs. Littlefeather's cinnamon and sweat scent swells in my nose as he grabs the bottle and, without asking, pours the oil across my shoulders. His strong hands kneading into my back and ass-checks bone me up to a full rager, despite the studied impersonality of his touch. Ah, well, only to be expected, I guess. When he hands me the bottle to return the favor, his eyes flicker to my tented jock but he doesn't say anything. He'd be a hypocrite if he did, considering he's most of the way there himself.
I rub my hands together, warming the oil, and lay my palms and fingers on his shoulders. Littlefeather sighs, tensing and relaxing at the same time as I rub down his spine, spreading the slick across his ochre skin, massaging into the tight globes of his narrow rear end. It looks flat in his pants, almost concave, but when bare you can appreciate the slight curve and taut muscle. From the detached and clinical viewpoint of an athlete, Littlefeather's ass is admirable.
Yup, he's boned up to full too, exactly as I'd figured. Someone else's hands rubbing oil into your skin is sensual, no matter who the hands belong to. Capping and tossing the bottle to the side, Littlefeather and I face each other across the mat, dropping into crouches. Studying each other's tense bodies. Still hard, of course, but not from sexual arousal. From battle-lust. Did you know ancient fighters to war naked and erect, partially as a means of intimidation but also as expression of eagerness for life-or-death combat? Neither Littlefeather nor I had known when Coach Slocum explained but both of us sure get it now. We've been naked around each other our whole lives, from skinny-dipping as kids to jerking off together as rookie adolescents, so our nudity and arousal isn't distracting to each other so much as—
Littlefeather lunges and I sidestep a microsecond too late. His shoulder plows into mine and his hands slide around my sides, bearing me to the mat, but his grip is weak so I slip out and roll away without resistance. Springing up, I spin to face him. He's already regained his feet too, resuming his ready crouch, bouncing lightly on his toes.
We regard each other a long moment, his dark eyes inscrutable in the gloom but his posture and erection telegraphing his intensity as he whispers, "You know how this is gonna end, Leo."
I flinch again at his taunt; he only ever calls me by my given name here, in the middle of our shadowy competition. "You never know how anything's gonna end, Littlefeather."
"Keep telling yourself that." He lunges again but, prepared for him, I twist away, avoiding his clinch. He's not being serious anyhow, he's testing me. I'm used to his tricks. Doesn't mean I don't fall for them sometimes. Like now, because as soon as he says, "Maybe it always ends the same way because you like it," I snap and jump, catching his chuckle in the throat, but he's prepared for me, wrapping his arms around my waist and throwing us both to the mat. We struggle against each other, our bodies sliding against our skins, his dick digging into my side, my jock-covered hard rubbing against his smooth and greasy thigh. His cinnamon and sweat and oil scent surrounds me as we roll, him on top, then me then him then me, our breaths panting together, until he glides me up his chest, pushing me over his head.
The air between us is warm, we're three feet from each other but almost as close as we used to be. Our chests heave in sync, our eyes never stray as we circle, an infinity of enemies edging around each other in mirrored shadows.
"I see you're still scared to fight buck naked like a real man."
I don't fight buck naked because the rough material of my jockstrap provides a helpful barrier to an accidental spunking all over Littlefeather's slick, golden skin. And, I admit, because I like how it feels against my sensitive parts. Bracing myself, "I only wear the jock because you think it's sexy."
He snarls and springs, slamming against me, but I don't go down. His hands slide around my torso, pressing his naked body against me, his rager rubbing mine through the thick cotton. Straining. Grappling. Grunting with the effort, his cinnamon and sweat and oil scent either a stimulant or a distraction. He shifts his center of gravity, pushing as opposed to trying to throw, and my foot slips to the side. Quick on the uptake, he takes advantage and pushes harder. My foot slips again and as I dig into the slick mat with my toes I lose my balance, crashing backwards to the floor, Littlefeather's heft atop me, his knees sliding to the outside of my thighs, his crotch pressing against mine, sending shivers of electricity through me, stealing my breath just long enough for his smooth chest to connect with my hairy one and his face to land inches above my own, close enough to kiss, but we don't. I squirm underneath his weight, trying to shove him off, but he catches my flailing arms and pins them to my side, smirking, and climbs my prone body, the oil coating our skins providing just enough friction for sizzling. Crawling upwards, his chest in my face, his rager scrounging through the hair on my belly. Higher, the perspiration from his abdomen dripping onto my cheeks. Higher still, until his drooling cockhead brushes my chin. His cinnamon and sweat and oil aroma is strongest here, at his core, leaving no doubt its source is sex.
"Open up, Leo," Littlefeather croons, but I won't, not this time. I won't. I seal my lips and thrash my head but his cock follows me, leaving drizzles of perspiration and pre in its wake. Upside-down face leering at me, dark eyes sparkling with mischief and dominance, black hair hanging free of his scrunched forehead. "I'm not letting you up until you suck me." A pause and a more arrogant leer. "Again."
I don't know, Jackie. C'mon, Leo, we can swap, I wanna know how it feels, don't you? I shake my head harder, more to slough away the memory than in refusal to obey, because I know he won't let me up until I do suck him. Again. Drawing a deep breath of his essence I let my lips go slack, allowing him to invade. Despite his aroma there's no cinnamon in his taste, only sweat and oil and sex, savage and demanding. He hums and sighs as he fucks his way inside my unresisting mouth, dropping his salt liberally on my tongue, his balls bouncing off my scruffy chin. I hate it, hate him, hate hate hate, because I'm not savoring his flavor, I'm only sucking and licking and digging under his foreskin to distract him. Littlefeather is so lost in his pleasure he doesn't notice when I slip my arms free, and when I grip his athletically-admirable backside he only seems to take the movement as surrender, as an urging to use me harder. He groans and jackhammers faster, not pushing far enough to choke but enough to fill my mouth so I have to work to breathe and to avoid scraping his sensitive skin. Not because I care, but because I want him completely unprepared when I . . . do . . . this!
"AH-Ah-aaaaAAeeAa!" One greasy fuck-you straight up the ol' bunghole. I know you think it feels good, Leo, but I don't. It hurts. He twists off my finger, pops out of my mouth, losing his balance and thumping on his side to the mat. Fast as a hungry snake, I roll over and atop him, laying our throbbing lengths together, the cotton between us an impenetrable barrier. Again, our faces are close enough to kiss, but we don't. He writhes underneath me, his dark eyes glowing and focused on mine with a passion I only fully remember in dreams just before waking, the kind that shatter before you can figure them out. I hold his gaze, curling my lips into a nasty grin. And slowly, cautiously, I begin the intricate process of turning myself around while keeping his shoulders to the mat, the oil coating our bodies as much hindrance as help. Realizing my intentions, he struggles harder, his smooth slick skin pressing/caressing mine. Cursing me. "Damn you, Leo, no! No!" But somehow I manage to get myself spun about, my knees to either side of his thrashing torso, my hairy crack in his face.
"Let's see if you like my ass as much as I liked your dick, Littlefeather."
"Fuck you, Leo, I won't, not this ti—" But the rest of his refusal splutters right up my rectum. Struggling under me, his rager flailing in helpless rigidity.
"Eat my hairy hole, Littlefeather, ain't letting you up until you do," I advise. He probably can't hear me, but then he doesn't need to. He knows the score. And with a heavy, heavy sigh I feel all the way up my innards, he gives in. "Fuck," I groan as his tongue flickers at my opening. I push out, gaping myself, and he hesitates but then digs deeper, curling and poking, tasting me. I groan, loud, shamelessly pushing back into his hot, wet probing. His strong hands steal to my jiggly cheeks, spreading me wider, slapping and pinching and squeezing, the mild pain an accelerant to the zinging pleasure. He's stopped writhing under me, his body preternaturally still, but his rager quivers and throbs on, the ochre tone of his shaft and foreskin a marked contrast to the pale pink glans peeking out, slit leaking. It looks so lonely, so eager for attention. My mouth waters and right as I bend to show my appreciation for Littlefeather's ass-eating skills he shoves me away, the sudden loss of his wet heat tragic to my poor gaped hole. I teeter, my balance precarious, and he takes advantage and shoves again, knocking me to my side. He scrambles atop me, not bothering to wipe away the spittle-shine on his cheeks and lips, the cock I'd almost lost my mind and willingly sucked once more rubbing through the thin cotton separating it from my own. I brace myself, expecting an attempt to roll me onto my belly, but all that does is make it easier for him to straddle and hold me down, our chests heaving in sync. Our mouths once again close enough for kissing, but we do—
"Ever wonder how your ass tastes, Leo?" is all the warning I get before his glossy, hair-splotched lips crash down. What the fuck? His tongue wrapping around mine, his hungry grunts forcing their way down my throat. He tastes of cinnamon and sweat and me, a ripe and funky medley that shouldn't be this yummy. Bastard thinks he can cow me with a kiss? Fuck that! I snarl and retaliate, my tongue as ruthless as his own, chasing him when he draws back in surprise. Rutting up against him because I can't not rut, our jock-separated cocks tingling together, drool spilling out to stain the material. He curses and angles his head and dives deeper into my mouth, like he's trying to lick my tonsils. Grinding his body into mine. When did he slip between my spread legs? I take advantage of the new positioning and clamp my knees to his side, holding him in place. Kissing. Still kissing. I don't understand why we're kissing. I don't understand why we can't stop! Are we fucking or fighting?
"Fucking," Littlefeather affirms, breaking our liplock. His breath warm on my cheeks, his dark eyes drilling.
"Fighting!" I insist, drawing back to smack the grin off his face, but he catches my hand, easy. Too easy. Wriggling under him, kneeing him in the sides, levering against his slick skin. Trying to throw him off, trying to ignore the fire of his rager catching between the jock's hem and my hairy taint. He grabs my other hand too, again easily. Leaning over me, raising my legs higher, pressing my wrists to the mat.
"Gotcha," he whispers, and I have barely a millisecond to process how thoroughly I've been duped before pain and a great blunt pressure sears through my backside.
"AH-Ah-aaaaAAeeAa!" Between the sudden agony and the sheer surprise (he always rolls me onto my belly first!) I'm helpless to resist as he shoves his greasy cock all way inside me, one fell thrust, ripping me apart and creaming the one goddamn spot that undoes me, flowering tendrils of flame throughout my body. I'm paralyzed in his grip, my legs on his upper arms, his hands pressing mine to the mat, his luscious mouth close enough to once again kiss. But we don't, at least physically.
"So tight," he exhales, his breath warm and spicy with me on my face. "I lied when I said you were loose, Leo, your ass fits my cock like we were molded for each other."
"You . . . you . . ." Struggling to maintain my anger and hatred, gritting my teeth to keep for crying out in either pain or pleasure or both. "Not . . . not fucking surprising since your tomahawk is the only one ever slid in my sheathe." Heh, I'm kinda proud of that one, considering how crazy Littlefeather is making me.
He scowls, the sweat on his forehead dripping off to run like tears down my own face. "Why do you gotta be such an ass, Leo?" Still pumping across my sweet spot like his scorn is something completely separate from his strong, smooth and athletically admirable body.
"Why . . . why do you . . . you gotta be such a duh, dick, Littlefeather?" I groan, keeping my squinty eyes on his so they don't roll back in my head.
"You, you started it, Leo," he hisses, his lips barely moving, and I need to restrain myself from lunging up and tasting me on them again, if for no other reason than to shut Ja--, um, Littlefeather down. "One day I'm your best friend, next day I'm a redskin savage. Why?"
It's hard to think, the way he keeps gliding back and forth inside me. I'd push him off, I'd fight back but his relentless pounding seems to have turned my insides to goo. "You were, you were juh, jealous of Duh, Diana, so yuh, you started it."
"Bullshit, Leo. Bullshit. This isn't about Diana, it's never been about Diana, has it?" Drops of his spittle raining on my lips.
Goddammit, I can't stop from licking them up, and goddammit if he doesn't notice. "You, you stole—"
"Your fucking right I stole Diana," he admits to my utter amazement. "You know why I stole her? Because I fucking could, and because I knew she'd drop me quick and I'd get you back again."
Whuh, what? "Whuh, what?"
"How about the slut you're dating now? What's her name, Leo? Can you remember her name?"
"I . . . I . . ." I know it, just can't remember it, can't recall any name except the one I refuse to speak. Please stop creaming me there, please!
"Bet I could steal her too, if I wanted. Steal her and drop her."
"Whuh-why would you—"
"Because I could give a damn about her. It's you, Leo, it's always been you." The words weighted with fury. Frustration. "You belong to me, Leo."
"I . . . I don't be—"
"You fucking belong to me!" he snarls, his dark eyes piercing mine, holding my gaze even as he ceaselessly pings my sweet spot, both his eyes and his dick holding me in place. "You belong to me somehow and it pisses me off!"
"I don't . . . why . . . pissing me off, luh, luh, Littlefeather."
"Know what else pisses me off? It fucking pisses me off I have kick your ass—"
"You're . . . you're not, not . . ." Plastering my sweet spot, dick drool leaking out to stain my jock. Not the first time. Probably not the last.
"Yes, Leo, I'm kicking your fucking ass, and I'll keep kicking your fucking ass until you realize you don't hate me!"
"I do, I fuh, fucking do hate you!" Hate hate hate, filling my body, but if it's hatred why does it feel like passion?
"You don't," he insists, his face and his spicy breath and his inescapable eyes drawing impossibly closer. "But I have to call you names and enrage you and fucking take you down and shove my fucking cock inside you by force, and it pisses me off!"
"I . . . I hate, hate this, Ja—Littlefeather!" Messing with my head, the ecstasy and rage and resentment mixing around inside me, waiting to explode.
"No! You! Don't!" And, abruptly, he's not in my face anymore, he's upright, leaning backwards, the better to pound my poor abused hole. His big hands circling my ankles, spreading me wide, hammering hard enough to push me across the oily mat. "No, Leo! Don't you run!" Like I have any control, he's driving me like a ragdoll. "I'm tired of you running from me!" Sliding his hands up my legs, gripping my thighs, yanking me onto him, gouging that one spot, melting me from the inside.
"I . . . I . . ." Can't talk, can't speak, can't think. Flashes of lightning through the shadows, our fornication throwing sparks, and I wonder how we look in the mirrors, an infinity of . . . of . . . what are we, anyway?
"We're not friends," Littlefeather answers as if he's in my head. "We're not enemies but we're not friends anymore either. I don't know what we are."
Shut up, Littlefeather, shut up shut up shut up, just fuck and get this over with, just fuck so I can go back to pretending—
"No, Leo, I'm sick of pretending, and I'm sick of you pretending, and it pisses me off! So I'm gonna keep fucking you, I'm not gonna stop fucking you until you call me by my name."
"Luh, luh, Little—"
"That's not my name, not to you! Say my name and I'll stop. Or maybe you don't want me to stop?" He fingers grasp my dick through my jock, the warmth of his hand bleeding through the stained cotton. "You're hard, Leo." Sneering at me, but not in derision. In furious satisfaction. "You like this, you're hard and leaking."
"I . . . I . . . I don't—"
"Yes you do! Go on, Leo, say my name. Say my name and I'll stop."
"I . . . I won't . . ."
"Yes, you will. Say it, Leo. You can do it." Taunting me. "Or I'll even go you one better. Tell me your slut cunt bitch girlfriend's name and I'll let you up, I'll go away and never bother you again. Either my name or hers, pick one!"
"I . . . I . . . get off me, Littlefeather!"
His fist squeezing my dick, the cotton rough and scratchy on my sensitive skin but warmed by his touch. His long, slim cock gliding and sliding and riding. His dark eyes holding me hostage. The sweat on his face and his torso. The relentless cinnamon. In the mirrors we're one being, an infinity of one being, one numberless beast with two backs, all roaring in the shadows.
"Say it! Goddamit, Leo, say my fucking name!"
"Juh-juh-Jack!" I wail, unable to stop the banished word from bursting through my lips. "Jack Jack Jack Jackie Jackie Jackie Jackie!" Just that, just his name, but it reverberates through my body, bounces through my nerves to explode. "Jackie!"
His answer? A howl. "Leooooo!"
And we shatter. He howls again as shoves himself all the way inside me, pumping his life out into my bowels, my stomach, my heart, and I howl too, lost in the storm of Jackie and Jackie and Jackie, his cotton-covered grip pumping my cum from my strangling balls into the jockstrap pouch, stained from so many other moments when I can't deny what Jackie does for me, to me. As the last of the electric cinnamon pleasure pulses through us, he leans in close again, close enough to kiss.
But we don't.
He wants to, I know. I also know I want to.
But we don't.
What he does do is speak my name, all the anger and frustration drained out, leaving behind nothing but a warm whisper. "Leo."
I'm too . . . too . . . something to attempt deceit. "Jackie."
He slips out of me, both of us hissing at the loss, and rolls onto his back. With a wince and a grimace I lower my aching legs to the mat, shivering a little at the feel of his seed dripping from my abused hole. We lay there in the shadows, shoulders touching, for a long time, recovering our breath and our wits. We don't talk. There's more to say, even I know there's more to say, but neither of us want to say it. This thing, this peace between us is rare, and raw, and enough has been said tonight anyhow.
At last he rises and I shock myself by taking his hand, allowing him to pull me up. I'm wobbly, almost like I don't know how to walk anymore, and my center feels soft, assaulted, but somehow sated. I don't question, not because I don't want to contemplate the answer but because I have no energy to contemplate. I'm nothing, I'm everything, I'm a shade, I'm a sun, I don't exist but for him, the one who used to be my best friend and is now my enemy. Why isn't he my best friend anymore? Why is he my enemy? And why do there have to be two poles, an either/or only proposition? Isn't there some sweet spot in between? The mirrors don't know either, they can only reflect an infinity of two separate beings who for a single heartstopping moment became an infinity of one.
So, yes, these are things we should talk about, but we don't. Instead, he returns the oil to Coach Slocum's hiding spot while I carry the slick, shiny mat into the shower. We huddle together under one head, our bodies brushing as we wash ourselves clean of each other, sharing the soap between us. And we don't talk.
Because really, way deep down in our hearts, we already know.
The mat and our bodies as clean as we'll ever get them, we bury the former at the bottom of the pile and pull our clothing back onto the latter. With one last glance around to ensure we'd left the locker and practice rooms as pristine as we'd promised Coach Slocum, we shut off the lights and exit through the gym, still dark and empty but comforting instead of eerie. Outside, he locks the metal door and passes me the key to keep until next time.
"Asshole," he says, softly, almost fondly.
"Dick," I reply, just as softly, and he smiles, catches it, trades it for a scowl. But he can't hide the spring in his step as walks away from me, and he doesn't hear my lingering whisper as I watch him go. "Jackie . . ."
Or maybe he does hear me. Just before turning the corner he looks back, and the expression on his face isn't scowling, isn't grinning either, but it's mine, an expression only for me. Then he's gone.
Slowly, dreamily, I put one foot in front of the other, making my own way home, enjoying the pleasant aches in my exhausted body. Down the sidewalk, up the oak tree, in the window. Tomorrow, I'll go back to being angry. Tomorrow, his knowing smirk will spike tendrils of hatred through every nerve in body. Tomorrow, I'll call him Littlefeather again.
But tonight? Just for tonight I'll call him Jackie.
Ssh.
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