All throughout practice, Sean can barely concentrate. His mind is on Cordero, his gaze constantly drawn to the new player until he feels like the whole team knows he’s staring. It’s hard to play soccer with a hard-on shoved down the front of his shorts. Thank God for the long jersey he wears, or everyone would know he’s sporting wood. He thinks once practice is over, he’ll skip the communal showers and head back to his dorm, lock the door behind him, and jerk one out. Damn, that bro is tight.
Cordero plays midfield, not a stone’s throw from Sean’s winger spot. Whenever Sean tries to follow the ball, his attention is snagged by the new guy—the coach made Cordero put back on his shirt before play and the bright white T-shirt seems to glow against his dark skin, more distracting than his bar
