Under the Crimson Swoosh: Chapter 7 Part 2/2

See Part 1 of Chapter 7 here

(Note chapter is in two parts due to length)

A shadow leaned against the railing halfway across the bridge. Tall, broad. Baseball-cap low, shoulders squared. Even from a distance, I could tell: he filled the space the way athletes did, that casual dominance that didn’t need announcing.

The Samsung buzzed before I reached him.

you’re late.

I gulped.

Then another message lit up the screen.

what is this?

I froze mid-step. His eyes flicked up from under the brim, landing on me, the jeans, the borrowed plaid, the cowboy hat still clutched in my hand like a souvenir.

He pushed off the railing, the words low, sharp. “What the fuck are we doing, a costume party? First, you wanted me to wear my uniform, now this. Did you get lost on the way home from the rodeo, jefe? ”

The word snapped like a cattleman’s whip. My grip tightened on the cowboy hat, the stiff straw digging into my palm. I wanted to laugh it off, toss back something easy, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“I had to…..” I started, my voice cracking thinner than I meant. “Girlfriend wanted it. Concert in Birmingham.”

3810475pr’s smirk widened, eyes raking over me from boots to collar. He whistled low, shaking his head. “Damn. And I thought I was the one hiding shit.”

Sweat dripped down my collar. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it.” He leaned in just enough that his shadow folded over mine. “Plaid for her, uniform for me. You think clothes are gonna save you, cowboy?”

The bag from Dick’s crinkled under my shoulder, loud in the silence between us. 3810475pr’s gaze flicked down to it, then back up with a slow, knowing raise of his brow.

“What’s in the bag, jefe?”

I swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the plastic until I finally yanked it open. The red Nike Pro slid out, bright even under the pale street lamps. I held it up between us, like an offering.

“For you to wear,” I said, hating how desperate it sounded. “Just…just for tonight.”

He didn’t even move to touch it. His arms stayed folded, his shoulders broad and immovable, the way a pitcher stares down a batter who doesn’t deserve the plate.

“You serious?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, do you? A gift like that….nah. Not even for one night.”

The shirt sagged in my hand, ridiculous, useless.

His eyes pinned me, dark and steady. “Word’s been going around, hermano. Some rich booster kid in Riverside swiping through athletes on Grindr. Baseball, Track, and Swimming. Even heard you’ve been ghosting that redhead, Luke, right? Sound familiar?”

Luke, the name hit like a fastball to the ribs.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint bite of his cologne under the sweat and night air. “So now I’m supposed to take a shirt from you? Make it look like I’m bought? You don’t know what that means for me. For any of us.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came. The cowboy hat felt like it was burning in my fist, the shirt a scarlet flag drooping from my other hand.

"The only reason I waited around here is that they said you were discreet. But showing up like this? Looking like you've been part of some stampede? So which is it, jefe? Are you discreet, or are you just collecting us?" he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

A desperate, wild idea seized me. “I can prove it. The concert, I can show you the photos. Right now.” I fumbled for my real iPhone, my hands shaking, ready to expose the curated evidence of my other life to prove the validity of this one.

3810475pr watched me, and shook his head. Then he let out a short, sharp breath, a sound of pure exasperation. “Forget it. I don’t wanna see your little girlfriend.” He ran a hand over his face, the decision made in an instant of weary frustration. “Fuck it. Let’s just go. Your place. Now. Or I walk.”

The whiplash was stunning. One second, I was on the verge of being exposed; the next, he was giving the order. The mission was back on, but the power had completely shifted. He was now in control.

“Yeah. Okay. This way,” I mumbled, turning and leading him off the bridge toward Riverside, my mind reeling.

The walk was silent. The only sound was the crunch of our footsteps and the distant hum of the river. I was hyper-aware of him behind me, a solid, silent presence. I unlocked the main door, held it open, and we climbed the stairs to my floor, the silence stretching, tightening with every step.

Inside my room, the sterile, sanitized space felt different with him in it. It wasn't a neutral stage anymore; it was a confessional booth, and he was the priest who already knew all my sins.

Without a word, 3810475pr walked past me to the desk. He didn't look around, didn't comment on the single, the lack of personal effects. It was as if he’d expected it. In one fluid, practiced motion, he emptied his pockets onto the polished wood.

Clink. His keys.

Thud. His phone and wallet falling open.

A quiet rustle. A box of Trojan condoms, placed with deliberate finality beside it all.

My eyes were drawn to the open wallet. Nestled inside, next to a rewards card I couldn’t quite make out, was a Puerto Rico driver’s license. Miguel Fredrico Cardona. A name. A real, government-issued name. It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever voluntarily shown me in this room. He wasn't just an athlete; he was a person from San Juan, or Ponce, or Bayamón, who carried a piece of home in his pocket.

He did it to show me he was clean, prepared, and serious. But the act felt heavier than that. It was a challenge. I’ve shown you mine. Your move.

He turned to face me, his back against the desk, arms crossing over his chest again. The red Nike Pro shirt I’d bought for him was still crumpled in my hand, now a monument to my miscalculation. I tossed it toward the bathroom without saying anything.

The air in the room was thick enough to choke on. My own heartbeat was a drum in my ears, agitated. Miguel watched me for a long second, and something in his stern expression shifted. The hard, judgmental line of his mouth softened into something closer to pity, or maybe just fatigue.

“Alright, alright. Relax, cowboy,” he said, his voice dropping from its sharp edge to a low, almost soothing register. He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between us in two easy strides.

Before I could react, his hands were on me. Not roughly, but with a startling, matter-of-fact efficiency. His fingers found the buttons of my borrowed plaid shirt, working them open with a quiet pop, pop, pop. I stood rigid, letting him undress me like a mannequin, my breath caught in my throat. He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, a puddle of someone else’s personality.

His knuckles brushed against the thin cotton of my t-shirt, then his hands went lower, to my belt buckle. The metal clasp gave way with a soft click. He unbuttoned my jeans, the stiff denim resisting for a moment before he tugged the zipper down. The sound was deafening in the silence.

“Lift your feet,” he instructed, his tone calm, directive.

I obeyed, stepping out of the jeans as he pulled them down. He tossed them onto the growing pile of my discarded costume. Now I was standing in the middle of my sterile room in just my white t-shirt and a pair of fitted, Lululemon heather-gray boxer briefs. I felt more exposed than I ever had half-naked on Grindr.

Miguel took a half-step back, his dark eyes appraising me. The intensity of his gaze was different now, less about judgment, more about simple, raw assessment.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice still needy.

A fresh wave of heat flooded my face, but I turned, presenting my back to him. I could feel his eyes on me, tracing the line from my shoulders down to the waistband of my briefs.

“Let me see more,” he huffed.

My hands trembled as I hooked my thumbs into the elastic. I pushed the boxer briefs down, just enough, shimmying them over the curve of my ass until the fabric was taut across my upper thighs. The cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. I was completely at his mercy, bent to his will, with the only sign of my control useless on the floor.

For an excruciating moment, there was only the sound of our breathing. Then, I felt it, the warm, calloused pad of his thumb, pressing gently against the small of my back, right above where the fabric dug in. It wasn't a sexual touch, not yet. It was a point of contact, an anchor. A silent acknowledgment that the performance was over, and what was left was just this: two bodies in a quiet room, and a debt of understanding that was only beginning to come due.

Miguel’s thumb lingered at the small of my back, steady, deliberate. It wasn’t rough like I’d expected. It was grounding, like he was telling me without words: breathe.

I did, shallowly, but the air still burned in my chest.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost that sharp edge from the bridge. It was quieter now, lower, almost patient.

“Relax, cowboy. You’re wound so tight, you’re gonna snap.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to turn and face him again. My briefs were still tugged low on my hips, my shirt bunched at my ribs, but he didn’t laugh or gawk. He just studied me, like he was measuring what I could take.

Something hot and reckless pushed up in my throat before I could stop it.

“You too, please,” I whispered. “Strip down.”

One of his eyebrows lifted, his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You giving me orders now, coach?”

My pulse jumped, but I held his gaze. “Not…orders. Just. I want to see you.” 

For a second, the silence was thick enough to choke on. Then Miguel shook his head, low and amused, like he couldn’t believe me. “You’re crazy, jefe.”

But his hands moved in response anyhow. He peeled off his hoodie, slow, deliberate, folding it onto the desk instead of tossing it aside. His Chicago Cubs t-shirt followed, revealing the thick cut of his chest and the trail of dark hair down his stomach. My eyes dropped without permission, catching on the waistband of bright red Nike boxer briefs clinging tight to his hips.

The sight made my jaw drop. It was exactly what I’d imagined, except real. Not staged, not bought. Miguel.

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of his skin reached me. My breath stuttered as his fingers brushed the hem of my t-shirt, not yanking it up, just grazing, waiting.

“You wanted to be this close to a ball player,” he whispered, eyes dark and steady. “So stand still. Don’t flinch.”

He stepped back in, the red of his boxer briefs burning in my periphery, his chest brushing mine as he set one hand on my side. His fingers spread wide, thumb pressing into the soft skin just above my hipbone.

“Tan suave,” he whispered as he finally pulled off my shirt. His accent dragged over the syllables, his voice so low it vibrated against my skin. His hand moved across my stomach, tracing the line of muscle that wasn’t really there, brushing lower until my body shivered at the contact.

His other hand came up, cupping the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw. He tilted my head just slightly, studying me with those dark, unflinching eyes. “Flacito.” The word dropped between us, equal parts tease and endearment.

I swallowed hard, heat rushing to my face, remembering high school Spanish. Nobody had ever said it to me before, not like that. Thin boy. Little one. In anyone else’s mouth, it might’ve been mocking, but from him, it sounded like he was naming me, claiming me.

My chest rose and fell too fast. “Don’t…..” I started, but the protest died as his thumb brushed down my throat, slow, deliberate, until goosebumps prickled across my skin.

“Shh,” Miguel whispered, his mouth close to my ear. “No te asustes. Just let me feel you.”

His hands moved with careful intent, smoothing over my ribs, circling my waist, down across the back of my thighs. Every touch was steady, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing me one palm’s width at a time. I stood still because I couldn’t do anything else, caught between fear and the raw relief of being seen this way: not for what I was supposed to perform, but for the body I couldn’t hide.

“The bed,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument.

I moved on unsteady legs, the world narrowed to the space between the desk and the mattress. I climbed onto the cool sheets, my heart ready to jump out of my chest. Instinct, a lifetime of curated fantasy, took over. I started to lean down, my mind already scripting the next scene, my mouth already anticipating the salt and heat of him.

A firm hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“No,” Miguel said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “The other way.”

The words didn’t compute for a second. Then, they did. A cold, sharp thrill shot down my spine, so intense it was almost fear.

He saw the understanding and the hesitation flash across my face. A slow, challenging smirk touched his lips.

“Unless you’re scared, jefe.”

Scared. The word was a spark on gasoline. It burned away the last of my resistance, my overthinking, my carefully constructed walls. This is what the condoms were for. The thought wasn't frightening; it was the final, exhilarating click of a lock. This was the real currency. This was the price of admission to the top of the temple, and I was more than willing to pay.

I didn’t resist. I moved, turning myself over on the bed with a capitulation that felt more powerful than any control I’d ever wielded. The thought, bright and searing in my mind, was this: My virginity. Taken by him. An athlete.

I heard the rustle of the condom box, the tear of foil. I didn’t look back. I pressed my face into the pillow that smelled of laundry detergent and my expensive shampoo, the scents of a life that already felt a thousand miles away.

Then I felt him, the solid weight of him settling behind me, the heat of his skin against the backs of my thighs. His hand, calloused and sure, smoothed over the curve of my ass.

“Respira, flacito,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. Breathe.

And as the world narrowed to this single, sharp point of feeling, to the terrifying, exhilarating certainty of being about to be unmade and remade by a very god I’d spent my life worshipping from the bleachers, I realized I had never been more alive. The performance was over. All that was left was the truth of his body claiming mine.

His final, deep thrusts were a punctuation mark to the end of my old self. It was a claiming, yes, but in that searing, breathless fullness, I found a shocking clarity. The frantic thoughts, the constant performance, the aching envy: it all pressed out of me, leaving behind a raw, singular consciousness that existed only in the places our bodies joined. My vision swam, the Roll Tide flag on the wall a bloody smear as I gasped against the pillow, my body no longer my own but a vessel for this overwhelming, transformative sensation.

Miguel’s rhythm stuttered, his body locking into a final, deep thrust that pressed the air from my lungs. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, a raw sound of release that vibrated through my own body as he held himself there, shuddering, his full weight collapsing onto my back for one breathless, suspended moment.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by our ragged panting. I expected him to pull away, to roll off, to break the spell.

He didn’t.

Instead, after only a few seconds, his hands were on my hips again, turning me over with a quiet, practiced authority. I went willingly, my body pliant and buzzing, the world still a blur of sensation. Before my back even hit the mattress, he was moving down, his dark head dipping between my legs.

I gasped as his mouth found me, the heat and wetness a shocking contrast after the intense, pounding fullness. My hands, which had been clutching at the sheets, found nothing but air for a moment before they landed on his shoulders.

And there they stayed.

His shoulders. They were still sheened with a fine layer of sweat, the skin hot and smooth under my palms. In the dim light of the room, I could finally trace the powerful, rounded slope of them, the dense muscle that coiled and shifted with every movement of his head and jaw. This was what I had wanted from the beginning, from the first cropped photo on a screen, not just to look, but to touch. To feel the living, breathing reality of the athlete’s body, I had fetishized from a distance.

My thumbs pressed into the hard ridge of his trapezius, feeling the sheer, solid strength of him. It was like holding onto a force of nature. He groaned against me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine, and his hands came up to grip my thighs, holding me open, anchoring me to the bed as he worked me with a single-minded focus that was both devastating and reverent.

This was different from before. This wasn't about being claimed or taken. This was a gift, given without hesitation. And as my own climax built, a tight, screaming coil of pleasure, my fingers dug into the sculpted marble of his shoulders, my only anchor in a world that was dissolving into pure, white-hot sensation.

The world, already narrowed to the heat of Miguel’s mouth and the feel of his shoulders, shattered into a blinding, silent white. My back arched off the bed as I came, a broken, wordless sound torn from my throat. It was a release so total it felt like an exorcism, every pent-up ounce of performance and fear and desperate want expelling itself into that consuming heat.

For what felt like an eternity, there was only the sound of my ragged gasps and the faint, humid scent of sex in the air.

Then, Miguel pulled away. He didn’t look up at me, didn’t offer a tender glance or a post-coital kiss. The intimacy was over, switched off as decisively as it had begun. He simply rose to his feet, turning his back to me as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bright red Nike briefs and pulled them up in one smooth, practiced motion. The slick fabric clung to his skin for a moment before settling, hiding the powerful curve of his ass from view.

He didn’t ask to use my bathroom; he just went in and washed his face.

I just lay there on the ruined sheets, propped on my elbows, gawking. My mind, wiped clean of thought, could only process the sheer physicality of him. The sweat-sheened landscape of his back, the perfect V-taper that narrowed to his waist, the dense muscle in his calves that flexed as he walked to the desk where his clothes were piled. He was a sculpture in motion, and I was just the audience again.

Miguel pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric swallowing the magnificent shoulders I had just been clinging to. As he stepped into his pants, he finally glanced back at me, his expression unfaltering.

“You know,” he said, his voice casual, as if commenting on a game, “I’ve got a friend. On the football team. He’d probably be into you.”

My eyes shot up. A football player. The pinnacle. The supreme gods I had watched from the skybox.

Miguel zipped his pants, a sharp, final sound. He looked me dead in the eye, a flare of something hard in his gaze.

“Just a heads up, though,” he added, a slight, almost warning smirk playing on his lips. “He’s not as gentle as I am.”

With that, he scooped up his wallet, phone and keys from the desk, gave a short, two-fingered salute, and opened the door. It clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden, deafening silence.

The scent of him, of us, still hung in the air. My body ached in ways I’d never felt. And all I could see, burned onto the back of my eyelids, was the retreating form of Miguel, and the terrifying, tantalizing promise of a football player who was not gentle. The inner sanctum temple doors had been thrown open, and I was already stepping toward the final, darker altar.