loosening steve's knot: chapter one (coach/player, jocks, dad/son, massage, college)

“What the fuck, dude?” shouted Greg, body splayed on the ground, covered in mud.

He looked pissed, but I hardly cared. He’d been a prick all afternoon, checking me round after round during our scrimmage. All I had to do was extend a foot and trip him, the slightest gesture landing him flat on his back.

Sure, it was a dick move—after all, I was the captain—but the rage inside me had bubbled over, undeniable. I couldn’t let it go.

I stared at him, satisfied with myself, until I heard Coach’s voice from the sidelines.

I looked over at him, his face livid.

“Boys, finish up with some drills,” Coach Kennedy bellowed. “Steve. Inside. NOW.”

I threw my stick on the ground and followed, wiping the dirt off my face and spitting some of it through my teeth as I walked back towards the gymnasium, just a few paces behind.

When we made it just inside the building, Coach turned to me.

“Go clean yourself up and meet me in my office,” he said sternly, before adding, “when you’ve cooled down.”

I hardly acknowledged him, making my way to the locker room and ripping off my clothes. I stood under the shower head, my body shaking, the anger in me hardly subsiding.

I’d felt like this for weeks, a simmering cauldron of resentment. I’d been pushing myself hard, harder than almost anyone else on the team, and day after day, I showed up, delivering, nobody else seeming to match my efforts.

Sure, my attitude was probably shit, but then so was everyone else’s. My teammates, they weren’t stepping up, and why the fuck was I gonna maintain all this work, be a leader, if they wouldn’t do the same?

I’d been training twice a day—lifting in the morning, attending practice in the afternoon. I’d barely taken a day off all season, and I could feel it. My body was a wreck, all tight muscle with no release.

I turned off the water, toweling myself down and throwing on a fresh pair of shorts and a tee. But when I looked in the mirror, I realized I hadn’t mellowed out. In fact, I was still boiling. And I was ready for a fight.

I made my way down to Coach’s office at the end of the hall, pushing the door open to find him sitting on his chair in that sparse room, barren save for a few pieces of furniture—a desk, a cabinet, and a long treatment table.

“Close the door,” he ordered, “and sit down.”

I made my way to the table, hopping on to face him, and to face the music.

His expression was serious. He was pissed, too.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked me, his eyes meeting mine.

“The guys—” I started.

“I don’t want to hear about the guys,” he interrupted. “The guys aren’t acting like pricks. The guys aren’t tripping people. What’s going on…with you?”

I stared back at him, uncertain of what to say.

Coach K had always been good to me. Hell, he’d recruited me from the local high school, attending my games senior year and charming my parents into letting me stay in town for college rather than going somewhere further afield.

He was just the kind of guy I hoped to be one day. Probably no older than 45, married with a couple of kids, looking younger than his years. He was still in great shape, hardly missing a day of training despite his own athletic career being long behind him.

He was tough, but he was fair. And he wasn’t letting me off the hook.

“I’ll tell you what I see,” he continued. “I see a guy who’s lost his positivity, who’s all anger and fire with no ability to connect with anyone around him. Who’s ready to be pissed off without even being provoked. Who’s looking for a fight.”

I stayed silent. He was right.

I hardly knew how to reply, and so instead I broke, almost tearing up.

“I’ve just been working so hard...,” I started. “I’ve been training every day, pushing myself, and it’s just not coming together.”

He stared me in the eyes. “It’s not enough.”

The words landed like a thud. I was shattered.

All that work, and it still wasn’t enough?

And then his face softened. “It’s not enough because you’ve gotta take care of you.”

I looked up at him, hopeful.

“If you don’t take a break,” he continued, “you’re gonna break. And you’re gonna break the will of everyone around you.”

I nodded back at him.

So, he did get it, after all.

“How does your body feel?” he asked.

“Beaten down.”

He glanced down at himself.

“You know how I look like this?” he asked, nodding at his body.

He was big, broad, a solid mass of muscle — biceps pressing against the hems of his t-shirt’s sleeves, legs tight against the fabric of his shorts.

I shook my head.

“I take breaks. I take care of myself.” I nodded. “You’ve gotta release some of that tension. You’re a fucking live wire.”

He was right. I was gripping the sides of the table with my fists, still amped, barely able to calm down.

“So what do I do?” I asked.

“You learn some better habits,” he replied. He looked me straight in the eye. “You trust me?” he asked.

“Of course,” I muttered. “You got me here in the first place.”

“Good. Turn around on the table, and bend over.”

I stared back at him blankly. What did he want me to do?

“I said bend over,” he replied. “On the table. On your knees.”

I didn’t move. There was something about him I trusted. I practically idolized him. But I was instantly self-conscious, uncertain.

“You said you wanna learn better habits,” he continued. “This is one of them.”

I nodded, pretending I knew what he meant. But I still didn’t move.

“You said you trust me,” he repeated. “So get on there.”

Hesitantly, I did as I was told, assembling myself on the table on all fours, peering over at him on the office chair next to me.

“Pull down your shorts,” he muttered.

Further surprise washed over my face.

“My—” I stammered.

“Your shorts,” he replied again. “Pull ‘em down.”

I did as I was told, awkwardly reaching down and lowering them between my legs, letting them rest along the face of my thighs.

“Briefs too,” he pressed.

Begrudgingly, I did as I was told, repeating the motion with the thin microfiber underlay, until both were pulled down just above my knees, my ass fully exposed.

It was cold in the room, my skin reduced to goosebumps as my lower half fully met the air. I felt uncomfortable, being so bare, my dick and balls hanging low between my legs, my ass clenched tightly behind me, trying as I could to keep my cheeks together without fully exposing myself.

Surely he didn’t want that.

Coach K could sense my intensity, every muscle activated in anticipation, a cat on a hot tin roof.

“Just relax, dude,” he said. “You gotta calm down.” He rolled the chair over closer to me. “Spread your legs a bit.”

Against my instinct, I did as I was told, widening the placement of my knees, allowing my ass cheeks further apart, opening to reveal my hole.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“All right,” I replied tentatively. “A little uncomfortable.”

“That’s good,” he replied. “It should feel uncomfortable. It’s what you need.”

He then wheeled himself over to a drawer within the cabinet beside him, reaching inside and pulling out what looked like a long glass prong and a small bottle of clear liquid.

My eyes widened.

And then he turned around.

“You need some release or you’re gonna explode.”

“Coach—” I started to protest.

He ignored me. “I can’t have you doing that on the field. So we gotta break that cycle. From within.”

He stood up from the chair, placing the prong on the table by my knees and popping open the top of the plastic bottle, expertly squeezing some of its contents onto the tips of his fingers.

“This is going to feel cold for a minute,” he started, “but it’ll warm up.”

And before I could reply, I felt him on me, his hand going straight for the node at the center of my ass—my hole—running his middle finger along it softly, gently, his touch belying the gruffness with which he normally comported himself.

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