Three Stops #3 - Closeted (3 of 3)

Joe's been watching James from the sidelines for weeks - not subtly. Everyone assumes it's a crush. It's not, not entirely. It's Anders. James and Anders have unfinished business Joe's been quietly obsessed with ever since he caught wind of it, and today, at the pitch, James finally clocks that Joe's been watching him the same way. What happens next isn't the confession anyone expected.

The afternoon sun hung low and bruised over the university pitch, casting long, distorted shadows across the churned earth as the rain fell in sheets between sunrays. On the field, the rugby players were a chaotic smudge of mud-streaked jerseys and colliding muscle.

Silently, Joe leaned against the cold iron railing of the bleachers, his fingers gripping the metal until his knuckles turned white. He wasn’t watching the ball. He wasn’t watching the clock.

He was watching James.

James was a mountain of kinetic energy, his bold movements raw and unrefined. His jersey clung to him, soaked through with sweat and rain, the fabric set heavy against the hard planes of his chest. Every time James tackled, every time he lunged, the fabric strained across his shoulders, outlining the muscular architecture Joe had spent hours reconstructing in the dark of his bedroom.

Joe didn’t realise he had stopped breathing. He didn’t realise his gaze had shifted from admiration to something predatory, fixated on his prey like something starving. As James jogged past closely, he noticed a bead of sweat track a slow, shimmering path from James’s temple, down the curve of his jaw, and disappear into the collar of his shirt.

“Oi, Joe!”

The voice was a distant bark. Joe didn’t turn. He was locked in.

“Joe! You alright, mate? You look like you’re trying to eat him with your eyes.”

The laughter that followed was sharp, echoing off the metal stands. Joe snapped his head around towards the source; a couple of the reserve players were grinning at him, their expressions a mix of amusement and suspicion. One of them nudged the other, glancing back at James, then back to Joe.

The spell broke. Joe felt a sudden, violent surge of prickly heat climb his neck. He stepped back, his boots scuffing the concrete, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs while the back of his neck became clammy.

On the pitch, James had stopped. He was standing twenty yards away, chest heaving, his face smeared with a streak of dark mud across his cheek. He wasn’t looking at the ball anymore. He was looking directly at Joe.

The gaze wasn’t friendly. It was a piercing, confused stare, heavy with a question James didn’t know how to ask.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEE

The game ended in a messy draw, the players dispersing toward the changing rooms in a cacophony of shouts and slapping shoulders. Joe tried to vanish. He kept his head down, weaving through the crowd, aiming for the exit.

He almost made it.

A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder, the grip like a vice. Joe was spun around so fast his heels skidded on the damp turf.

James stood there, towering over him. He was still in his kit, radiating a primal, oppressive aura. He smelled of deep heat, wet wool, and the salt of extreme effort. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, shimmering with a volatile mixture of anger and something that looked dangerously like panic.

“What the fuck was that?” James demanded.

His voice was stern, barely audible over the distant noise of the team shouting on their way back to the changing room, but it carried a weight that pinned Joe in place.

Joe swallowed hard, his throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. He tried to summon the mask - the cheeky, socially savvy version of himself.

“What was what?” Joe asked, his voice inflecting upwards nervously.

James stepped closer, his bulk that much larger than Joe, and the distance between them evaporated. Joe could feel the warmth emanating from James’s body, a physical wall of heat. James’s chest was still heaving, the fabric of his jersey brushing against Joe’s chest with every breath; James was so close Joe could taste the steam coming from him.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” James snapped. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The guys. They saw you. I saw you.”

Joe felt the arousal hit him like a physical blow, a sharp, insistent throb in his groin that made his jeans feel two sizes too small. He was terrified, his mind racing through a dozen cover stories, cataloguing the nearest exits, calculating the risk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe lied, though his voice trembled.

James let out a short, jagged laugh. He shifted his weight, crowding Joe back toward the shadow of the bleachers, away from the main path.

“You were staring, Joe. Not just looking. You were… you were fucking *devouring* me.”

Joe’s back hit the cold iron support beam of the stands. He was trapped between the metal and a wall of mud-stained muscle. The proximity was electric, the air between them thick and humid.

“And what if I was?” Joe whispered, the defence mechanism finally snapping. “What’s the problem, James? Does it bother you that someone actually appreciates the view?”

James froze. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a momentary, stunned silence. His gaze dropped to Joe’s mouth, then flicked back up. The frustration was still there, but it had changed shape. It wasn’t just annoyance; it was a desperate, confused hunger.

“Shut up,” James breathed, feigning insult.

“Why? Because you liked it?” Joe challenged, his heart hammering. “I saw your face. You didn’t look disgusted. You looked… curious…”

James’s hand moved from Joe’s shoulder to his throat; with speed, it wasn’t a choke, not really - just a firm, possessive grip that forced Joe to tilt his head back. James’s thumb pressed against the pulse point in Joe’s neck, digging in and heading upwards to his jaw whilst feeling the frantic, galloping beat of his heart.

“You think you know me?” James hissed.

Joe paused, calculated once more.

“I know you’re terrified,” Joe finally replied, his voice barely a breath. “I know you spend half your time wondering why you can’t stop thinking about Anders. And now you’re wondering why you can’t stop thinking about me watching you.”

James’s grip tightened, and for a second, Joe thought he might actually lash out. The risk was absolute; any passerby, any lingering teammate, any coach glancing back from the locker room could see them - two men pressed together in the shadows, the energy between them vibrating with forbidden intent.

James leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Joe’s. He was panicked; there was no hiding his desperation with anger.

“You’re a fucking freak,” James whispered, but there was no conviction in it. His voice was thick, his breath warm against Joe’s lips. He was still only inches away.

“Maybe,” Joe whispered back. “But you’re the one who dragged me into the shadows to tell me.”

James let out a shuddering breath, the kind usually partnered with tears. But he had no tears, just this dangerous mixture of fear and rage. He looked like he was fighting a war inside his own head. He wanted to push Joe away; he wanted to pull him closer until there was no air left between them. The conflict made him unpredictable; he looked like a wounded animal, all tension and reflexive aggression.

“I’m not like you,” James rasped. “I don’t… I don’t do this. That. That thing…”

“Do what? Want something you’re not allowed to have?” Joe asked. Emboldened by James’s inaction, he dared to move, his hand sliding up to touch the mud-caked fabric of James’s hip. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting things from a distance, James. I’m an expert at it.”

James groaned, a sound that was half growl, half wounded sob. Without hesitation, he slammed his other hand against the iron beam next to Joe’s head, the metal ringing with a dull, heavy thud. The sound echoed, ringing out loudly.

James’s eyes searched Joe’s, looking for a way out, a way to rewrite the last five minutes. But the more he looked, the more he seemed to sink into the reality of the moment. The homoerotic charge was no longer a spark; it was a wildfire.

“If anyone saw us…” James began, his voice trembling.

“Nobody’s looking,” Joe whispered, though his mind was screaming...

*Someone is always looking.*

James leaned in, softened, the distance closing to a fraction of an inch. Joe could see the individual pores of his skin, the grit of the dirt in his eyebrows. James’s lips were parted, his breathing slowed momentarily.

For a brief few seconds, James’s aura changed; he relaxed into the moment, and Joe could have been easily convinced that they were about to kiss. James butted his forehead against Joe’s; almost in defeat, he sighed and took a deep breath…

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A nearby alarm went off, shattering those tender few seconds.

Snapping back to reality, James spoke, the words coming out with a renewed jagged edge.

“You think you’re so clever. You think you’ve got me figured out because you watch from the sidelines.”

“I don’t think I’ve got you figured out,” Joe admitted, his voice softening, releasing the small breakthrough. “I just know that we’re both staring at the same things.”

James’s brow furrowed, and his expression hardened. That brief vulnerability vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp surge of defensive pride. He yanked his hand away from Joe’s throat as if he’d been burned.

“You don’t know shit about me,” James snapped, stepping back. The sudden loss of heat left Joe feeling cold and exposed.

“James…”

“Just leave it, Joe. Seriously. Just fucking leave it.”

James’s face was a mask of frustration; he was vibrating with a need he refused to name, and the only way he knew how to handle it was to turn it into a fight.

“Why are you so scared?” Joe asked, emboldened, his voice tinged with a bitterness he couldn’t hide. “Is it the guys? The coach? Or is it just that you can’t stand the fact that I saw right through you?”

James turned on him, his eyes flashed with rage. “You didn’t see through anything! You’re just some guy who likes to watch. You’re a voyeur, Joe. You don’t actually want *me*. You want the idea of me. You want to feel something because your own life is a fucking void.”

The words hit Joe like a physical strike. He recoiled, the air leaving his lungs. The mask didn’t just slip; it shattered. That cornered beast now wanted blood.

“That’s low,” Joe whispered.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” James sneered, though his voice was still unstable. “Go back to your fantasies. Go back to imagining whatever it is you imagine when you’re alone in your room. Just keep your fucking eyes off me when I’m on the pitch.”

Joe stared at him, the longing curdling into a sharp, cold anger. “You’re a coward, James. You’re so terrified of being known that you’d rather live a lie.”

James stepped forward, his jaw clenched so tight a vein pulsed in his temple. “I’m not a coward.”

“Then prove it,” Joe challenged. “Right here. Right now. Tell me you didn’t want me to touch you.”

James’s face contorted. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might swing. His fist clenched at his side, his knuckles white. The tension was a wire stretched to the breaking point, a scream held back in the throat.

“Get lost,” James hissed.

“Make me,” Joe replied, his voice a dare, a provocation and one that came unnaturally to him.

James didn’t make him. He couldn’t. He turned on his heel and marched away, his heavy boots thumping against the ground, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to shield himself from the very air.

As he made his way down the corridor towards the changing rooms, he punched the first locker door he saw. A violent crash erupted and rang down the hallway and flew out of the open doors. He carried on stomping, having expelled a little of the rage within him.

Joe stayed leaned against the iron beam for a long time, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His body was still trembling, his skin tingling where James had touched him. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a familiar hollow ache.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the scent of the pitch shifted. The mud, the sweat, the deep heat - it all merged into a single, haunting memory.

*Sweet and salty.*

The phrase echoed in his mind, a borrowed ghost. He thought of Anders’s voice, the confidence, the unashamed lick of a hand. He thought of James’s confused, violent desire. He thought of the void in his own chest that no amount of watching could ever fill.

He felt grubby. Sticky. Not from the mud of the field, but from the residue of that dirty desire he held onto.

Despite the maelstrom of emotion, his jeans were tight. Adjusting himself, he felt a tingle run through him and a damp sensation at the top of his thigh. He had never been so aroused.

He imagined James once more with Anders. This time the scene had more anger. This time his fantasy had both an eagerness and brute force. Anders and James weren’t making love; James was thrusting his boot into the muddy puddle, and Anders was simply along for the ride.

Joe rubbed himself longingly whilst he pictured them once more. He thought of all the different things that they might have gotten up to. Anders’ willingness and James… James taking control of the situation. His powerful frame drowning Anders.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The alarm went again. Joe pushed himself off the beam and began to walk toward the parking lot, his head down, his shoulders slumped. He felt the weight of the bleachers behind him, the oppressive silence of the empty stands, and the weather now throwing down sheets of rain.

He didn’t notice the figure standing in the deep shadow of the equipment shed. He didn’t see the glow of the phone light up their features as they saved the recording they had secretly made of what had just taken place.

That someone had been there the whole time, perfectly still, shielded by the corrugated metal and the overgrown hedge. They had seen the way James had pinned Joe. They had heard the frantic whispers, the accusations, and the devastating truth of the argument.

As Joe disappeared into the distance, the figure stepped forward into the dying light.

The person didn’t speak. They didn’t smile. They stood there, their eyes cold and calculating, coldly processing what they had just witnessed.

The secret wasn’t a secret anymore. It was currency. Recorded.

The figure turned and slinked toward the locker rooms, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the damp earth, leaving the pitch to the gathering dark.

Someone was clearly watching before Joe ever was. Joe hasn’t just been watching James either.

Until next time…

Magnus.

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