“Sure,” I muttered, trying not to squeak. He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. His other hand reached up to my shoulder, massaging it gently, like he was helping me ride the waves of confusion and sensation that were crashing through me. And apparently, it wasn’t subtle. But even as the chill hit, one thing was clear: nothing about being on this team was going to be simple. I was eager to prove I wasn’t just some scrawny guy who got winded climbing stairs. I was trapped in the prison of having an unwanted erection at the worst time. It was like some weird combination of panic, pleasure, and complete system override.
