A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 16
Normal Jack …and… Other Jack
The Lachlan-Hank-now Daniel strategy of coming out during exams seemed to be working. We maintained our out-and-proud, visible profile in the library and on campus. We were definitely a topic of discussion and interest; some good, some not so good.
On the positive side, people were coming up to congratulate us, calling us a cute couple, asking to join our study groups. On the less-than-positive side, conversations would abruptly die the moment we rounded a corner. We caught looks that were far from friendly—the kind of sneers and giggles from groups that made it clear they were talking about us, and not in a way that said we were going to be invited to their party after exams.
But as we had suspected, Dead Week and the impending exams were the real occupiers of everyone's minds. We were a secondary distraction at best, and we were happy to keep it that way.
By Friday, however, I noticed a pattern. We always seemed to have part of the Inner Circle nearby. That shouldn't have been a surprise—they were our best friends—but this felt different, like a coordinated change of shift. Hank and I had taken over one of the glass-walled study rooms with Betsy and Dakota. Both couples were comfortably leaning against one another, deep in a discussion about the Treaty of Alliance and how French meddling in King George's unruly colonies had turned a rebellion into a global war. That was when I finally called her on it.
"You and the rest of the Inner Circle have a schedule, don't you?" I accused. "You guys have been rotating in and out since Wednesday like you're punching a clock on the Lachlan-Hank protection team!"
Betsy couldn't help herself; a grin gave her away before she even tried to wiggle out of it. "I can neither confirm nor deny…"
Dakota wasn't nearly as smooth. Thinking he was out of her line of sight, he grinned ear-to-ear and gave me a firm nod.
"Keep that up and I'll be withholding my affections," she warned him. Then she sighed, her shoulders dropping. " Fuck, that won't work. You know I can't. Okay, yes. We are. We just want to make sure you guys are okay."
"Thanks," Hank said, "We actually appreciate it. But for the record, we're working out with Jack this afternoon. He's convinced we need a little more muscle on these already stunning athletic bodies. So, we're covered for the late afternoon shift."
She raised an eyebrow, " Evil Jack is joining the Inner Circle? Last I'd heard, he was Lachlan's arch-nemesis…"
Since I was still more pro-Jack than Hank was, I fielded the question for us. "I wouldn't say Inner Circle, not yet. But he's been much more friendly since the Highland Games. We've actually had some real conversations with him, and he was super supportive during our meet against Philips." I decided to leave out the part about him not minding my stiffy being inches from his face during that one particular encounter.
Hank nodded in agreement, mimicking his dad's voice, "We've rebalanced the investment portfolio. He's officially moved into the neutral-pro column on the ratings spreadsheet. His dad's still a toxic asset, but Jack's showing some real potential for dividends."
Betsy's eyebrows shot up at the mention of a previously-unknown ratings spreadsheet. She clearly wanted to dive deeper on this new ratings spreadsheet, but held off. I could tell that topic was filed away for another time.
Just before two, Hank and I headed for the gym to meet up with Jack. The locker room was almost a ghost-town compared to the normal year—just a few guys changing. We changed into our gear—shorts and t-shirts—and headed for the weight room. Embarrassingly, we took a wrong turn and had to double back; in our defense, we'd never been past, let alone inside, the weight room. This room was the sanctuary of the beasts, the big, the powerful, the giant-people like Daniel.
"Four minutes late," Jack noted. He didn't even look at our faces; his eyes were busy cataloging our gear, our posture, and the way we carried our bags. "Drop the bags. We're doing a Full-Spectrum Kinetic Interrogation. I need to find the power leaks in your frames."
I looked at him like he'd just grown a second head. "A full-spectrum...kinetic what? I thought we were just lifting. You know, lots of metal plates and football grunting?"
Jack chuckled and shook his head, clearly relishing his self-appointed role. "You're in my world now, runner-boy. We won't just go lift, Lachlan; just like you don't just go hoof it."
He pulled a small, weather-beaten notebook from his bag and tapped it with a pen. "I need to see what your muscles can actually do today; then I decide what to do to them tomorrow."
Hank threw a quick glance at the door, humorously calculating the distance and Jack's angle of attack. " Sauve qui peut, Lachlan," he whispered loudly.
Jack didn't miss a beat, firing back with a smirk. " Pas de chance, mon petit oiseau! " "Look, you build with data. Today is about the audit. I'm going to run you through every major chain—back, chest, shoulders, arms, and legs. Two sets of ten on everything. I'm going to record the metrics, find how pathetic you are, and then I'll build your actual regimen."
He motioned us to the mats and started putting us through a series of intense warm-up stretches. As he moved, his focus was entirely clinical.
"You'll perform the same exercises, the same number of sets, maybe even the same reps as I do," Jack explained, his voice even. "But there's no way you're going to lift what I lift—just like I don't lift what Daniel lifts. He's big; I'm small. Offensive Linebacker versus Free Safety. He benches three-fifty routinely. My PR is two-sixty."
My mind scrambled to process those numbers. Three-fifty. Two-sixty. And Jack considered himself small? The guy was over six feet tall and easily had twenty-five pounds of solid muscle on Hank or me.
Just then, one of the varsity linemen strolled past, sizing us up with a smirk. "Uh-oh, cross-country team's in the house. Hey, Jack, I think we've got some two-and-a-half-pound plates back in storage for 'em. Might even be a lady's barbell back there if they ask nice."
Jack laughed but waved him off with practiced ease. "Guys might give you shit, but it's all in fun. Everyone here knows they're lifting against themselves, not a Daniel. Everyone's goal is personal improvement." He checked his watch and then looked at us, his eyes sharpening. "All right, rest over. It's squat time."
Jack stepped up to the rack, sliding two big forty-five-pound plates onto each side with a heavy clack —two-twenty-five total. "Watch the mechanics," he commanded. He didn't use a neck pad. He just wedged the steel against his traps and unhinged the weight like it was nothing.
He was wearing those classic, thin gray jersey shorts—the kind that are basically a t-shirt for your bum and legs. As he descended, the light fabric clung and stretched across the hard, functional density of his glutes and quads. He hit the bottom—deep into the basement—and paused for a heartbeat just to show off the control. The shorts didn't leave anything to the imagination; The soft material contoured to every ripple, mapping the deep, athletic dimples at the sides of his glutes where the muscle was pulled taut as steel.
"Drive," he grunted, exploding back up. He did ten reps without his form breaking once, his breathing rhythmic and sharp. When he finally racked the bar, he wasn't even shaky. He just reached down for that weather-beaten notebook.
"That's the standard," he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple with his shirt, giving us a flash of his slabs-of-granite midsection. "Now, let's see how far below it you two are. "We'll start with the empty bar, that's forty-five pounds," Jack commanded. "We need to get the right mechanics before we add the load. Hank, center yourself. Lachlan, watch."
As Hank stepped under the bar, Jack moved in close; like really close. He was moving Hank's hands on the bar; forcefully positioning his elbows; then when Hank squatted, Jack and those gray shorts went with him. Jack was touching places only I was allowed to touch—Betty would be jealous.
"Lower," Jack murmured, his voice dropping as he hovered just behind Hank's shoulder. "Lower. Look in the mirror. Get that butt south of your thighs."
Hank's honey-gold face was turning a bright shade of crimson. I wasn't sure if it was the weight; or the fact that Jack's crotch was basically where mine had been last night. "Steady," Jack breathed, his hand pressing firmly against the small of Hank's back. "Don't let the power leak out of your core."
When Hank finally racked the bar, he looked a little dazed. He gave me an embarrassed grin. Jack didn't notice; he was already scribbling furiously in his notebook. Jack turned his gaze to me. He might have been breathing heavy for the guy coaching. "Lachlan. You're up. Let's see how you do."
Having watched him with Hank, I was prepared for the hands-on approach. Not. He wasn't just resting his hand there like I'd thought; he was feeling my muscles ripple with each squat. Thank God I had a jock and loose shorts on, or we'd be looking at another track-meet tent incident.
"Better lateral stability than Hank," Jack noted, scribbling a quick note in his book without looking up. "But you're quad-dominant, too far forward. You need to balance—use your hamstrings, glutes, and lower back." I would have been fine, but he cupped and squeezed my bum as he said it.
He finally looked at me, and for a split second, his eyes dropped to the front of my shorts before snapping back up to my face. "Let's move to the bench," he said quickly, his voice a fraction higher than before. He was already halfway across the gym before I could even find my breath.
The next ninety minutes of the Full-Spectrum Kinetic Interrogation was a masterclass in gay-teen restraint, and a tough lesson for our fragile male egos. Every focus area—back, chest, shoulders, and arms—began with a Jack demo. We'd stand there, trying to look clinical while he effortlessly moved weights that seemed impossible, his muscles flexing in ways that made it hard to breathe. And those gray shorts. Then he'd pull off the big plates, throw on something humiliatingly lighter, and it was our turn to struggle.
Even at the lighter weight, we were dog-tired by the end. The density of the work—high reps, low rest—felt like a slow-motion car crash for our muscles. At least he never actually went looking for those two-and-a-half-pound plates. Only that sheer feat of restraint kept us from messing in our jockstraps as we watched Jack's body work. And then of course there was dealing with his hands everywhere—correcting a grip, stabilizing a hip, or adjusting the angle of an arm with a firm, lingering pressure. Not a horrible experience to deal with.
I was ready to surrender faster than the French, when Jack finally called an end to our initial assessment. "You guys really did well," he said, and for the first time, he actually grinned. The drill instructor mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the guy who was becoming a friend. "First day in the weight room can be daunting, but you stuck with it and didn't balk. The real fun begins tomorrow."
We all stripped off our t-shirts and headed for the locker room. I noticed two things in rapid succession. First, Jack's gray shorts were soaked; they'd been clingy when we started, but now they were practically painted on. Second, he was holding his discarded t-shirt low in front of those sweaty shorts, but not quite well enough—I swear I caught a glimpse of something swollen angling up toward the waistband.
Okay, maybe I noticed three things, the sweat was pouring down his torso just as much as ours. Jack's trickling down into the deep-cut, wide grooves of his abs—built for power. His shorts had slipped down, confirming he had a six, not an eight like me. Hank and I had impressive abs; but ours were lean, flat plates with shallow divots—built for endurance. Different bodies; different strengths.
Jack looked forward and back as we walked to the locker room, obviously checking for prying ears. Then he said quietly, "Really brave of you guys coming out; the whole gay thing. That takes balls to choose that route."
"You know it's not a choice, right?" Hank shot back, his voice tight with a sudden, defensive edge.
"No, no, no. Sorry. That's not what I meant," Jack came back quickly, his hands coming up as if to physically push the misunderstanding away. "I'm not saying being gay is a choice. I meant choosing to come out. This is Texas, after all. There are a lot of people in this school, in this city, who will turn against you…if they knew."
The way he said if they knew sounded weird. It wasn't a threat; it sounded almost like a haunting.
I stepped in, trying to defuse the heat. "Yeah, we figured that. But we also figured it was only a matter of time. People were starting to notice, so we thought it was better we control the narrative than let them control it."
That stopped Jack in his tracks. You could practically see that clinical brain of his whirring, re-graphing his entire understanding of our situation. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Good point. Very good point."
He didn't elaborate. Maybe he didn't have the chance to; we'd reached the heavy double doors of the locker room. As the cool, pressurized air of the interior hit us, we were no longer alone. The sound of clattering lockers, the laughing, trash-talking, and snapping of towels meant others were present.
"Same time tomorrow. I'll have your personal Pathetic-Rehabilitation Program all mapped out," he smirked.
Normal Jack stepped out of the hallway; Other Jack entered the locker room. In that single instant, he changed. It was like the force field shields had come down, or maybe they'd been slammed back into place. He didn't look at us. He went straight to his locker; jumping right into the laughing and trash-talking current like a salmon going upstream.
Hank and I stood there for a second, watching him morph back into the Free Safety the world expected him to be. He was already shouting a joke at a linebacker changing in his locker bay.
Hank raised an eyebrow; he was looking at the floor, trying to see where the transmogrifier was that had changed Jack. I knew exactly what he was doing—he was already recalculating that neutral-pro rating he'd given Jack earlier.
I gave him a weak grin, trying to be the voice of reason, "Well. He was friendly. We're working out tomorrow. And he's at least neutral now?" I was trying to see the positives.
Hank shrugged, "Guess we'll see."
We made our way to our locker bay. We stripped, moving like old men as the lactic acid started to set in, and hit the showers—the good old-fashioned kind: a big, tiled square with shower heads lined up along the walls. It was the ultimate no-hiding zone. Who was ahead in their puberty stage, who was built, and who was still waiting for their frame to fill out—it was all right there in the steam.
Jack was already in the thick of it, occupying the center shower in a line of six football players. Message received. We took the opposite end of the room, keeping a respectful distance. Daniel was one of the six, and he offered a casual wave through the spray. Seeing him there confirmed my suspicion: he was definitely giving Jason a run for his money.
A couple of the football players at the far end from Daniel saw us and immediately turned toward the wall. I almost laughed, even before Hank leaned in and whispered, "They think showing us their bums is better than their cocks?"
Other Jack was definitely being neutral; he was careful not to make eye contact, but he wasn't acting worried about our predatory gay eyes either. He was just a guy in a shower. When he finally turned to the wall, it was just to rinse the soap off his front.
That's when I saw it.
The steam cleared for a split second, and there, cutting right across that athletic bum we'd spent two hours watching, was an angry, red stripe. One side to the other; and wide.
Fortunately, our locker bay was empty when we got back. Hank and I had to help each other get dressed as our muscles cramped up. We were a mess of trembling limbs and stiff joints; I had to steady him while he pulled up his boxer-briefs, and he had to help me guide my polo shirt over my shoulders because my lats were so swollen I couldn't reach back.
We were quietly giggling—that delirious, post-workout high where everything is funny because you're too exhausted to be embarrassed. It actually felt good; painful good, but good.
We waited until we'd left the athletic hall and walking to the pick-up circle before we debriefed. The late afternoon Texas heat felt thick and heavy; making us immediately start sweating all over again, or maybe we'd never really stopped.
"Did you get as hard as I did during our Full-Spectrum Kinetic Interrogation?" Hank giggled, his walk still a bit stiff.
"Which part?" I sniggered, my voice low as a group of cheerleaders walked past us.
"Every part!" Hank whispered-yelled. "When Jack's hands were all over me; all over you; or when we were both staring laser beams through those porn-star gray shorts! I was leaking like crazy; my jock's a biohazard. I lost count of the times I almost came."
I let out a breathless laugh, glancing down at his crotch. "I think restraint was the only muscle I actually trained today. Between the shorts and him basically mounting us to check our squat depth...that was intense."
Then I remembered: we're out. I reached over and grabbed Hank's hand, squeezing hard. His face erupted into that melt-my-heart smile. He squeezed back, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"It was an awesome workout. I've never done any weights before. I can already feel my muscles screaming in protest, and that was only the assessment," I grinned. "Tomorrow's going to be a whole new world of pain."
Hank nodded in agreement. "Jack definitely was all over the whole I'm your trainer thing. I think he's really into it. It's just weird. The whole if they knew, and then the stepping into the locker room and—wham—different…"
I cut him off, nudging his shoulder and pointing with my head. "Toxic asshole, eleven o'clock."
At the same time, we spied Jack launch from the main building, head down, making a direct beeline for his dad's car. There was no Texas football swagger, just a kid moving fast to get to where he was supposed to. He hopped in without a pause.
Toxic has seen us. If looks could kill—or at least if looks were a laser beam—our entwined fingers would have been smoldering on the pavement. We didn't flinch, though. Out and proud. We got one last dirty look from Jack's dad, and then he slammed his door shut and peeled out, the tires screeching as he almost ruined a little freshman's day.
"Yeah," I continued, watching the dust settle. "There's definitely something going on there. I just haven't figured it out yet. He worked out with us for over two hours in the gym, hands all over us. Footballers in and out, and he was Normal Jack. Not to mention study groups, classes...it's not an I don't want to be seen with you thing."
"Total opposite," Hank added, his voice softening. "He's really nice. Jokes around. Said we were brave for coming out. You were right—Jack is a friend."
Hank had finally come around. I smiled, though the image from the shower was still vivid in my mind. "I told you. Hey, did you see that welt on his bum?"
"Couldn't miss it; not that he was making any effort to hide it." Hank breathed a sympathetic sigh. "Whatever it was must have hurt something fierce."
"A mystery to solve," I mused, "along with Other Jack."
"Maybe we could ask Betsy to find out…" Hank wondered aloud.
I shook my head immediately. "Uh-uh. This has to stay between you and me. Jack's a friend now; let's just observe, like Betsy would tell us to do."
Friday was Geometry and English study groups. We saw a lot of Jack.
Today was all Normal Jack, start to finish. First day of our Pathetic-Rehabilitation Program, and he handed each of us our very own notebook for recording our progress.
"This will be the program for the summer; a classic five-day, Arnold split, then we'll reassess. I've already run this by Coach Roberts for his okay," Jack said, his focus clinical as he tapped the cover of my notebook. "I don't want him hunting me down because I ruined his rising-star runners. You follow this plan religiously.
"By the end of summer, you'll have put on ten pounds of functional, explosive muscle. Right now, that's just your foundation—the raw, structural armor around your joints so your bodies don't shatter under the workload. But by this time next year, that foundation is going to pay off. Your bodies will be forged out of taut steel, and you'll have the explosive power to sprint uphill at the end of a grueling Five-K like you're just getting started."
This time next year? We were willingly signing up—no, we'd already signed up—for eighteen months of pure, unadulterated pain? I muttered, "The Grand Inquisitor Torquemada would be ecstatic."
Jack laughed, instantly booming out his best Monty Python voice, "NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!"
He made us strip down to nothing but jock-straps.
Okay, maybe not nothing —we still had our t-shirts and sneakers on—but he made us take our shorts off. We met up with him on the mats, on time today. First thing he did was toss us each two pair of those gray jersey shorts he'd been wearing yesterday.
"Can't be wearing split shorts to workout, runner-boys," Jack said, sounding every bit the coach. "Unless you want to hear two-and-a-half-pound weight jokes forever. I've grown out of these. Happy first day of training—put 'em on."
Hank and I turned to head back to the locker room, but Jack stopped us short. He folded his arms across his chest, blocking the exit. "Where ya going? Change right here. As in here, here. Not over behind that Universal machine you're eyeing."
There was no arguing; Coach had spoken. Hank and I dropped our splits, standing there in just our jocks, holding the gray shorts. I couldn't help it—I giggled. "Jack, you know this is a gay-athlete fantasy, right? Weight room. Just in a jock. Cue the bow-chicka-wow-wow music."
Jack grinned, clearly enjoying our embarrassment. "Keep that monster of yours under control, Lachlan. Don't spew. Those shorts show everything if you get 'em wet."
Well, I knew that already. My brain flashed back to yesterday and the way Jack's sweaty shorts had basically been a second skin. I hastily pulled mine on; the whole while flashing back to my room, my mirror, and Hank's hand-me-down jeans.
Day One was back and chest. Jack started us on the bench at ninety-five pounds: three sets of ten reps. At least that meant the twenty-five-pound plates, not the two-point-fives. Ego bolstered. Not to mention that when he was spotting us on the bench, his crotch was basically in our faces. Those gray shorts really do hide nothing. The pull-down was a repeat of Interrogation Day, Jack correcting our form: upright, don't lean back. His hands and fingers were ever-present: tracing the line of muscles, feeling the flex, his palms flat on our shoulders and backs to make sure we were engaging the right area.
Jack was totally chatty the whole time. He shared his knowledge of the weight room and the science behind the routines he was putting us through. It was clearly a passion of his, and it was contagious—it made the burn feel like it had a purpose. But the chat didn't stop at fitness. Classes, Scouting, even the minefield of the Saint Luke's social life were all on the table. He was open, relaxed, and completely Normal Jack.
Today, we didn't see the shift to Other Jack when we stepped into the locker room. He didn't pull the disappearing act. Instead, he joined us by our lockers, laughing when he saw that we were moving just as slow and stiff as the day before. Then he walked to the showers with us—towel over his shoulder, everything on display—and took a shower head right next to us.
"Curiouser and curiouser! cried Alice," Hank murmured as we waved goodbye to Jack and his really sweet mom, "No mask. No shift. No Other Jack today."
"Weirder and weirder," I agreed, watching the tail lights of their car pull away. "He was even happier and chattier in the weight room than yesterday. Not to mention the locker room and the showers. Looks like we'll need more data points, Inspector Clouseau!"
"Well, we've got all next week," Hank said ruefully, rubbing a pec that I knew was already beginning to throb. "Our trainer has us going every day so he can get as much in as possible before he disappears to football camp for six weeks."
I giggled, my exhaustion turning into giddiness. "Five more days of watching Jack's phenomenal, exquisite bum in action!"
"Phenomenal, exquisite bum?" Hank retorted, arching an eyebrow. "Do I need to be worried, Raider?"
"Of course not, my love," I snickered, sliding my hand into his non-back pocket. "Your bum is perfection. Like in the tent. Jack's bum is a mate; your bum is a Best Mate."
I continued as Hank's hand took its proper place in my pocket. "Different bums, different strengths. Your bum is made for running and endurance, to fit my hand, to nestle my cock, to keep your pucker warm for me to lick. Jack's bum is made for explosive strength, for clothes-lining running backs, shot put, and cracking walnuts for his grandmom at Christmas."
Hank snorted out a laugh, actually choking for a second. "Cracking walnuts? OMG, I can just see it! Do you think he wears his gray shorts for that?"
I launched into my best fledgling Trainer Jack impression, deepening my voice and puffing out my chest. "No. That's not the standard. Not good form. Everyone knows that to get a good grip on the walnut, you have to use bare cheeks. It's all about the kinetic engagement, boys!"
The weekend was consumed with studying; and then we launched into Exam week. It was a blur—an exam every day, matched with grueling afternoon workouts with Jack. By Thursday, our brains were fried and our muscles were constantly humming with low-grade fatigue. That was when Hank had his aha moment.
"It's toxic," he whispered as we followed Other Jack across the quad.
"What's toxic?" my brain struggled to disengage from the post-Geometry haze to refocus on Hank.
"No, it's Toxic," he whispered again, "He's what triggers Other Jack. It's tracked perfectly since last week, day for day. Mom pick-up: Normal Jack. Toxic pick-up: Other Jack."
"Damn," I whispered. I didn't even need to ponder it; I knew Hank was right. It was all right there, plain as the red stripe on Jack's bum. "So, what do we do?"
Hank let out a long, heavy sigh. "We all have our Spanish finals tomorrow. Jack leaves at the crack of dawn the next morning for six weeks of football camp. I can't see anything we can do in that time frame to affect anything. It's not like we're going to pull some Ethan Hunt move—drop in from the ceiling to hack his cloud and find a smoking gun of him doing something wrong."
"We don't even know what we think he's doing wrong," I added, feeling the weight of our own powerlessness. "I don't think being an asshole is a crime. All we really know is that Jack acts weird around him. The only way we're ever going to figure this out is if Jack tells us."
We took a bench, staring at the cloudless Texas sky, looking for answers. My mind went back to the Yazzie compound—to the smell of sage and cedar, and the weight of Ami Sani's hand on my shoulder.
"WWASD," I murmured.
"What?" Hank asked, turning to me.
I rolled my eyes, "WWASD. What Would Amá Sání Do? "
Hank looked confused, "Okay, I'll bite. What Would Amá Sání Do?"
"Fuck if I know," I smugly replied, leaning back and tucking my hands behind my head, "I've only known her for eight months; you've known her for what, sixteen years? Surely something's penetrated this thick skull of yours."
"Hmmm," Hank muttered, rubbing his temples as if my suggestion were a physical migraine, "that's super helpful …"
"Thanks," I replied extra cheerfully, "it's what I do. I'm a catalyst."
Hank went quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking a solitary bird as it drifted high across the quiet quad. "Follow the Way of the Mountain," he whispered. "That's what she would say."
I raised an eyebrow, gob smacked. "So, I was helpful?"
Hank snorted. "Shockingly, yes. The mountain doesn't hunt the storm. It doesn't scream at the clouds to stop raining. It just stands there. It's solid, it's unmoving, powerful. It's there when the storm finally runs out of breath."
Now I was thoroughly confused, and this was my idea… kinda. "Who's the mountain and who's the storm?"
Hank was clearly enjoying this now, the data-points in his head finally forming a picture. " Toxic is the storm; the mountain is Jack's refuge. We're the mountain—but we're also the twins: Naayéé' Neizghání and Tobadzischini. The Monster Slayer and the Water-Born. You and me, Wolf and Raider."
"Mountain and the Twins," I nodded emphatically, desperately hoping Hank would keep clarifying.
"We just become the mountain," Hank explained, his voice gaining strength. "We become his rock. His mates—his Wolf and his Raider. We make sure that when Jack leaves for camp, the last thing he feels is that we have his back. We love him, and we're the one place where the storm can't reach him."
"Got it. Wolf and Raider. We have his back and make sure he knows we love him," I nodded, "I can do that; you explain the mountain-storm thing."
And that's what we did—the love and back part. The mountain didn't come up.
Spanish final behind us, the campus practically deserted, we hit the empty gym one last time before Jack left. He'd already warned us, don't let me come back and find out you runner-boys haven't set foot in the gym the whole time. You won't want to know that pain. He'd even given us a workout plan for our Guadalupe River canoe trip—tree limb presses, boulder curls.
Hank and I showed up in our gray shorts, so no jockstraps only in the gym today, wah. It was Shoulder Day : presses—barbell, dumbbell, Arnold; laterals—front, side, hammer; a ton of cable work and more. Jack made us lose our shirts so he could track our muscle movement. Whatever, it was hot as fuck to use the technical term.
Jack, Hank, me—all of us glistening in the mirror. This really was a gay-boy's fantasy.
Jack was Normal Jack today. Thank God—I don't know how we would have made sure he knew we loved him and had his back if he'd been Other Jack. That would have just been awkward, and we would have left wondering what we should have done differently to succeed. It was a high-water mark for handsy Jack. I mean a lot of touching. Maybe I was wrong, but I sort of felt like he was stocking up, for the six weeks he'd be away.
My opportunity appeared while we were doing standing dumbbell presses. Jack had one hand on my shoulder, his other palm pressed just under my arm on my lat, while he kept his eyes on Hank on the other side. He wasn't just resting his hands on me; he was pressing, squeezing—I'd even say caressing.
By the sixth rep, I was completely losing my concentration. I giggle-panted, "Guys, you're not helping me finish this set."
Jack laughed, his thumb brushing my skin. "Nah, your form's fine, Lachlan. You got this."
Furiously blushing, I sputtered, "It's not my form that's the issue."
Then Jack saw it. There was no bump, no ambiguous angle, no subtle is-he-or-isn't-he. I was pointing straight up. The gray jersey fabric was stretched so tight you could clearly see the distinct ridge running the length of the underside—that sharp, raised cylinder mapping the path right up to the dark wet spot where I was leaking.
Jack's eyes bugged out, but he definitely didn't look away. He locked on, his gaze tracking the shape of it, and slowly licked his lips. I don't claim to have a flawless gaydar, but that was a pure, unfiltered gay-boy look.
I ground out my tenth rep, let the weights thud to the floor, and turned to face him fully—locking eyes. I could feel Hank standing just off to my side, absolutely still, watching the whole thing play out. Jack looked hungry. Hungry in a way that made my chest tight—but beneath the hunger, he looked completely terrified.
He tried to stammer out a sorry, but I wouldn't let him. I just reached out, caught him by the nape of his neck, and pulled him into me.
Sweaty torso plastered against sweaty torso. The heat between us was instant, and I could feel his own hard cock pressing through his shorts right against mine—especially when his hands dropped to my bum, his fingers digging in to pull me even closer. He tucked his face into the hollow of my neck and shuddered. His chest heaved against mine, and with a sharp, wet gasp, he started to cry. The invincible Jack was completely breaking down.
Then I felt Hank move in from the side, wrapping his long arms around both of us. We turned ourselves into a solid cocoon, holding Jack between us, our hands caressing his damp back. Both of us started whispering into the quiet of the empty gym, our voices steady and synchronized: We love you, Jack. We've got your back. We're not going anywhere.
Eventually, Jack took a long, ragged breath, gave us one last desperate squeeze, and lifted his head. We didn't let go; we kept our grip tight, anchoring him.
I pressed my forehead directly against his, looking straight into his tear-streaked eyes. "Jack. We're serious. We love you. We know something's going on with you, and we know it's not good. You're happy one day, and completely locked up the next. We want to help you, but we don't know how. You've gotta tell us— soon, please."
He didn't pull away. He kept his hands right where they were, anchoring himself against us. He took another deep, ragged breath and nodded against my forehead. "I love you guys too. And I trust you. I know I need to tell someone...but not today. I gotta sort some things out first. I've got six weeks of happy time starting tomorrow. We'll talk when I get back. Promise."
If Hank and I thought this cathartic breakdown meant Shoulder Day was over, we were dead wrong. Jack hitched himself up by his mental bootstraps, rubbed his eyes, and grinned. Just like that, the Coach was back, shoving us right back toward the weights. "Laterals. We're starting with ten pounds. Let's go, ladies!"
Between the side and forward laterals, I wiped a streak of sweat from my forehead and cleared my throat, looking from Jack's rippled midsection to my own flat, tight lines. "Hey, Jack? Quick question about the roadmap."
Jack, head buried in his clipboard. "Yeah, Lachlan?"
"We're doing the plan. We're surviving the pain," I said, gesturing between Hank and myself. "At what point in this program do we finally get the big raviolis?"
Jack blinked, a silence hanging in the air for a second, "The raviolis? The hell are you talking about?"
"The raviolis," I said, reaching out and tracing one of his bulging lobes with my finger. "Like these, veal-and-cheese raviolis. Do those come by the end of the summer, or do we have to wait until next spring for the pasta course?"
Jack stared at his own stomach, and when he finally figured out what I meant, he smirked and rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to be focusing on your form, Lachlan, not fantasizing about eating your trainer's raviolis. Forward lats—go."
I hadn't even thought about eating them, until now. Licking them. Savoring them. I had to focus on something else until I calmed back down. The rest of the workout was punctuated by little hugs, lingering touches, and genuine smiles. Message sent; message most definitely received; message appreciated.
When the workout finally ended, Jack didn't slip away into the shadows. We'd definitely crossed a major threshold He gave us both a massive, bone-crushing hug right outside the gym door before running out to the parking lot. We stood on the quad and watched him jump into the front seat of his mom's car, waving out the window as they pulled away.
"I think he's gay," I mused as we walked away, sliding our hands into each other's back pockets.
Hank snorted. "Ya think?"
As we approached the Defender, I smirked. "Wonder if we can get in the car without taking our hands out of each other's pockets."
Challenge accepted. I climbed in through Hank's side first, sitting up on the center console and awkwardly stretching my legs across to the passenger footwell. Hank had to wedge himself in next, half-sitting and half-standing, turning his bum in my direction so we wouldn't break the connection. We shimmied and twisted our way into position—laughing hysterically didn't make the logistics any easier—but eventually, we dropped into our respective seats, our trapped hands pressed flat under our bums.
"I think I need my hand back to start the car," Hank giggled, the keys dangling from his free fingers.
I pretended to think about it for a few seconds, then shifted my weight so he could pull his hand free. He did the same for me, but I didn't move. I left my hand right where it was, firmly planted underneath him.
Hank paused, cutting his eyes over to give me a look.
"What?" I shrugged, completely innocent. "You need two hands to drive. I'm not driving anything."
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