A/N:
This is my submission to the Yay Team 2025 Literotica author's challenge event! I've been wanting to write about college athletes for a while and this was the perfect opportunity.
Content warning: As the blurb indicates, it's a foray into gay male polyamory. There will be lots of threesomes. Also, it does grapple with nonconsent (albeit pretty non-graphic and minor). Steer clear if you think you can't stomach it.
This is a complete stand-alone story. That said, there are lots of ideas I didn't include in this one. If you liked it, leave me a shout in the comments and I might write a sequel someday.
Thanks to @Comentarista82 for beta-reading the first part of the story and providing useful feedback on the Spanish! I knew it was going to be an important part of the story and wanted to make sure I got it right.
If you see any remaining errors they are undoubtedly mine. (And feel free to leave a comment so I can fix it. Enjoy the ride!
-- Z
=====================================
The front doors of the college pool creaked open right on schedule, followed by the familiar slap of bare feet and the rustle of swim bags being dragged across tile. I didn't need to look up. I knew that walk--knew the rhythm of those footsteps like the ticking of my own pulse.
"Dieeegooo," Mason's voice echoed through the space, dragging out the vowels like he was singing a lullaby. Then--whuff--a large, damp body dropped behind me. Two muscular arms wrapped around my shoulders, with the unthinking certainty of someone who never asked if he was welcome. He just was.
I let out a small oof as I was pulled back, my clipboard jostled against my chest. My head landed squarely against a warm, solid sternum. Mason buried his nose in my hair and inhaled like he meant it.
"Mmm. chlorine and coffee. My favorite."
"Güey. You're dripping on me," I murmured, without real protest, patting his forearm where it crossed my chest. His skin was cool and wet, his biceps like coiled ropes under my palm.
"That's not a complaint," he said, smug. I could hear the grin in his voice. "You smell like home."
I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tugged upward. Mason always said things like that--offhandedly, like they didn't mean anything. Like he didn't know how those words stuck in my ribs for hours afterward.
Mason's hair was still wet from the shower, curls tousled and golden, like someone had wrung out a sunbeam. He rubbed his cheek against my temple, then ruffled my hair--hard--like I was a particularly beloved golden retriever.
I sighed, though I was smiling. "¡Ay, Dios! You know I just brushed that."
"Brushed it for me, huh?" he said, tightening his grip just slightly. "You shouldn't have."
Before I could swat at him, another voice cut in--lazy, teasing, unmistakably amused. "Yo Mace! Don't hog him, dumbass."
Jayden padded up, goggles hanging loose around his neck, his towel slung low around his hips. His skin gleamed wet under the morning light--amber and chocolate and muscle, water sliding in rivulets down his chest like it couldn't bear to leave.
He crouched beside me with feline grace, one hand braced on his knee, the other reaching out to flick Mason's ear. "You treating him like a damn pillow again?"
Mason shrugged, entirely unbothered. "He's warm."
"I'm warm," Jayden said, nudging at my knee with his own. "And I smell like eucalyptus body wash. Tell him, Diegs."
"¡No mames, cabrón! You both smell like wet laundry," I said, deadpan. But I didn't move away.
Jayden grinned. "That's not a no."
He leaned forward and peered at my clipboard. "Oooh. You redid our splits again. Did you sleep, boss?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I nudged the warm-up sheets toward them like I hadn't just spent the last hour obsessing over them.
"Jayden, amigo, you're doing two sets of shoulder rotation before you even touch the water."
He groaned. "Ugh. You're so mean to me sometimes."
"You'll thank me when you don't tear your labrum," I said, then added with a smirk, "Again."
Mason barked a laugh and reached for the protein bar I'd already set out on the bench beside him. "Peanut butter!" he cheered. "You do love me best."
"I bought it in bulk," I muttered, but he wasn't listening--he was already tearing into the wrapper like it was a gift.
It was always like this in the mornings. Half-chaos, half-devotion. Bodies everywhere, towels in the wrong place, wet footprints where there shouldn't be, boys hollering too loud. A hundred things I could complain about. But I never did.
Because they were my muchachos. Because I got to take care of them. And for now--while the water still shimmered untouched, and Thomson had yet to stalk through the doors like a storm on two legs--everything felt golden.
---
By the time the first whistle blew, the pool had come alive.
"¡Ándale, ándale! Keep up the pace!" I called. Water slapped against tile in rhythmic bursts, arms cutting through the lane lines like metronomes. Kickboards smacked. Splashes echoed. The pace clock ticked on.
I stood barefoot on the deck, stopwatch in hand, squinting at Lane 4. Jayden's freestyle was too tight again--he was overcompensating for the shoulder, rolling his torso like he thought I wouldn't notice. I blew the whistle twice and pointed. He groaned mid-stroke but nodded and adjusted.
Lane 2. Mason was barreling through a 200m like he'd been shot from a cannon. His backstroke had finally stopped looking like a drunken crab. I tapped the side of my clipboard approvingly as he hit the wall.
"Órale! Thirty-one flat on that split, güerito," I called.
He surfaced with a whoop, flipped his goggles up, and shot me a grin. "I'm the fucking man, right?"
"Language," I said, though I couldn't help a smile. "And fix that breaststroke pull. You're dropping your elbows again."
His grin widened. "Still love me though."
I didn't dignify it with a response. Just scribbled his time on my clipboard and moved down the lane line.
The air was humid, thick with chlorine and effort. Music hummed faintly from the overhead speaker--a low-beat lo-fi track I'd queued earlier. Something steady. Encouraging. The kind of rhythm that kept you focused.
I moved between lanes like a conductor with no baton--timing splits, correcting form, reminding them to hydrate. There was no yelling. No barked orders. That was never my style.
"Breathe every third on this next lap, Kevin," I said, crouching by the edge of Lane 5. "Tranquilo--you're tightening up too fast. Long strokes."
"Got it," he gasped, already kicking off the wall.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't loud. But I knew every swimmer's form like a signature. Every tic. Every compensation. Every moment their body betrayed something they didn't want to say out loud. And I caught them, quietly, without making it a thing.
At the bulkhead, someone coughed hard. I looked up. Jayden had pulled himself out of the pool, dragging one arm slightly. I jogged over, crouching beside him.
"Still hurting?" I asked quietly.
