The shower water has long since run cold. Those laughing, jeering voices have echoed into nothingness. Still I stand here, shivering and cowering, hoping like hell I am truly alone. Soon I will climb out of this cold, thundering stream and run through to the changing room. Naked. Those bastards have taken my towel and my sweaty cricket gear, even my box, shoes and socks.
I flick the tap off, momentarily staring down at my pale, goose-pimpled body. I'm tall, around 6'3". Since I've gained height in a hurry over the last two years, I often feel uncoordinated. My wet arms are long and thin; lean, my Dad calls it. I'm like that all over. Sparse, black hair forms a triangle at the top of my chest and trails like ants to my pubes. To each soft, erected hair, a few tiny droplets of water cling, resisting the urge to run down my skin and join the rest on the floor. My nipples are blushing pink and have hardened in response to the cold air and water. Despite the temperature, the bruises are beginning to show on my chest. They sting a little as I move. I think the pressure of the shower has stirred them up.
I'm not the sort of guy that cries. No, I grin and bear this sort of shit, give some lip and a fist back where I can. But today, grinning and bearing it doesn't cut the mustard. It's kind of hard to grin and bear it when six guys are whipping you with towels, slugging you with their fists and finally kicking you while you crouch in a corner. Thank god, it was only for a short time. The bell rang about half-an-hour ago and they left pretty soon after that. I hate them. I hate them so much. I never had to deal with this shit at my old school. I wish I didn't have to board here; they never leave me alone.
Not a sound, except the last of the water splashing to the concrete floor. I breathe a sigh of relief and dart into the changing room. But I'm not alone.
As I stand, trying to cover my thin, shivering body with my grazed hands, I regard the guy who is seated on the changing bench. Blair's his surname, and 'cos of the sort of school this is, everybody calls him that. His hair is dark and unruly, the sort that you can't really stick down with anything, be it spit, gel or superglue. He has pale, washed-out looking blue eyes, which I've always assumed would look cruel up close. Don't get me wrong, he is sex on legs, gorgeous, god-like, everything that I'm not. His tanned skin encases broad muscular shoulders, a defined chest and strong legs that ripple when he moves. He has a square jaw and good looks that draw girls like raw meat draws flies.
To top that off, he's a prefect and great at any sport. In the first five weeks of school, he's been presented with over ten awards he earned competing in adult competitions during the holidays (triathlon, golf, discus, cross-country running). Where does he get the time to train for all these things? And how can he be brilliant at all of them? I bet he has a room just for his trophies. He could probably use his certificates as toilet-paper, he gets so many. Today the locker-room was abuzz with the news that he's made first eleven cricket captain. Everybody thought that he had left early, but maybe he was hiding. He doesn't talk much.
Blair has never had a go at me in the six weeks I've been here, but then, he hasn't said more than a few words to me, even though I'm supposed to be his Chemistry partner. I've tried to talk to him, but he goes funny after a couple of sentences and speaks to anyone but me. Maybe today's the day. I have a horrible feeling that he must have stayed behind to give me my final hiding, so I get in first. "What the fuck are you staring at?"
Oh yeah, and did I mention, my mouth gets me in trouble all the time here? If I shut up and let them push me around I probably wouldn't get such a raw deal, but it abrades my nature. Why should I let other people treat me like shit just 'cos I'm not so wonderful looking as they are, in their opinion? (I don't get this at all; I was popular at my old school. I always thought that I looked alright until I came here.)
Blair frowns. "Grayson... Your first name's Matt, right?"
"Yeah, so what about it?" I snap. As I glance around the room, my heart sinks. My bag's gone, along with any other clothing. "Where's my stuff, arsehole?"
"Wha-" Blair looks at me, properly. He takes in my nudity, the bruise from Paul Baker's fist that's rapidly closing my left eye, the numerous red marks on my chest, the blood on my knuckles and elbows from hitting the concrete walls and floor at high speed (and a couple of the guys as well, until Baker made them hold me back). "Shit- Who'd that to you, Grayson?"
"Like you don't know," I sneer. The toilets are to my left. I could lock myself in one of the cubicles.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, drop the attitude," Blair snaps back. "Do you want my towel? You look cold."
He chucks me the damp, faded blue towel he has draped on the bench beside him. "Thanks," I say, grudgingly. I carefully dry myself. It's awkward because I'm trying to keep as much of my lower half covered as I can. I'm embarrassed as it is about being naked in front of him, without having him look at my dick. His is probably bigger and not so white.
Blair rolls his eyes. He digs into the adidas bag at his feet and retrieves a damp-looking polo-shirt. "You can have my practise gear too, unless you like standing there with your donger waving around. You're gonna need it. We're locked in."
I take his smelly, white polo, grateful for some measure of cover. The fight-or-flight beat that had lessened when he gave me his towel, starts up again in my chest. "We're what?" I exclaim.
"Yeah, I know. It fucking sucks. I've already yelled and banged on the doors, but nothing. Didn't you hear me?"
I shake my head. "No." Damn it, the towel he gave me isn't long enough to wrap around my waist. How does he manage? His hips must be wider than mine. Maybe he likes to show off his intimidatingly perfect body.
"Can I borrow your practise pants as well?" It's not a big ask, is it? Still, his eyes are shifting from mine, looking down my hairy, muscled legs. Cycling has bulked them up a bit; they're the only part of my body that's not 'lean'. "Yeah, I know, I'm skinnier than you. I'll just hitch them around the waist somehow. Come on, it's better than having me sitting here half naked, with my donger waving around." I can't believe I just said that. Well, he started it.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Blair says, but I can tell he's not too happy about it. He wrinkles his nose as I come close to take his mud and grass stained white pants. As I lean forward, his fingers brush my bruised cheek. I flinch at his touch, and feel myself begin to blush. He hurriedly flicks his hand away, grinning slightly, as if he had done it in jest, or to test me or something. He presses his full lips in a smile. When he starts to speak, no sound comes out for a second, even though his mouth is moving. He smiles a bit more, baring perfect white teeth. His voice is slow and careful. "...Those bruises look sore..."
No, they're painless, moron.
"...And your knuckles... Who beat you?"
Who do you think? "Some of your mates."
