Kent's arm tightens around Conrad's throat. The smaller wrestler bucks him off, thighs muscling up. He rides the upward momentum to slam Kent onto his back, landing an elbow in his gut that loosens his grip.
The whistle sounds. A disappointed groan rises from the auditorium seats, where the crowd is more than a little hungry for blood.
"Fuck!" He kicks himself for lashing out, even though Kent's been taunting him all night, giving him these
I know how to push your buttons
looks. Ambushing and retreating. Conrad would rather face off against some brain-dead muscle-wall over him any day; they're much slower, and easier to stay two steps ahead of.
The referee yanks him up by the arm, and suddenly the crowd swims back into focus. Whenever he's on the mat, everything else becomes a dull undercurrent. Some people are watching with close attention, others disinterestedly. A teenager in the front row has his headphones in, playing a game on his phone. Conrad pants with exertion, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Fire flares in his nostrils.
Kent crawls to his feet behind him, and the auditorium echoes with lukewarm applause for the default victor.
After the match, Kent finds Conrad while he's toweling off.
"Nice wrestling," Kent says. His singlet clings tightly to his pecs and the ripples of muscle down his abdomen. The rise and fall of his belly draws Conrad's attention down to the visible bulge between his legs.
Conrad's eyes snap back up to the wrestler's mop of fluffy brown hair and the maddening display of pride on his face. What exactly does he have to be proud of? He scoffs, hoping he'll just fuck off.
"What?" Kent asks.
"What do you think?"
"No, I'm serious. You've got some good moves."
"Whatever." Conrad can't help but think that he's playing with him. There's an insult buried in there somewhere; there always is. He's gotten used to that aspect of being the only openly trans wrestler at his college. He tries not to let it get to him anymore.
"What would you say about a private match?"
Conrad searches the wrestler's olive-toned features for signs of mockery, but finds none. Is he actually being genuine?
"Just you and me. No ref." A toothy smile spreads across his face. "What do you say?"
"Why?" Conrad frowns, unconvinced.
"I just want to see what you can actually take." He crosses his arms. "You know, without all these people around."
Conrad's never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not one shot between the teeth of his fiercest competitor, his dark, mirthless eyes glimmering. And it doesn't sound all that bad, actually. Nobody to yank him off of the wrestler when things get a little dirty, which they're bound to. Maybe that's what it will take to settle things between them.
He stands, stretching his sore limbs. He offers Kent his hand, gripping the other boy's firmly. It's softer than he expects, and warm. "You're on."
"Good." Kent holds on a little longer than necessary, brown eyes dancing over Conrad.
When he starts to get hot under his singlet, Conrad rips his away. "Fine. See you later, then."
-
Conrad comes freshly showered and shaved, which he knows is unnecessary, but he likes the feeling of the tight spandex on smooth skin, even if he'll be sweating from exertion in minutes. The blue singlet hugs him comfortably, skin-tight around his thighs and ass and flat chest, showing off the muscular contours that testosterone has squared out and made more defined.
Kent is already at the mat in the darkened gymnasium, squirting water from a bottle into his mouth.
"All warmed up, I hope?" Conrad asks. He's had time to compose himself, come off a little less flustered than at the match, or so he hopes. He swings his shoulder to loosen the rotator cuff he tore last year. He's supposed to go easy on it. Not that he will.
Kent gives him an almost-sheepish grin from under his dark mess of hair and ruddy cheeks. His teeth are crooked in a charming sort of way that Conrad despises, and he knows exactly how to play it cool until they're on the mat, keeping Conrad subdued. Presenting a false underbelly to soften him up.
"You look thirsty." Kent extends the water bottle to Conrad. When he doesn't take it, Kent's thick eyebrows jerk upward. "Wouldn't want you needing a water break."
It's a challenge, but an odd one. Conrad doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to when he snatches the plastic bottle and takes a long drink, tasting Kent's spit on the mouthpiece. Something stirs in his belly.
With Kent watching expectantly, he downs the whole bottle. He wipes his mouth on his arm, catching the drips before they make it down to his chin.
"There. Happy?"
Kent takes the bottle, a playful smile on his lips.
Conrad crosses his arms, taking the defensive. "Look, you don't need to worry about me finding ways to squirrel out of this. I've been looking forward to it." He hopes he sounds more certain of himself than he feels.
"I hope so." There's that sly fucking smile again. He glances at the mat and back to Conrad. "After you."
His calmness is unnerving. Conrad steps onto the mat, finding his footing on the soft foam. He rolls his neck, trying to relax the tension that's been perched there ever since Kent proposed the match, impervious to any hot shower.
Not in any rush, Kent follows him onto the mat.
Conrad plants his feet wide, falling into a shallow squat. He has the advantage here, his center of gravity lower to the ground than the taller boy's. Even though they're in the same weight class, Kent is taller and leaner than him, and stronger than he looks. Taking him down will only be half the battle, and he has a feeling that Kent's not planning on playing nice.
With a glint in his eyes, Kent reaches out a tentative arm. Conrad slaps it--the engaging strike, skin on skin. And now they're off, beginning their shuffling, quick-changing dance around the ring.
Kent will go for the shoulders, Conrad knows. He always does. This will put him off balance and open up an opportunity for Conrad to dive lower, but he can't rush into an attack. He has to wait for the perfect moment. He keeps his footing steady, feigning left then right. His eyes stay locked onto Kent's, whose scrambling reaches, pawing at his forearms and thighs, become nothing more than background noise.
This steadiness, this conviction of strength passed eye-to-eye, forehead-to-forehead, is the most powerful weapon Conrad has. It swells between them.
Kent lunges; Conrad lets him. He drives his shoulders into Kent's abdomen, wrapping his arms around the bend in his legs. Kent grunts with frustration, trying to pry himself free. He rallies at Conrad's back, trying to reach down to unearth him, but the shorter wrestler drives powerfully forward.
Through thin spandex, the soft, unprotected package in Kent's groin presses against the side of his face, his neck. Gripping him tightly around the thighs, which is effective at throwing Kent off-balance, Conrad can smell the sharp, earthy musk coming off of him.
When he feels Kent's thighs quake with the effort of staying upright, he takes his window, lifting Kent's feet off the ground. His weight hurdles over Conrad's shoulder. He throws himself backward, his opponent taking the brunt of his weight. Conrad's fall is cushioned by a landscape of soft tissue and knobby bone.
Whatever stun the slap of the mat must have given him doesn't last long. Kent is immediately grabbing for his ankles, then trying to wrench an arm up and around his neck to put him into a chokehold. They grapple like this for some time, bodies wrapped in each others' heat, locked into straining grips, grunts echoing in the empty gymnasium. Conrad loses track of the time and his thoughts go quiet. All he can feel is Kent's body against his, all legs and hands and gritted teeth.
Exhaustion starts to seep in, and Kent manages to get some leverage, pulling an elbow tightly across Conrad's throat. He has Conrad right where he wants him--pinned against his chest with an arm cinched under his chin and muscled legs locked around his torso.
Usually, Conrad would be in trouble. But neither of them are playing by the rules, are they? And who's going to call them out on it? The match isn't going to stop for a little bruising, and the idea lights a fire in Conrad's stomach.
Kent has a weakness, and Conrad's not afraid to use it to his advantage. He shifts his hips against the wrestler, jamming the bone against the vulnerable tissue of Kent's groin.
It won't take much. He wriggles, adding to the pressure. Kent releases a hiss of air through his teeth, and Conrad knows he's right on the mark.
He wants to hurt him. He owes him that.
