Jefferson sat in the coach's office, glancing between him and assistant coach Berkley. He shifted uneasily in his uniform, his undershirt still clinging to his body with sweat. Coach rolled a ball between his hands while Berkley stared him down, her hair pulled into a taut ponytail.
"I'm not exactly sure how to say this," Coach leaned across his desk, littered with trophies and family photos, "but there have been some concerns."
He was a roundish man in his forties, and usually left most of the strenuous activity to Berkley, with her tight runner's frame. Angular-featured and tall, the assistant coach was by far the harder of the two to impress. She stood unsmiling on the sidelines, eyes pinned to her stopwatch, as she sent the boys for another lap. They had learned pretty quickly not to make jokes at her expense.
"Concerns?" Jefferson had wondered why Berkley pulled him out of practice. The tone of her voice had told him something was wrong, and his sweat took on a sharp twinge of fear.
Berkley was leaning against the blue-painted wall behind Coach's desk, hands leisurely in the pockets of her tracksuit. "Some of the other players have voiced concerns over your physical abilities as a teammate. Now hold on, I don't want you to worry." She attempted a reassuring tone. "I think we can put this all to rest, don't you?"
Jefferson nodded. He hoped so. Playing football had been his dream since he was a kid, but there weren't exactly girls' teams at any of the schools he'd been shuffled between. Now that he was in college and two years into his transition, he'd jumped at the chance. He knew he'd have to work harder and prove himself to the other boys, who were all at least a head taller, but he was confident he'd be able to keep up.
"I know we went through all of this when you joined the team," Coach said, somewhat apologetically, "but we just need to make sure everything is... In order. We required that you be on hormones for at least six months so that your strength would be on par with the other athletes."
"A team is only as strong as its weakest player," Berkley added with a nod.
"Yes," Jeff said, "and I passed all of the fitness tests you gave me."
With flying colors,
he didn't need to add. He tried to keep his voice level, not wanting Coach to know how much this irritated him. He thought that at least Coach would have his back. It's not like he'd been falling behind on the field, but he had a suspicion that some of his teammates didn't want him there in the first place.
Coach nodded. "You did. And..." He cleared his throat, going a little red in the face. "This is a bit sensitive to talk about, but we--"
Berkley cut in: "We just need to make sure that your hormone treatment is having the necessary effects."
Jefferson raised his eyebrows. "Make sure how?"
She slapped her hands against her thighs, sighing. "Quick and easy, Jefferson. I know it's nothing you can't handle."
He waited for her to continue.
"We just need to do a basic physical exam, and then we can put those concerns to rest. Just a quick checkup. And we'll even do it here in the office."
"But who's going to...?"
"Come on, Jefferson. I was an army nurse for years. I think I can handle a quick one-over. Let's get it done with so we can get you back on the field."
Jefferson swallowed. What choice did he have? It was clear that going through with the physical was his only hope of staying on the team.
Coach stood up from his desk. "Well, I'll leave you to it."
"No," Berkley said, "I think it's best you stay. You need to know how your star athlete's doing, right?"
"Um, right." He sat back down.
"Alright, Jefferson. Take off your uniform, please."
Since he'd joined, his uniform had been his armor--both in a literal and a figurative sense. His shoulder pads and helmet protected him against blows from other players, teaching him to trust his own strength and not hold back out of fear. They also made him fit in among the other players; no one watching from the stands would notice anything different about him in his red #29 jersey, except maybe that he was on the smaller side. Even so, he was one of the guys, a jock, a football player. Nobody could take that away from him.
Except for assistant coach Berkley, who was snapping on purple surgical gloves from a red and white first-aid kit. The reality of the situation, and how little choice he had in it, was hitting him with a dull pang.
"This week, please."
He pulled his scratchy synthetic jersey over his head, and then undid the straps of his shoulder pads.
"Here," Berkley said, lifting the clunky equipment over his head.
This left Jefferson in his sticky gray t-shirt.
"That too," Berkley nodded.
He peeled the shirt over his head and handed it to her, still heavy with sweat. She set it aside.
Berkley examined his top surgery scars, which had healed into two clean lines under his defined pecs. She ran a finger along one scar, gently. "Can you feel that?"
Jefferson nodded. It was just a dull tingling sensation. He had never fully regained feeling along the scar tissue.
"How about here?" She circled his nipple with a gloved finger, then gave it a flick.
Jefferson winced, his nipples going hard from her touch.
"Good to see you've retained sensation there." She nodded at Coach to make a note. "We don't want you injuring yourself without knowing, do we?"
Jefferson forced a smile.
"Step onto the scale for me, please."
Coach had one of those old-fashioned scales in his office. When he stepped on, the metal shifting under his weight, Berkley slid the weights into place, balancing them in just the right position to keep them from clanking over. "Good to see you've put on some weight."
Jefferson spent most of his spare time at the gym, trying to bulk up so he could keep pace with the other guys. He loved the way his body looked slick with sweat and freshly pumped from the dumbbells or the squat rack. It was something he took pride in, and he felt a momentary glow having this accomplishment noticed.
But that disappeared a moment later when Berkley asked him to step down and take off his pants.
He blushed. "Why?"
The assistant coach shrugged. "Like I said, we need to make sure you're fit to continue playing. That means being thorough so we don't miss anything. Now go ahead and take them off, please."
Jefferson bent down reluctantly, slipping the tight padded pants down his thighs. He immediately felt cold air on his ass. Since he'd joined the team, he'd started wearing a jockstrap under his uniform. It was more comfortable, more breathable, he told himself. But there was also the appeal of the white pouch around his junk, his bare ass hanging free. Sometimes just looking at himself in the mirror with it on made him hard.
He kicked the pants from around his ankles. With a breath, he stood up tall to take her examination.
He wasn't usually embarrassed by his own nudity, and had actually grown pretty happy in his skin, but things were different with Coach and Berkley scrutinizing every inch of him. His rounded shoulders, the pecs he'd built up on the bench press, abs tight from hours of practice every night, firm glutes, thickly-muscled thighs. Since starting T, the thin peach fuzz that had covered his body had darkened to a visible brown, intensifying on his legs and stomach below the navel.
There were things he was insecure about, of course. His height, for one. He could tell that some of the other guys underestimated him, at least until he gave them a taste of their mouthguards. The width of his hips, made more noticeable by the padded pants. And of course, the place where something was missing, where he wore a cup but didn't need one.
But when he was playing, he didn't think about any of that. He loved nothing more than a misty morning game, the still before the whistle and armored bodies clashing into one another, cleats and legs muddy. In the heat of it, he wasn't any different from them. He finally fit in.
And now this, calling every one of his differences to attention. Berkley noting them, measuring them.
And she wasn't done yet. "Underwear off, please."
"But--"
"Come on, Jefferson. Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."
He stole a glance at Coach, who was still watching from his desk. He gave him a dismissive gesture, saying,
What do you want me to do about it?
Seeing he had no allies and no other way forward, Jefferson readied himself, trying to send a wave of calm through his body. He pushed the jockstrap down and took it off quickly.
He watched Berkley's eyes widen a little, staring at the small cock that peeked out between his legs. That's what Jefferson liked to call it, and that's what it looked and acted like now that he was on T. Still, he wasn't really used to anyone staring like this.
"Alright," Berkley said, tearing her eyes away and back to his face, "I'm going to need a urine sample from you." She handed Jefferson a small plastic cup.
He glanced around the room, wondering how he was going to make it to the bathroom down the hall in the nude.
"Oh, no." She shook her head. "You'll need to do it right here, so Coach and I can both confirm there's been no tampering with the sample."
Jefferson got hot and flustered. "But why?" It's not like he was into partying or drugs, and he'd never given them any reason to suspect him.
"It's policy," Berkley said, crossing her arms. "New policy, for athletes like you."
Her words burned, full of accusation. He'd heard of these kinds of policies passing in high schools, allowing invasive exams for trans students, but didn't know they had reached colleges too. It made his skin boil.
"Think you can do that, Jefferson? Or are you going to need some help?"
"No." Jefferson shook his head. "I'll do it," he said, glowering.
He turned away from Berkley and the coach, trying to grant himself at least the illusion of privacy. He had to stand with his legs slightly apart, pressing the cup against his genitals, hoping he wouldn't drip onto the floor. He tried to let go, but found it difficult while he was being observed. He shut his eyes, trying to get his muscles to relax.
"Everything alright there, Jefferson?"
"Yep." He grimaced, concentrating. Finally he let go, flushing with shame at the sound of his urine hitting the plastic cup, filling it.
Red-faced, he handed it to Berkley.
"Very good. Now, let's get a better look at you. Up on the table, please."
