I had third period with Coach Jackson. I’d help him out with putting up and sorting the equipment. When he found I was good at computers, I helped him get a few of his spreadsheets in order.
“Not a dumb jock, are ya, Connelly?”
“No sir,” I laughed. I could see how I’d fit the stereotype, but I was quietly very good at school, had high grades.
“Thinking about where you’re applying for college?”
“Not sure yet, Coach.”
“Ever consider Stanford?” Coach J was a Stanford alum, and in case you didn’t know it from the cardinal red ball cap or sweatshirt or athletic shorts he wore, he was always talking about it. It got to be a joke among the fellas.
“Not sure I could get in,” I said. “Besides, it’s pretty expensive.”
“Aw you got the throwing arm for a scholarship, Connelly. Amazing for a sophomore. Best I’ve seen in a long time. As for the rest, just study your ass off next year and you have a shot. And when it comes time to write your statement, just play up the whole jock who loves learning bit. Admissions committees eat that shit up.” This was my favorite part of third period. The fact Coach let his guard down around me, and was free to cuss and talk like a buddy or a father figure.
“Yes, sir,” I laughed.
It was a long shot, but I made it my goal. My social life suffered the next year, and my friends razzed me pretty hard for nerding out on them, but I decided my life was gonna be school and baseball and that’s it. Something about Coach’s encouragement drove me on.
Maybe it was an unhealthy thing, my desire to please Dave Jackson. I found myself hanging on his every word, memorizing his demeanor, way of walking and talking. And later, alone in my bedroom, as I was stroking my cock, I’d talk to Coach J, tell him the things I’d like to do.
I felt like a piece of shit for a while, but by spring of my senior year I realized I was a gay dude, and I was OK with that. I was playing the best baseball of my life, best Taft High had seen in a while, and whatever happened I was sure of getting a scholarship to play somewhere.
When the notification call came from Stanford, I was blown away. Admission with full scholarship! Maybe I should have told my parents first, but immediately I drove over to Coach J’s place. I knew he’d want to hear the news first.
Coach was wearing his Stanford cap and a flannel shirt unbuttoned, revealing his still firm, tanned chest covered in blond and gray hairs. “What’s up Mike?” he asked.
“Coach. I got in. Stanford.”
I never knew the look of pure masculine pride before that moment. “I knew you could do it, Connelly!” he growled, wrapping me in a big bear hug that almost knocked the air out of me. “You son of a bitch, you did it!”
And just like that our mouths met, full on, man-on-man kiss. I guess in my fantasies I’d thought about this, but even in my jerkoff sessions the kiss wasn’t as awesome as this.
“Jesus, sorry, Big C,” he said, using his nickname for me. “Got carried away.” His happiness was starting to get replaced by a real nervous expression.
“Coach, I wanted to. I still do.“
He gave me a shy, cautious smile and pulled off his cap, put it on my head. “Why don’t you sit down in that chair, Big C, “lie back and let your Coach show you a proper reward for hard work.”
I did as he said and unbelieving, watched him pull down my shorts and briefs. He examined my hardon for a minute, touching it softly, and caressing it with soothing strokes. Then leaning down, Coach swallowed me and started giving me my first honest-to-god blowjob.