SPEEDO VOLLEYBALL
The head coach doesn’t explain much. He just opens the drawer.
Speedos. White. Tiny. Too many of them.
“This is how we prep before big games,” he says. “Everyone participates.”
I stare, a clueless recently hired assistant coach for the volleyball team.
The players are already there, leaning on the net, grinning like they know a secret. Grown men. Broad shoulders. Zero shame. One of them twirls a speedo around his finger like it’s bait.
I’m still dressed. Still pretending this is normal.
“New guy goes last,” someone says. Laughter bounces around the gym.
They strip without hesitation. Shorts hit the floor. The lights feel brighter suddenly. I try not to stare and fail immediately. They notice. Of course they do.
“Take your time,” another one says. “Orientation’s important.”
By the time I pull the speedo on, my face is burning. The fabric clings tight and unforgiving. I’m painfully aware of every inch of exposed skin, every draft, every eye. The players clap like I’ve completed a trick.
“Turn around,” one of them adds.
I look to the head coach. He just crosses his arms. And nods.
I turn. The laughter gets louder. Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else says, “Yeah, he’ll do.”
We start playing. Hard. Fast. No mercy. The ball cracks through the air. Bodies jump and collide. At the net, the players crowd me, brushing shoulders, hips, thighs—accidental, but not really. When I mess up, they call it out.
“Too slow.” “Hands higher.” “Careful, coach, that thing’s working overtime.”
Every point I lose earns a chorus of groans. Every fall earns applause. Sweat runs everywhere. My speedo feels smaller by the second. The humiliation seeps in, hot and buzzing, until I can’t tell where embarrassment ends and something darker starts.
When I score, they cheer like I’ve been allowed to exist.
After practice, the head coach doesn’t send the players away. They linger by the door of the office, leaning in, listening.
“Orientation's not finished,” he says.
He steps close to me, fingers hooking at my waistband, not pulling, just reminding me it’s there. The players go quiet. Watching. My heart is loud.
“You held up,” he says. “Didn’t quit.”
I nod. I don’t trust my voice.
He tilts my chin up with two fingers. His kiss is brief but heavy, enough to make my knees wobble. There’s a low murmur behind us. Approval. Amusement.
“Good lesson,” one of the players says softly.
The head coach lets go. The spell breaks. The players laugh again, already turning away, already done with me.
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