Athletics

Izzy flung her arm through the air, wildly palm-striking the ball in a way that would have made a professional cringe. Volleyball was not her sport, but right now she needed the exertion. It bit away at her frustration, chipping through annoyance in flakes and chunks, leaving her hearing only the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

She’d had it all planned out: she’d attend the athletics, find whichever sport had attracted the most boys, then sit on the sidelines and ogle them. Maybe if she was feeling brave, she’d even join in and hope to get tackled—or at least to get a whiff of their sweat.

She’d been about to leave when she’d encountered Gwen in the hall, and off-handedly invited her. Gwen had immediately accepted, which surprised Izzy somewhat. Maybe she’d had the same idea as Izzy had now—exercise to distract from what she’d found on her bed.

The two girls followed a map on Izzy’s phone to Nixon Field, where they found a variety of games being played in the field itself, as well as the adjacent tennis court and grassy quad. Izzy immediately zeroed in on a group of athletic men (and a few opportunistic femboys) playing a rowdy game of touch football. Half the men were already shirtless, and Izzy felt her inhibitions rapidly dropping as she openly gazed at them. She managed to drag her eyes away long enough to check on Gwen’s reaction, and found the repressed girl practically burning red.

“Oh… umm… Why don’t we go over here?” Gwen squeaked, practically starting to drag Izzy toward an all-femme game of volleyball being played on one of the tennis courts.

“What? No. Nonono.” Izzy protested, trying to free herself. Gwen was surprisingly strong. “I’m here for that! For them!” she objected, indicating toward those… fuck… those sweat-shined guys…

Gwen squeaked. “What?! Like… for them for them?!”

Shit. Izzy hadn’t really meant to out herself that badly. Ah well.

“Yes! I wanna watch! Look, you said you weren’t judgy…”

“I know! I’m not! I’m not!” Gwen hurriedly assured. “But… I can’t go over there. I just can’t. And… I’m too nervous to go over here alone… Can you just… just please do me a favor? Pleeeease?”

Izzy set her teeth, groaning with growing frustration. “But this... this was supposed to be... Oh fine, alright. Fuck, fine, whatever.”

An entire afternoon of perfectly good voyeurism, ruined. Sweat dripped into Izzy’s eye, stinging her and throwing off her vision as she ran to set the ball. She felt the leather hit her fingers at an odd angle. At the last minute, she managed to roll her hands beneath it, and popped it up beautifully—the best she’d done all afternoon (wasn’t saying much, but still).

To her side, Gwen shuffled forward. Her eyes traced the ball’s arc. She moved with it, acting as its shadow. She stopped short as it neared the net, bent her legs…

She popped a couple inches off the ground, wildly flung her arm through the air, missed the ball completely, and almost fell on her face upon landing. The ball dropped to the rubberized court, bounced, then started to sadly roll away.

Izzy drizzled water into her mouth. The bottles in the large blue cooler at the extensive refreshment station had frozen over partially, and a large cylinder of ice rattling around in the thin plastic meant that only a bit of water was actually in drinkable form.

They’d lost the game, predictably. Feeling that her chance at catharsis had been thwarted, Izzy had excused herself from the rematch and made her way to the sidelines where a couple dozen sweaty freshmen were chatting over the sounds of a sporty radio mix blaring from an impromptu sound system.

Out of the corner of her eye, Izzy saw Gwen approach for a drink of her own.