Victory Together

By the time Craig finished getting ready, he was already annoyed. Not because of the basketball game. Not because Frank was waiting for him. Not even because Saturday afternoons were supposed to be relaxing. No, the source of his irritation was sitting in his closet.

Or rather, it wasn't.

The pink-and-white wedge sneakers he'd worn the previous weekend had vanished. In their place sat another pair of shoes that looked almost identical at first glance. Same colours. Same sporty styling. Same cheerful aesthetic. Except these ones had stiletto heels.

Craig stood in the closet, which had somehow grown much larger, staring at them.

"Of course."

Apparently Eros had looked at athletic wedge heels and decided they weren't ridiculous enough. That they weren't feminine enough.

The frustrating part was that the shoes felt incredible. Sliding his feet into them had been effortless. Walking felt natural. Comfortable. Better than natural, if he was being honest. Every step felt springy and balanced, his body responding to the heels as though they'd been custom-built for him. If anything, he had more confidence in his agility, in his athleticism in these new shoes than the wedge heels.

Which only made him angrier.

The rest of the outfit hadn't helped.

He'd pulled out the same pink tank top and blue pleated skirt he'd worn the previous Saturday. Familiar. Comfortable. Predictable. Then he'd actually put the skirt on. Standing in front of the mirror, Craig stared. The thing had definitely gotten shorter. There was no other explanation. A week ago it had been merely embarrassing. Now it barely qualified as clothing. Turning sideways confirmed his suspicion. Pink lace panties peeked out whenever he moved.

"Wonderful."

With a sigh, he'd sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of white thigh-high stockings, the closest thing in his new wardrobe to replace sports socks. Still, they looked surprisingly good with the outfit. That thought annoyed him too.

Now fully dressed, Craig twisted around, examining himself in the mirror.

Blue skirt.

Pink top.

White stockings.

Pink stiletto sneakers.

The image looking back at him belonged on the sidelines of a basketball game, not on the court.

A strange sensation stirred inside him. That itch again. That craving. His eyes drifted toward the dresser. Rows of nail polish waited there.

Pink.

Red.

Purple.

Coral.

Sparkling silver.

The urge hit hard enough that he actually groaned.

"No."

The urge persisted. Craig folded his arms. The urge persisted harder. Five seconds later he was standing in front of the dresser.

"Fine."

A pink bottle found its way into his hand. By now the process barely required conscious thought. The brush glided across each nail with smooth precision. No smudges. No mistakes. No hesitation. Minutes later he sat blowing gently across freshly painted fingernails. The colour matched his top perfectly.

They looked fantastic.

That realization produced a brief pulse of satisfaction. Then frustration. Then another pulse of satisfaction. It was becoming harder to tell where his genuine opinions ended and Eros' influence began. The thought lingered as he screwed the cap back onto the bottle.

At least his nails looked nice.

Which was a sentence Craig absolutely hated.

A quick spray of perfume followed. Then another. His body relaxed immediately.

"That's getting concerning," he muttered.

Purse in hand, Craig finally stepped into the hallway. Frank was already waiting. The familiar grin appeared the moment he spotted Craig.

"Looking good, Craiger."

Heat crept into Craig's cheeks. There was no mockery. No judgement. No inappropriate appreciation. Just genuine warmth.

"I appreciate you joining the team," Frank continued. "We could use the talent."

Talent. That felt good to hear.

"Thanks."

The smile that appeared felt genuine. Together they headed downstairs.

The drive to the community centre started normally. Then the radio became a problem. Pop music poured from the speakers. The sort of music Craig normally would've tolerated at best. Upbeat. Catchy. Energetic. But about halfway through the second song, he found himself singing along. Every single word. Perfectly. Craig stopped. The music continued. Ten seconds later he was singing again.

"What?" he said aloud.

Frank glanced over.

"What?"

"I know this song."

"Everybody knows this song."

"No, I mean all of it."

Frank laughed.

"So?"

Craig didn't have an answer. The next song started. Somehow he knew that one too. By the time they pulled into the community centre parking lot, he'd spent most of the drive singing, tapping the steering wheel, and generally having a good time.

Which felt suspicious.

Still, his mood was excellent. The music had energized him. His shoes felt fantastic. And most importantly? Basketball.

Finally. Something normal. Something masculine. Something athletic. Something that had absolutely nothing to do with pole dancing or panties. A chance to remind himself of his masculinity.

The moment they walked into the gym, however, something felt off. Several players from Frank's team were gathered near the bench. Nobody looked excited. A few offered awkward smiles. One of the men, Trevor, stepped forward.

"Hey, Craig."

"Hey."

Trevor rubbed the back of his neck.

"So..."

Craig immediately knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next.

"What's up?"

"First off, thanks for coming."

That definitely wasn't a good sign.

"You were incredible last week."

Craig's stomach sank.

"Oh no."

The player sighed.

"The other team is refusing to play if you're on the roster."

"What?"

"Apparently they checked the registration list."

Craig blinked.

"The registration list?"

"Your name isn't on it."

"Because I joined last week."

"Exactly."

The player nodded.

"They claim we're cheating."

Craig stared. For several seconds he genuinely thought he must've misunderstood.

"They think I'm cheating?"

"Honestly?"

The man grinned.

"They probably found out how good you are."

A few teammates chuckled. The compliment softened the disappointment slightly.

Slightly.

"We argued."

"Didn't help."

"Nope."

Trevor shrugged.

"They threatened to forfeit."

Craig looked toward the court. His excitement leaked away.

"So I can't play."

"Sorry, man."

A pause.

"Stick around after?"

Another teammate spoke up.

"We're grabbing drinks."

"Would love to have you."

Several others nodded. The invitation was something at least. He couldn't play, but he could pal around afterword. It helped.

A little.

"Yeah."

Craig **** a smile.

"Sure."

Five minutes later he was sitting alone in a folding chair near the bench. Watching. Pouting. The situation felt absurd. He'd wanted exercise. He'd wanted competition. He'd wanted one afternoon that didn't involve skirts, makeup, perfume, or learning how to spin around a stripper pole. Instead he was sitting courtside wearing a pleated skirt and pink heels while everybody else played basketball.

Fantastic.

The warmups began. Craig watched absent-mindedly. A player sank a three-pointer. Nice shot. Another completed a clean layup. Not bad. A third stole a pass during a drill. Good hands.

Without realizing it, he found himself paying closer attention. The movement. The strategy. The teamwork. After a few minutes he stood. The chair suddenly felt unnecessary.

Now positioned behind the bench, Craig watched players rotate through shooting drills. One of them nailed five shots in a row. His hands came together automatically.

"Nice!"

The player grinned. Another hit a difficult shot. Craig clapped again, feeling good to be able to encourage the team, even if he wasn't allowed to participate.

Soon warmups ended and the game began. Craig, energized by the action, remained standing.

The first possession unfolded. Then another. Then another. Unexpectedly, he found himself completely invested. Every pass mattered. Every rebound mattered. Every basket mattered. When Frank stole the ball and drove the length of the court for an easy layup, Craig cheered before he could stop himself.

"LET'S GO, FRANK!"

Several players looked over and laughed. Frank pointed at him during the jog back downcourt. Craig pointed right back.

The game continued. Excitement built. Soon he wasn't merely watching, he was participating. Not on the court, but on the sidelines. Craig had carved himself out a piece of the action, one of encouragement, helping the team understand their value as they played.

"Great defence!"

"That's it!"

"Nice pass!"

The encouragement came naturally, and the players responded. Smiles appeared. Energy increased. But more than that, they seemed to play better. Craig liked that.

Really liked it.

Every time somebody made a good play, he wanted them to know. Wanted them to feel supported. Wanted them to feel good. And wanted them to keep it up.

"Dylan, get open!"

"Nice rebound, Mark!"

"Way to hustle, Trevor!"

The bench started laughing. Not because they were mocking him. Because they loved it. One of the other team's players even shouted back.

"No fair! We need a mascot, too!"

Craig rolled his eyes, then laughed. Then continued cheering.

At some point somebody connected a phone to the gym speakers. Music started playing during a timeout. Without thinking, Craig began moving along with the beat. Just a little. A sway. A bounce. Nothing dramatic. The sort of movement that might've embarrassed him a month ago, but today felt natural.

Comfortable.

Fun.

A few pole dancing habits had apparently decided to stick around.

The realization should've bothered him. Instead he found himself smiling.

The second half flew by. Momentum swung back and forth. The game stayed close. Every basket felt enormous. Every defensive stop felt critical.

By the final minutes Craig was practically vibrating with excitement. When Frank hit a jumper to put the team ahead, Craig jumped. Actually jumped. Hands over his head. Cheering.

The final buzzer sounded moments later.

Victory.

Frank's team had won. The players erupted in cheers, high fiving in celebration.

And Craig? Craig practically bounced off the floor.

"YES!"

Both fists shot into the air. The joy flooding through him felt ridiculous. He hadn't scored a point. Hadn't played a minute. Hadn't even touched a basketball. Yet somehow he felt amazing. Maybe even better than he had the previous week. That realization should've concerned him, but instead it just made him grin.

The team gathered near the bench. Several players exchanged congratulations. Frank approached, sweaty and smiling.

"We did it."

Craig laughed.

"You did it."

"We did it."

"No."

Frank pointed directly at him.

"You're taking some credit for that."

Craig blinked.

"What?"

"I haven't been cheered for that hard since high school. I think it was what put us over the top."

Several teammates immediately agreed.

"Dude, you were fantastic."

"You got everybody fired up."

"We need you every week."

Warmth spread through Craig's chest. The compliments felt good. Really good. Far better than they probably should have. For a brief moment, standing there in his short skirt, thigh-high stockings, pink heels, and freshly painted nails, Craig felt genuinely happy.

He still wished he'd played. Still wished he'd gotten the chance to prove himself on the court. But as the team headed toward the locker rooms and started discussing where they'd celebrate the win, some things became impossible to deny: watching had been fun. Cheering had been fun. Supporting the team had been fun.

Maybe a little too fun, but Craig decided that was a problem for future Craig.

Current Craig was ready to celebrate.