The gymnasium was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors and the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting mats. You adjusted your singlet, the fabric clinging to your sweat-dampened skin, and eyed your sparring partner, Jake. He was taller than you, broader, with a smirk that always seemed to hint he knew something you didn’t. “Ready to get pinned again?” Jake teased, rolling his shoulders as he stepped onto the mat. You grinned, circling him. “Dream on. I’m not letting you off that easy.” The coach blew the whistle, and you lunged. Your hands grappled for control, fingers digging into each other’s shoulders. Jake’s strength was undeniable, but you were quicker, twisting out of his grip and countering with a low sweep. He stumbled but didn’t fall, his laugh echoing through the gym. “Not bad,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that.” The match intensified. Your bodies pressed close, the heat of exertion radiating between you. At one point, Jake’s chest brushed against yours, and you felt his heartbeat, rapid and strong. You locked eyes for a moment, and something flickered in his gaze—something you couldn’t quite place. “You’re holding back,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t.” The comment lit a fire in you. You powered forward, driving him toward the edge of the mat. He resisted, muscles straining, but you managed to hook your leg behind his knee and take him down. Both of you hit the mat with a grunt, your bodies tangled together. For a second, neither of you moved. His hands were still on your shoulders, yours gripping his waist. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours. You could smell the faint tang of his cologne mixed with sweat, and it was oddly intoxicating. His smirk returned, softer this time. “Alright, you got me this round.” You rolled off him, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and something else—something you weren’t ready to name. After practice, the team gathered in the locker room, the air thick with the scent of soap and steam. You sat on the bench, toweling off your hair, when Jake plopped down beside you. “Good match today,” he said, leaning back against the lockers. “You’re getting better.” “Thanks,” you replied, glancing at him. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the edges, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks from the shower. There was a pause, then he nudged your shoulder with his. “You know, we should grab a drink sometime. Just us. Talk strategy or whatever.” You raised an eyebrow. “Strategy, huh? You just want an excuse to pick my brain so you can beat me next time.” He chuckled, low and warm. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like hanging out with you.” The way he said it—casual but with a hint of something more—made your stomach flip. You didn’t respond immediately, but Jake didn’t seem to mind. He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Think about it,” he said, giving you a playful wink before heading toward the exit. As the locker room emptied, you lingered, the sound of water dripping from the showers echoing in the silence. Your thoughts kept drifting back to that moment on the mat, to the way Jake had looked at you, to the way his hands had lingered a little too long on your skin. You shook your head, trying to clear it. He was just a teammate, a friend. Nothing more. But as you left the gym that night, the image of his smile stayed with you, a quiet question forming in the back of your mind. The next day, practice was brutal. The coach pushed you harder than usual, and by the end of it, your muscles were screaming. Jake, of course, seemed unfazed, his energy as boundless as ever. “You look like you’re about to pass out,” he said, tossing you a bottle of water. “Feel like it too,” you muttered, taking a long sip. He laughed, leaning against the wall beside you. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, you’re tougher than you look.” “Gee, thanks,” you said dryly, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Afterward, as you were packing up your gear, Jake approached again. “So, about that drink…” You paused, glancing up at him. “Yeah?” “How about tonight? There’s a bar on the corner of 5th and Main. Casual spot, good beers.” You hesitated, your mind racing. It was just a drink, right? Just two teammates hanging out. But the way he was looking at you—steady, expectant—made it feel like something more. “Sure,” you said finally, your voice a little steadier than you felt. “Why not?” His grin lit up his face. “Cool. Meet you there at eight.” As he walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. And when you arrived at the bar that night, seeing Jake sitting at a corner table, his eyes locking onto yours the moment you walked in, you knew you were in trouble. He stood as you approached, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Glad you made it.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, sitting down. There was a moment—just a split second—where it felt like he might say something else, do something else. But then he leaned back, his easy smile returning. “So,” he said, picking up his beer. “Let’s talk strategy.”

During practice, you sparred with Jake, managing to pin him after a heated match. Afterward, Jake invited you for a drink to discuss strategy, which you accepted. The next day, you went to a bar with Jake, and he suggested talking about strategy.

The gymnasium was alive with the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors and the rhythmic thud of bodies hitting mats. You adjusted your singlet, the fabric clinging to your sweat-dampened skin, and eyed your sparring partner, Jake. He was taller than you, broader, with a smirk that always seemed to hint he knew something you didn’t.  

“Ready to get pinned again?” Jake teased, rolling his shoulders as he stepped onto the mat.  

You grinned, circling him. “Dream on. I’m not letting you off that easy.”  

The coach blew the whistle, and you lunged. Your hands grappled for control, fingers digging into each other’s shoulders. Jake’s strength was undeniable, but you were quicker, twisting out of his grip and countering with a low sweep. He stumbled but didn’t fall, his laugh echoing through the gym.  

“Not bad,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that.”  

The match intensified. Your bodies pressed close, the heat of exertion radiating between you. At one point, Jake’s chest brushed against yours, and you felt his heartbeat, rapid and strong. You locked eyes for a moment, and something flickered in his gaze—something you couldn’t quite place.  

“You’re holding back,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t.”  

The comment lit a fire in you. You powered forward, driving him toward the edge of the mat. He resisted, muscles straining, but you managed to hook your leg behind his knee and take him down. Both of you hit the mat with a grunt, your bodies tangled together.  

For a second, neither of you moved. His hands were still on your shoulders, yours gripping his waist. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against yours. You could smell the faint tang of his cologne mixed with sweat, and it was oddly intoxicating.  

His smirk returned, softer this time. “Alright, you got me this round.”  

You rolled off him, feeling a strange mix of satisfaction and something else—something you weren’t ready to name.  

After practice, the team gathered in the locker room, the air thick with the scent of soap and steam. You sat on the bench, toweling off your hair, when Jake plopped down beside you.  

“Good match today,” he said, leaning back against the lockers. “You’re getting better.”  

“Thanks,” you replied, glancing at him. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the edges, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks from the shower.  

There was a pause, then he nudged your shoulder with his. “You know, we should grab a drink sometime. Just us. Talk strategy or whatever.”  

You raised an eyebrow. “Strategy, huh? You just want an excuse to pick my brain so you can beat me next time.”  

He chuckled, low and warm. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like hanging out with you.”  

The way he said it—casual but with a hint of something more—made your stomach flip. You didn’t respond immediately, but Jake didn’t seem to mind. He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder.  

“Think about it,” he said, giving you a playful wink before heading toward the exit.  

As the locker room emptied, you lingered, the sound of water dripping from the showers echoing in the silence. Your thoughts kept drifting back to that moment on the mat, to the way Jake had looked at you, to the way his hands had lingered a little too long on your skin.  

You shook your head, trying to clear it. He was just a teammate, a friend. Nothing more.  

But as you left the gym that night, the image of his smile stayed with you, a quiet question forming in the back of your mind.  

The next day, practice was brutal. The coach pushed you harder than usual, and by the end of it, your muscles were screaming. Jake, of course, seemed unfazed, his energy as boundless as ever.  

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he said, tossing you a bottle of water.  

“Feel like it too,” you muttered, taking a long sip.  

He laughed, leaning against the wall beside you. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, you’re tougher than you look.”  

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.  

Afterward, as you were packing up your gear, Jake approached again. “So, about that drink…”  

You paused, glancing up at him. “Yeah?”  

“How about tonight? There’s a bar on the corner of 5th and Main. Casual spot, good beers.”  

You hesitated, your mind racing. It was just a drink, right? Just two teammates hanging out. But the way he was looking at you—steady, expectant—made it feel like something more.  

“Sure,” you said finally, your voice a little steadier than you felt. “Why not?”  

His grin lit up his face. “Cool. Meet you there at eight.”  

As he walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. And when you arrived at the bar that night, seeing Jake sitting at a corner table, his eyes locking onto yours the moment you walked in, you knew you were in trouble.  

He stood as you approached, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Glad you made it.”  

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, sitting down.  

There was a moment—just a split second—where it felt like he might say something else, do something else. But then he leaned back, his easy smile returning.  

“So,” he said, picking up his beer. “Let’s talk strategy.”

You and your fellow wrestlers slowly become more sexual with each other.

Grappling with Desire

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