Taking State

Today was the most important day of Milo Vale's life. The scale needle quivered in front of his eyes, deciding whether to fuck him.

152.0

An official in a gray polo scribbled the number on a clipboard.

"One fifty-two even," the man announced. "You're good. Next."

Milo stepped off the metal plate. His legs nearly folded. Four days of nothing but spit and sweat, salt under his tongue, the type of dehydration that made one piss amber.

His stomach had stopped growling sometime yesterday afternoon and become an angry knot. He needed calories. He needed water. His blood sludged in his veins.

Pulling on his navy warmups, Milo tried to embrace the fact that this was officially his last high school tournament. The facility stank of wintergreen and tape residue, that locker-room rot that had followed him since he was eight years old. Boys sat slumped against the painted cinderblock walls with towels draped over their heads, lost in their own pre-match rituals.

Jace O'Hara slapped his shoulder.

"State champ weight, baby."

"Don't jinx it, bro," Milo greeted his friend with their traditional handshake.

Jace grinned with all his teeth. "I don't jinx. I manifest."

"You manifest concussions," another senior chimed from his bench.

Jace pointed a finger gun at the boy. "That's right, Theo. That's why you don't want to cross me. You'll end up with a scrambled noggin."

Jace ruffled Milo's thick, dark hair, then zipped his own team jacket halfway. Across the back, in crisp white block letters, wasO'HARA. Below it, in smaller font:BASE RIDGE WRESTLING.

"Now, put your shoes on before you pass out, and I have to carry you."

Milo obliged. He knew what Jace was doing. Keeping things light. Pretending this was any other day, not their last on the mats. But the truth was, Milo wasn't worried. Sure, he had a full-ride Division I scholarship waiting if he performed well enough tonight, but this wasn't his first rodeo.

The hardest thing was keeping his weight down to stay in the most competitive class after his recent growth spurt. His phone buzzed in his gear bag.

Mom:Weight?

Milo:152:P

The reply came immediately.

Mom:Eat. I'll pick you up at the food court.

Then another bubble popped up.

Mom:Proud of you already.

Next semester, he'd be leaving Base Ridge behind for good.

Before he could dwell on it further, Jace hooked his heavy arm around Milo's and yanked him up to his feet.

"Let's fucking gooooo!"

"HEY!" Coach Barlow called from across the room. "DON'T BE GETTING INTO TROUBLE AND I WANT Y'ALL BACK HERE BY 4:30 SHARP!"

"Yes, Coach," the boys called back in tandem.

It was overcast that February afternoon. The parking lot was already filling in as they jogged around the arena to the food court.

There was a breakfast-smoothie shop wedged between a discount nail salon and a dry cleaner. The owner gave athletes a discount, and Dani, behind the counter, knew their orders by heart.

By the time Milo and Jace pushed through the fogged glass door, the place was packed wall-to-wall. It was a mix of wrestlers from the surrounding district, anxious parents, girls in puffer jackets, and coaches pretending they weren't monitoring their teens.

The smell alone was euphoric. Toasted everything bagels. Sizzling bacon. Hot dark roast coffee. Sweet fruit syrup. Chocolate whey protein powder...

His stomach cramped so sharply he had to stop just inside the door, leaning his shoulder against the glass and breathing through his nose.

A group of other Base Ridgers waved them down, and they crammed into their booth.

The hostess girl taking orders was new. Brunette hair pulled back, blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, a Peak Fuel shirt knotted at the waist.

Their age, and very pretty. She hardly looked up from her notepad. "Welcome to Peak Fuel," she said without a trace of care.

"Where's Dani?" Milo asked.

Milo noted the little flash of annoyance. "She's off on Saturdays. I'm Harper. Can I take your order?"

"Banana-Peanut power, extra honey, electrolyte boost, and two everything bagel sandwiches," he rattled off.

"We're actually out of banana," she said.

Jace scoffed. "Out of banana? OUT OF BANANA! Miss, do you not know who you're talking to? We're Base Ridge wrestlers. And this," he nodded at Milo, "is our captain. The favorite to win state. He's the reason most these folks are even here. The main attraction. Milo Vale."

She stalled for half a second, giving him the once-over. He felt himself blush. He wasn't braggadocious. "Milo Vale? Yeah... I think I have heard of you."

Triumphant, Jace continued. "See? This isn't some JV invitational. So can my man get his bananas? Check the back."

"It's fine," Milo amended.

"I'll... see what I can do." Harper chewed her glossy bottom lip before taking everyone else's orders.

"She'll see what she can doooo," Jace imitated the second Harper left for the next table. "Bro, come on!"

"You're such a dick," Milo said. His phone buzzed again.

Mom:B there in 30.

Milo:👍

"Stuck up cunt's lucky she's hot," Jace continued. "You see that crap on her wrist, silver-red, Ridgeview."

Milo shrugged. Jace continued to analyze aloud.

"Don't matter. After tonight, we'll be swimming in that shit; there's no such thing as allegiance. You hear 'bout the Olympics? Girls just love a winner."

Milo only hummed in response.

Ridgeview was to Base Ridge what the Red Sox were to the Yankees. Two highly competitive teams that always seemed to find themselves facing off in the finals. His main rival this year for state was a boy named Cole Mercer. Though talented, the guy had a nasty reputation of playing dirty.

"Fuck 'em," said another boy at the table.

A few minutes later, Harper returned with a full tray. On her left wrist, sliding down toward her forearm as she set the tray down, was a beaded bracelet. Sure enough, red and silver.

"Peanut power, extra honey, electrolyte boost," she said, setting Milo's cup down first. The plastic sweated, cold and extra-large, at least twenty-four ounces. "There you go, golden boy."

Milo blinked, pulling his eyes away from the bracelet. He'd only ordered a large.

"That thing is huge."

The girl leaned against the empty wooden chair at the end of their booth.

"We were still outta banana, so I subbed in some extra stuff and comped the size upgrade. If you want, I can take it back..."

She subtly dragged her eyes from his shoulders down to his waist.

"Go big or go home." Jace kicked Milo under the table.

"Thanks," he said.

"You go to Ridgeview?" Another kid asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah..." she said, touching her band self-consciously.

Jace coughed. "It's cool. It's not too late to switch sides. Not your fault your school is filled with a bunch of pussies."

"Confident, aren't you boys?"

"Just speaking facts. I've won 30... and Vale, what are you, 40-0?"

"41-1." Milo corrected.

"Always humble as a fucking monk. So whatchu say? You free after? We'll have you in Base Ridge purple by four.

"Well, humble monk," she said, checking the table once more. "Good luck tonight."

Milo watched her walk back behind the counter, hips swaying in her little black apron.

"Damn that ass. I think we had her coming around," Jace said.

Milo looked back at his meal.

He knew the drill. Water first. Then carbs. But the moment the straw hit his lips, his higher brain functions shorted out entirely.

Peanut butter. Honey. Salt. Something tart underneath, maybe mango or orange, bright enough to cut through the heavy thickness of the whey. It hit his empty, shriveled stomach like sunlight entering a locked, freezing room. He sucked down half the cup in one long, continuous pull, his brain going blissfully quiet.

"Tastes different," he mumbled around the straw. "I mean, it's good, just different. Wonder what they subbed in."

Jace grabbed the cup from him, popped the lid, and gave it a sniff.

"Mmm." He nodded and grimaced. "Horse semen."

"Fuck off."

"That's why I never get protein powder."

Around him, the other wrestlers sank into their own utopias. Milo demolished the first bagel in four massive bites, barely chewing, and then killed the rest of the smoothie. As the food hit his system, the dull headache behind his eyes began to back off, and his limbs solidified with strength.

15 minutes later, Milo had just stacked his tray and was gearing up to go when he met eyes with the dark-haired waitress, who was checking someone out behind the counter. She smiled and lifted two fingers in a slight wave. Milo wondered if she'd give him her number.

"Watch it, Vale." Distracted, he bumped into someone walking through the front door of the shop.

It was Cole Mercer. The second-ranked in the state. Thirty-nine and two. They stood practically eye-level.

The Ridgeview team congregated behind him. Red and silver jackets, arrogant pricks. Cole's short, blonde crew cut made him look like an army brat, and he sneered like he was ready to start the fight early. Milo could take the bait, but he wasn't that stupid. Save it for the mat.

"Cole. Didn't see you there. Have you gotten shorter?" Milo shot back. He only had an inch on the dude, but it still felt fun to say.

The Ridgeview boy's eyes narrowed; they dropped down to the bagel wrappers and empty smoothie cup in Milo's tray. He smirked. "You're lucky weigh-in was this morning, fatass."

"Don't need luck to beat a Ridgeview twat."

"That scholarship is mine," he spat.

"Yeah? We'll see about that tonight."

Cole's voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Milo. "As if you'll be in any condition to show," he said under his breath, before he shoulder-checked Milo as he and his entourage moved past the table.

"The fuck?" Milo called after him, perplexed. He felt a wave of heat crawl up his neck. He was... dizzy, suddenly. The fluorescent lights of the shop seemed to buzz and hum louder. He shook it off.

Don't let him get in your head, he reminded himself, and then left the shop.

********

Claire Vale's pristine black SUV waited near the curb by the arena lot.

She sat behind the wheel, oversized designer sunglasses on despite the heavy cloud cover, one hand resting at the top of the steering wheel. Claire always looked like she had somewhere much more important to be. 36. A partner at a regional finance firm. Impeccable, sleek blonde hair, she was fifty shades of professionalism with zero tolerance for bullshit.

She wasn't cruel. Cruelty led to kids rebelling and acting out. She was direct, honest, and efficient. And Milo was her finest project. Her only child. She and her husband had poured themselves into shaping him into the best, most successful young man he could be. Through the long practices and workouts, injuries, equipment costs, tournaments, and schooling, she had spent 18 years ensuring her investment, producing a champion.

By any metric, she was an excellent mother.

Milo tossed his gear bag in the back and slid into the passenger seat.

"Take care of our boy, Mrs. Vale," Jace smacked the hood of the car.

Claire lowered her sunglasses just a fraction of an inch to look at the snarky youth. "Thank you, Jace."

"Hey, Mom." Milo leaned over and kissed her cheek. She smelled expensive, like lemon and bergamot.

"Hey, hun," she said, her eyes flicking over him.

The car pulled away from the curb. Milo cracked the back of the passenger window, letting in the frigid air. A bead of sweat rolled down from his hairline. It was strange, but he felt a little winded by the walk to the curb. A feverish set of heavy waves spread across his chest. He could feel the vibration of the car wheels on the rocky road. His pulse in his ears. It was loud.

"So, 152 on the dot," Claire said, her gaze fixed on the road.

"Yeah," Milo said. "It was close."

"Good. We go home. Shower, change, back to the arena. We leave the house by four sharp."

"I know."

She checked the clock on the dash. "You ate?"

"Yeah." Milo fidgeted in his seat. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. It felt constricting. The food sat heavy in his stomach.

"Let's go over the game plan."

"Ummm, he reaches too much from neutral, especially when he's frustrated. I get him reaching, losing his balance, he's dead. He gives up the leg every time."

"He'll be waiting for that," Claire said. "His coaches have seen your video, too. He wants a scramble. He thinks he can beat you in motion. What's your counter?"

Milo, normally excited to talk strategy, stared out the window. The suburban landscape blurred. His Mom's words muffled.

Claire snapped her fingers. "Milo."

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"That sentence has never once reassured me."

He pressed his fingers into the meat of his thighs. He felt... itchy.

Claire glanced away from the road. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You moved like something bit you."

"I'm just warm."

"It's sixty degrees in here."

"Probably just the calorie burn."

She reached over and placed a cool, manicured hand on his forehead. Her palm felt nice. He leaned into it. Her soft, smooth skin. He closed his eyes. He could feel the slight bump of her wedding ring. The smell of her perfume. A memory surfaced. The steam of his mother's post-shower bathroom, her in a towel. The smell of her lotion, her skin rosy. She'd dropped an earring, bent over to pick it up, and he'd caught a glimpse of--

A confusing flutter in his own stomach. It was so random. So intense. It made him flinch. Thankfully, she was already moving her hand away and didn't notice.

"No fever," she declared.

She reached over and turned the AC down anyway. Cold wind blasted directly into his face. It helped.

His pulse was still hammering, but he swallowed hard and told himself it was just adrenaline. Too much sugar. The stress of the match. Still, the coiling in his gut didn't relent.

When Claire pulled the SUV into their concrete driveway, Milo lurched back to grab his bag.

"Milo?"

"Shower," he shouted. He jumped out before the car was even fully in park.

She called after him as he slammed the door. He bolted inside, took the carpeted stairs two at a time, locked the door behind him, and stripped off his clothes in his bathroom.

That was when the panic struck him fully. Something was definitely wrong.

It wasn't nausea. It wasn't stomach cramps from eating too fast.

At first, he simply stared down at himself.

"No," he whispered into the empty bathroom.

It made absolutely no sense. He hadn't been thinking about the girl from Peak Fuel, or any girl for that matter. Sex should be the last thing on his mind. He was prepping for the biggest athletic performance of his life, and his body was... His cock was hard. Rigid, throbbing, and with every breath painfully more intense. It wasn't normal arousal.

He turned the shower handle all the way to cold. Freezing cold.

He stepped under the spray. The water hit his chest like icy needles. He gasped hard and planted both palms flat against the wet tile. His muscles clenched in protest. He focused on the sensation. The shock of the cold, trying to will his erection away, to dominate it, to bend it to his will, the way he'd been trained to bend an opponent.

He waited. He prayed. Cole Mercer's smug grin popped into his head, then his teammates' expressions of disgust. The idea of him having a massive chub under his singlet. That was the story kids told as jokes, but it would lead to a disqualification for unsportsmanlike conduct, and for the biggest match of the year, would probably break into the news and follow him forever.

His cock didn't soften.

He got out, dripping wet and shivering, grabbed a towel, and struggled to get it around his waist.

In for four. Hold. Out for eight. Nothing.

He dropped to the bathmat. Push-ups. One, two, three... He stopped when his dick kept grinding the floor. Then air squats. Then a wall sit against the door until his quads burned. He was exhausting himself.

If anything, the frantic movement and the rising dismay only made the throbbing worse.

Desperate, he grabbed some Vaseline he usually used for chafe prevention and wrapped his wet hand around his cock. He began to stroke, the slimy glide soothing, but not particularly exciting. Just quick, tight-gripped jerking.

"Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up."

In his imagination, Harper, the dark-eyed barista, choked on his cock in her hot little mouth. A couple of times, he thought he was getting close, but cumming remained out of his reach. He waddled to his computer and frantically searched for porn, not even bothering to open a private browser. He must have opened up eight tabs, eight failed attempts, girls spanking, fingering, stretching themselves, getting fucked, having toys pounded into them. No good.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Jace:Arena filling up fast. Mercer looks cocky af. He's doing high-knees.

Milo nearly threw the phone at the mirror.

Another buzz.

Dad:Just finishing up work. Heading over to the venue.

He was hunched forward, dripping wet as the porn videos played, cock dripping precum, cursing loudly.

"FUCK."

A sharp knock snapped through the wooden door.

"Milo?" Claire called. "We need to leave soon."

"I know." His voice cracked embarrassingly.

A pause on the other side of the door.

"You don't sound right."

"I'm fine," he leaned his forehead against his fist. "Just give me a minute."

"I don't want you to miss check-in."

The brass handle moved. It caught on the lock.

Claire exhaled audibly. "Open the door."

"I can't."

"Milo," she demanded. "Open the door."

He closed his laptop and scrambled back to the bathroom. In the mirror, his terrified reflection stared back at him.

He picked up the towel and tightened it around his waist, took a shaky breath, and unlocked the door, opening it barely a sliver.

Claire took one look through the gap and pushed her way in. She wasn't as tall or strong, but she had more resolve. She marched in in her pristine work blouse and her tailored skirt.

"What is going on?" she demanded. "Nerves? Cramps?"

"No."

"Now is not the time..."

"Mom--"

"You're not dressed. You're sweating profusely even though the water stopped 15 minutes ago. Have you taken something?"

"No!"

He had no reason to cheat, especially this close to glory.

"Food poisoning?"

Milo's mouth opened, ready to deny the notion. But then his brain clicked in.

Claire's eyes narrowed.

"The smoothie," Milo explained.

"What?"

"I think someone spiked my smoothie?!" Milo replied aghast.

Claire blinked but took the info in stride. "With what?"

"I don't know. Something. Pills. Viagra. Rhino gas station crap. A Ridgeview girl was working the counter... I don't know. I drank it and now I can't--"

His voice broke with absolute, helpless fury.

"I can't put on my singlet."

Claire's face changed by degrees. Alarm flashed through her as she noted the way his towel protruded between them. Milo looked away, staring at the floor.

They only had half an hour.

"Are you in pain?" her attention snapping back up.

"Yes. No. It's pressure. It won't go down."

"How long?"

"Since the car ride. Worse when I got in the shower."

"Okay. Okay. This is not the end of the world," she assessed. "I will give you some privacy. You will take care of this... situation."

"Mom! You don't think I tried that. I've been... You know... Trying to get off... It's clogged up or something. I CAN'T!"

"We need to go to the emergency room," she said.

"No."

"Milo."