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“Man, I suck ass at baseball,” came the whining voice of Antonio Higgins as he towelled his blonde curls until they were at least somewhat dry.
“Yeah, you really do,” grumbled the boy next to him- Albert DaSilva, one of Antonio’s close friends, and also the captain of the losing baseball team that day. Fastening his jeans, Antonio whacked his friend’s arm, eyes shooting daggers at him.
Henry came over from his locker on the other side of, clapping the curly haired boy on the shoulder comfortingly. “Don’t worry, Tony! Track is your speciality - you can’t be good at every sport!”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean he’s gotta suck at them!” Albert groaned, unphased by his best friend’s glare.
“Come on, Al, lay off him,” Specs chuckled (aptly named after the big glasses perched on the bridge of his nose). Albert started to grumble again, but Tony cut him off.
“I told you not to pick me for your team, dick - I can’t swing for shit,” he stated. He was slight and nimble, not built and precise. He liked the rush that came with running. He liked the burning lungs, the screaming muscles and the euphoria that came with winning. He really didn’t care for heavy balls being thrown at him, provided with only a stick of wood to defend himself. The only thing he was good at was running from base to base, but what was the point in that when he always got struck out within seconds?
He sighed. He was craving nicotine and couldn’t stop fidgeting. He opted for the next best thing - a pen. He rummaged for one in his bag, grasping proudly at his find before quickly sticking it between his teeth, grinning to himself around the plastic.
“It could be worse,” Romeo piped up as he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. “You guys could be doing football with the Brooklyn boys.” As if right on cue, the shower room door opened, and from the resulting cloud of steam emerged Spot Conlon, flanked by two of his cronies.
Unaware of the perfect timing, Tony continued to get dressed, slipping into his favourite track jersey and hoodie combo. When he noticed all his friends had gone quiet, Tony finally turned around to be met with a very wet and very shirtless boy. He stared. Two gorgeously deep brown eyes stared back, a devilish smirk taunting him just below them.
He tried to look away, actually shy for the first time in his life, but found his eyes trailing down a sinfully toned chest and landing on the towel that was dangerously close to falling off. In the dead silence of the room, the pen dropping out of Tony’s mouth and clattering on the floor was like a symphony of cymbals crashing. Not even the ripest of tomatoes could rival the colour in his cheeks. He quickly averted his eyes back up. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to grab his stuff and leave, but he was so captivated by those damn eyes.
A glance around the room revealed that everyone else had left, it was just the four Manhattan boys and the three Brooklyn boys. The two cronies looked confused as to why they were just stood there instead of getting dressed. Henry and Albert were on high alert in case they needed to spring into action. Specs’ glasses had fogged up with all the steam, leaving him pretty much blind to the situation at hand. Tony wasn’t sure whether it was just him feeling the tension low in the pit of his stomach or not.
He could feel his chest tingling, which is when he noticed Spot Conlon eyeing up his jersey with a wicked smile.
“What’s a’matter, Racetrack: cat got your tongue?” he drawled out, Brooklyn accent thick and deep voice doing terrible things to Antonio’s brain.
“Figlio di puttana-” he blurted out, before going even redder and clearing his throat. He may have missed how Spot’s eyes widened and his Adam's apple bobbed with a clear gulp, but Albert didn’t - said boy was now muffling laughter into his fist.
The bell went, signalling the beginning of lunch, but Tony felt rooted to the ground, unable to move. Spot glanced at the clock on the wall before waving his cronies off, giving Antonio a good look up and down before turning around, the smirk once again present on his face.
Glancing down, Spot saw the abandoned pen on the floor. Tony hardly had any time to process what was going on before Spot bent over at the waist to retrieve the lost item, his towel only just covering his (what Tony imagined to be perfect) ass. Nearly choking on his own breath, he could only stare as Spot straightened and turned, holding the pen out. “I think you dropped this.” Tony just nodded dumbly, taking it. With that, Spot grinned and smoothly swanned away.
Tony stood, frozen, until Henry put a hand on his shoulder, waking him from his reverie. He didn’t say a word to anyone, just shoved the pen in his pocket and grabbed his bag, slamming his locker shut before disappearing out of the door. He needed a cigarette.
-
“So, Racetrack: are you going to the football game on Saturday?”
“You better shut your mouth right now, Albert, or so help me God, I will end you."