Try Softer Pt. 01

When I was seven my dad began teaching me how to shoot hoops. Every night after dinner if it wasn't raining or snowing we would spend hours in the driveway with his worn out ball and the rusty metal hoop hanging perilously off the front of the garage. "Dribble with your left hand," he would chastise me when I would use my strong right. "Move your feet, don't be so stiff." So I would move, putting all my tap and ballet classes to good use, finally. My mom would sometimes sit out there with us, lounging in a lawn chair, just watching, always smiling, but also waiting for me to be done so she could check my homework.

My dad and I would play and sweat and laugh and tell stories. At first, all the stories were his; about his college basketball team, his high school coach, the players he knew growing up who were now in the NBA. When I started playing for my school teams, I had stories of my own. Everything was a lesson, another way for me to improve, to learn how to be better, to learn how to act on the court and off. My mom, conversely, preferred to drill me on math equations, historical events, chemical compounds, advanced vocabulary. Life with a professor and a failed professional athlete was nothing if not a lesson in dualities.

When I hit high school, I made the varsity team my freshman year and was team captain by the time I was a junior. My dad came to every game. Every single one. My mom came sometimes too, but she was more interested in my grades than my shooting percentage. I started taking advanced placement courses my sophomore year. By the time I graduated, I had earned enough credits to skip my freshman year of college and was being heavily scouted by some of the best college teams in the country. Luckily, one thing my parents agreed on was that I should attend the University of Texas at Austin to play for the Longhorns and start work on my law degree that my mother was determined I would finish even if I got drafted. Did I want to be a lawyer? Not necessarily. But considering nearly everything I had done in my life had been motivated by my overwhelming need to impress my dad, I figured I could at least try to be interested in law for my mom.

That's how a nice midwestern girl like me ended up in Texas, playing power forward for the Longhorns and enrolled in the classes necessary for a pre-law degree. I was...excited when I first came to the Lone Star State. But once that wore off, I was mostly just lonely. I liked my new teammates, but I missed practicing with my dad. I missed him breaking down my every move after the game, telling me what I did well and where I needed to improve. My coaches at the university did that for me, but it wasn't the same. I missed my mom playfully rolling her eyes at us as we talked of nothing but basketball over every meal. I even missed her drilling me daily about my school work, though she made sure to do it every time she got me on the phone.

I missed my friends who were now scattered all over the country, moving onto better things, new friendships. We stayed in touch as best we could, but it's never the same when you can't meet face to face. Truthfully, I was making new friends as well and I think what I missed more than anything was getting regular action from my boyfriend Damien. He was about as far away from me as one could get, attending Harvard, also for law, and for their basketball program. Separated by miles we called and texted, Skyped and Facetimed in an effort to stay connected. It felt forced, but I had been willing to do whatever it took to ensure he didn't forget me. Before we had left home, we made plans about trips we would take together over school breaks and fantasized about both of us ending up in the NBA and WNBA. We were young and in love. At least, we had convinced ourselves that we were and that our relationship would be different, that the distance wouldn't affect us. We were stupidly optimistic and in the thick of it, we had been trying so hard to make it work. It wasn't working.

One month into the semester, only four weeks spent apart and we were at each other's throats every time we spoke. We were both stressed and trying to adjust to new environments and expectations. Instead of handling it like the adults we were supposed to be, we just lashed out at each other for lack of a better outlet. During a particularly vicious argument, he accused me of letting the entire boy's basketball team gang bang me. Which, by the way, was not true; I had not been unfaithful to him at the time he made that accusation. However, it was if he knew how desperately I actually would have loved for the boys team to go to town on me, three at a time filling every hole, one after another, anyway they wanted.

Damien and I had started sleeping together when we were fifteen, so I was used to having regular orgasms. Alone in Texas, I was horny and frustrated, stressed about school and the team. You hear a lot of stories about college athletes, how they never go to class, professors pass them even if they don't turn in any work, and most of them just killing time until they can be drafted. But that wasn't me, and not just because my mom would have beat my ass bloody if I had acted like that. I always had pride in myself, in my skills on the court and my intelligence. I wanted to finish my degree even if I did get drafted and there was no guarantee that I would be, so I felt it wise to focus on my classes as well as basketball. I was determined to be everything to everyone, star player and straight A student. Admittedly, it was taking a toll on my mental health and the fights with Damien were equally if not entirely my fault.

To relieve stress I had two passed times, hitting the gym to sweat it out and masturbating. Since my roommate was perpetually occupying our tiny shared dorm, usually in the company of some guy or another, I tended to do both things at the school's training facility. One night after a screaming match over the phone with Damien, I found myself jogging across campus toward the gym to work off some tension.

It was past ten, but the building was open 24/7. I was alone on the court, possibly in the entire building, just me, the basket, and a rack full of balls. I worked on my jump shot from all angles and distances. Midrange had always been a challenge for me; I had too much power so I always overshot. Three pointers though, I was as good as money in the bank. And with my size, being almost six foot and built strong and lean, driving to the lane to take easy layups was never an issue. Free throws, on the other hand, were a nightmare. Being big inside the paint meant I got fouled a lot and that meant, if I didn't want to embarrass myself, I needed to make my throws.

This night in particular I was forcing myself to put in work at the line, taking throw after throw, determined not to stop until I hit twenty in a row. I was up to nineteen for about the tenth time, exhausted, and near tears. Even though I had come to the court to destress, the pressure I put on myself to excel athletically made it so I couldn't find respite even in my favorite sport. I had been at it for over three hours all told and I just wanted to go home, but I was too stubborn to give up. Actually, I take that back, I wanted to rub one out in the shower and then go home.

I let out a long, slow breath, "Ok, one more and you can go. You can do it." I tossed the ball between my hands, spinning it a few times. I raised my arms and released. The ball hit the rim with an obnoxious clang before rebounding back toward my head. I caught it and then unceremoniously threw it at the wall. "God fucking damn it."

"Whoa now, it's not that serious, is it?"

I whipped around, too shocked to discover I wasn't alone to worry about having my missed shot and subsequent temper tantrum witnessed. By the door at the other end of the gym I saw a young guy about my age, tall, solid, dark, and looking annoyingly chipper even from a distance. I was in no mood to be bothered, especially since I would have to either resign myself to leaving before I had accomplished my goal, or subject myself to another round of throws that I was not sure my arms could handle. Making nineteen free throws in a row is nothing to scoff at, but I knew I could do better. "Can I help you?"

He dropped his bag on the bleachers as he came toward me, giving me a better look at him. He had on the gym uniform: athletic shorts, t-shirt, sneakers. I wore the same, only he was crisp and dry while I was rather wilted and soaked in sweat. Taller than me by at least 10 inches, he had a wide smile formed from full lips, light brown eyes, closely trimmed hair, and rounded ears protruding distinctly from each side of his head. On anyone else these cartoonesque ears might have appeared dorky, but on him they seemed enduring. He was adorably cute in the way only guys entirely at ease with themselves can be. My mouth suddenly went dry. Ok, maybe he can bother me, just a bit, I thought.

He extended a hand, "Marcel Allan, I just transferred from Duke."

I had heard of him. "Yeah, new power forward." I shook his hand after wiping my sweaty palm on my sweaty cotton shorts, which really didn't help the situation very much.

"You must be Lillianna, my female counterpart, right?" He smiled at me and I'm ashamed to say I became almost giddy. Jesus Lord, I wanted to get lost in those dimples.

I tried to compose myself, "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Every town's a small town in Texas. People talk." That was something I had begun to realize myself. He sounded slightly Texan himself so I asked where he was from. "Dallas, born and raised."

"How'd you end up at Duke then and not here to start with?"

"Longhorns didn't need me, until they did." He held out his hands, showing me he was pleased as punch to be back in his home state.

"Well then, welcome home, Marcel." I started toward the bleachers to grab my things and he followed me.

"I can help you with your shot."

"Excuse you?"

"Your midrange game needs work, and your free throws. I bet you can hit threes like it ain't nothing though, right?"

"How long were you watching me?"

He bit his lip and I found myself staring at his mouth. "Not long."

"Then how do you know I can hit threes?"

"I can just tell, your form is hard." For some reason, this guy saying the word "hard" in a nonsexual way made my body flush even more than it already was. He noted my reaction, I'm sure and said, "You need a softer touch." And "softer touch" had the same effect as I imagined a gentle but erotic touch on my body initiated by his long fingers. I looked him up and down and he did the same for me. God, he was glorious, the perfect power forward body topped off with an adorable baby face.

I shook myself out my haze. He was cute, without a doubt, but I had a boyfriend, even if our relationship was currently in shambles. Plus, I really didn't feel like being patronized by some smooth talking Texan who thought he could school me on the court. "Thanks, but I've got it covered."

He shrugged, "Alright, but can I give you some advice?"

"Why not."

"Try softer."

I rolled my eyes, "No shit, Sherlock. Coaches have been telling me to soften my release since I was ten."

He brought a hand to his chest as he laughed at me. "Naw, I didn't say throw softer, I said try softer."

I was still annoyed, but his laugh had a cheering effect. I chuckled slightly as well. "Ok, what the hell does that mean?"

He picked up a ball and dribbled away from me. "It means, you're trying too hard to throw soft. You know what you need to do, but your head is fucking you up. So stop trying so hard. Try softer. Just..." He threw the ball up wildly, a shot that had no business making it but did in fact bound happily through the basket. He finished, "Have fun. It's just a game."

He dribbled back, grinning down at me, drawing a smile from my lips as well. "Ok, I guess that makes sense. I'll give it a try." I honestly wasn't sure what the hell he was talking about, but I figured it was easier to just agree with him. I shouldered my bag, ready to shower and call it a night.

He playfully reached out and smacked my arm. "Stay, play some ball with me."

I really wanted to; Marcel seemed fun and genuinely nice, not to mention stunning. Because of that last reason, I thought better of staying. "I should get home."

"To your boyfriend?"

"Roommate, actually."

"So, you don't have a boyfriend?"

"I do. He's at Harvard."

Marcel laughed again, "Oh, shit, he's probably some preppy white boy, huh?"

Despite myself, I laughed out loud before I could stop myself, "No, he's..."

"A preppy white boy?" Marcel finished for me. I pinched his arm and he jokingly shrunk away from me. "Since you so mad, I must be right."

"He is white, but -"

"Your game so good you made this team and you messing around with some white boy who can't teach you shit?"

Instinctually I defended Damien, even though I was a better basketball player than him. "He plays as well, and he's taught me plenty, ok?"

"Mmm-hmm, I bet you taught him a few things too." He licked his lips and I got the distinct impression we weren't discussing basketball anymore.

Shamefully, I flirted back, "More than a few, actually." Marcel raised one eyebrow at me in surprised delight. It was true, I had taught him some moves on the court and I was also the more adventurous one sexually. I had initiated our first kiss, our first rub down, our first...well, everything, really. And Damien was in fact quite preppy, but also really fucking hot and sweet, I had reminded myself. I felt guilty for discussing him with Marcel. I needed to go.

"Anyway, I'll see you around." I turned to go and he grabbed my arm.

"Come on, let me help you with your shot."

"I don't need your help." But regardless of what I said, I still dropped my bag and let him pull me out toward the free throw line anyway, passing me the ball as we went.

"You do, come on." He put me at the line and came up close behind me. I had to stop myself from gasping when he pressed his broad, warm frame against my back and reached around to grasp both my arms. His dark skin across my arms made me look ghostly pale.

He continued, "Ok, just relax. Don't think about anything, just feel. Touch the ball." He gripped my hands as they held the ball. "Close your eyes, feel yourself standing here, with the ball. The hoop isn't that far. You can hit it from behind the three point line, you can hit it from here, easy. Just take a minute to believe that."

I found my chest heaving slightly and my mouth fell open just a bit to accommodate my practically labored breathing. It felt good to be in someone's arms again and I let his words wash over me, lulling me into a state of intense relaxation. I wasn't thinking about the game or where we were or that English paper I needed to finish or my parents or Damien or my inability to hit midrange jumpers. All my brain could process was Marcel's closeness, his rich, woody scent, his soft skin on mine, his deep voice.

I waited for him to continue with the lesson, but instead he leaned down and out of nowhere whispered in my ear, "You ever fuck a black dude?" I was so calm, the crassness of his statement didn't faze me at all. I shook my head. I heard him take a sharp inhalation before he continued, "Let me be your first then."

I shook my head again and held back the moan that was lingering in my throat at the thought of his hard black dick burrowing into my soft pink folds. I told him again, halfheartedly, "I have a boyfriend."

He straightened up and let out a low chuckle. "Then stop circling your hips and rubbing your ass on my dick."

"Jesus." I jerked away from him and his chuckle developed into a resounding laugh now. I honestly had not realized what my body had been doing. I stammered, "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"Don't apologize, it was nice."

"I shouldn't have...I was...just, you know. I gotta go." I hustled away, grabbing my bag without stopping on my way to the door, knowing my face was bright red, a sheen of embarrassment thrown over my obvious lust.

Marcel came up quickly behind me, no longer laughing. "Hold up, don't be mad." I turned around to face him and when I did he pressed me against the door.

"Marcel...I really need to go." I was unable to meet his eyes. I was abashed at my behavior, not just because I had a boyfriend that I was currently disrespecting, but because I didn't want to be a cock tease to Marcel; he deserved better.

"Look at me." When I didn't move, he brought a hand up under my chin, tilting my head back. "You want this?" He pressed his hips against mine and I felt his hardness easily through our thin clothing.

I let out a tiny squeak of pleasure before catching myself and swallowing it back down. I suppose that was answer enough for him.

He held my face and made me keep my eyes on his. "If you want it, take it, baby, it's yours."

I tried to speak, but croaked instead. I cleared my throat, "I have a boyfriend."

"So you said."

I forced my head to clear and I tried to nudge him off of me, but he was immovable. "So, I need to go."

"Come back to my place."

"I...what? No."

"Then come to the locker room with me." He leaned down as if to kiss me and I jerked my head back as much as the wall would allow.

"Marcel, I think you got the wrong idea, and yes, that was my fault. But, I can't do this, really."

He released me and I almost fell down since I had been leaning against him so much. "Okay."

He stood there apart from me and we evaluated each other. I could see his dick outline and nearly salivated at the sight. I tried not to show it, but I knew I wasn't fooling him. I should have left when I had the chance, instead I just stood there, watching him.

He spoke again, "Can I give you one more piece of advice?" I nodded. "You seem like you spend an awful lot of time thinking about all the things you have to do, shouldn't do, can't do. Maybe you should try doing what you wanna do for a change. What feels good, things you enjoy. It might help your game if nothing else."

I looked at my feet; we had only just met, he knew nothing about me and yet had me pegged perfectly. He was right, I tried too hard at everything and obsessed over my short comings in every area: basketball, academics, having a good life, even my relationship with Damien. I was trying to force things instead of just letting them developed into what they were going to become either way. I spent my time trying to cram square pegs into round holes instead of looking for a better fit. I half smiled at this realization and met his eyes again. I finally understood what he had been trying to tell me earlier. "Try softer, right?"

He nodded, "Yeah, try softer."

Ok, then. "How's this for soft?" I dropped my bag and walked up to him, grabbing his head and yanking it down until his lips met mine. After a split second of hesitation, he returned the kiss, grabbing my waist and pulling my body closer to his as my arms wrapped around his neck and my hands stroked the back of his head.

He moaned into my mouth and quickly licked through my lips to dance across my tongue with his own. His plump lips were incredibly soft and fit perfectly around and between my own. He gummed my bottom lip and then bit down on it gently. I groaned in response and aggressively pulled his face closer to mine, even though there was no space separating them as it was.

I can't tell you why kissing him felt so right, but it sure as hell did. It was like the act itself represented a rebellion against my usually obedient nature that was years in the making. All my life I had done what I thought would please my parents or my friends or my coaches or Damien. That moment, nearly attacking Marcel with my mouth and wantonly rubbing my body against his in the empty gym, was perfection. I didn't feel bad about Damien, which I probably should have. If trying softer with him and our relationship meant indulging myself with Marcel, I was more than ready to face the consequences.