Miguel, Our Star Goalie

This is an original short story (one chapter). The places and people are fictional—although they may be archetypal. The story is not deep; the characterizations are only as deep as required for the action; this is just a little stroke piece. It is told from the standpoint of a senior prep school soccer captain. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. ©2023, Brunosden

I was walking to my car with few fellow soccer teammates. The school day was over—and since it was Friday, with a game scheduled for Saturday morning, there was no after school practice. We had just finished a short strategy meeting with a few tapes of the opponents. We were joking and good-naturedly jostling each other. All of us lugged heavy backpacks, loaded with texts for a weekend of homework and were paying little attention to the world around our little circle.

As we reached the edge of the fencing which separated the "gun free, smoke free, drug free" Corpus Christi campus from the parking lot, I spotted what appeared to be a pile of rags just outside the gate, between two parked trucks. There was a used clothing box at the other side of the lot—and I assumed someone had just missed it and decided to dump anyway. As we approached, I realized that someone was under those clothes—and that someone was curled into a defensive fetal position—knees drawn up, hands overhead, all scrunched into a tight ball. There was a little blood on the ground. It was a boy, apparently naked except for a pair of tight black briefs. Torn jeans, a tee, a button up shirt, a jacket and a sweater had all been piled on top. It was obvious that he had been beaten and left.

I approached and lifted the tee over the boy's head and recognized Miguel, our goalie. "Miguel, can you hear me? We'll call for help. Can you tell us what happened?"

His eyes and his body opened. "Jeff, is that you? I thought they were coming back to teach me another lesson. I'm hurt pretty bad."

Four of us surrounded him—and Jacques pulled out his phone and dialed 911. I repeated, "Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was headed to my car a few minutes ago, talking on the cell, not paying much attention. Something hard hit me on the back of my head. There were four guys. I didn't really recognize most of them, but one guy, not from our school has been twice before warned me to me to drop off the team. I stumbled forward and fell. My phone went flying. I fell forward on my knees and belly and someone kicked my hip as I tried to get up. Then a large foot was placed on my back, and I was pushed to the ground. My backpack was pulled off. Then they used a knife to slice and pull off my jacket. My sweater and tee were pulled up over my face so I couldn't see what was coming. Someone tore my jeans off. They kicked me a few more times—at least twice in the thigh."

"Then one guy held me down while another pulled my briefs down. He swatted my bare butt and pushed something big and hard deep into my ass. It hurts like hell. Then it stopped suddenly. Maybe they heard you guys coming. They threw everything over me, warned me to stay still and silent if I knew what was good for me, and ran off."

"Did they say anything? Give you any reason for the attack?"

"No, not really. They said that I'd know why. But, they warned me not to show up for the game tomorrow."

I had the feeling he knew more than he was telling, but now was not the time to interrogate. Within minutes the EMT squad arrived. And a group of departing students, mostly athletes who had just finished after-school practice, had gathered to gawk. The EMT guys wrapped him in a thermal blanket, checked pulse, blood pressure, shined a light into his eyes, and examined all the bruises and cuts. At first they seemed concerned about a neck or back injury, but Miguel rolled over and smiled up at them. He had been speaking clearly. Miguel had been beaten, but didn't seem to have any permanent injuries or broken bones. The EMT's helped him to stand. I draped my jacket around his bare torso. It was long on him and covered almost all of his brief-covered mid-section, leaving his muscular legs exposed. They asked some questions and then finally decided that they could let Miguel decide. "Do you want us to take you to the ER?"

"Please no. I'm okay. I don't need the ER. ER would worry my Dad."

"Were you raped?"

"I don't think so."

"How old are you?"

"18, last March."

"Well you're old enough to make your own decision. Let's see if you can take a few steps. If you can walk, I guess we can skip the ER. But our advice is still to let us take you there."

Miguel walked a few and smiled.

I immediately went into action. "I've got my car here. I'll take him home." Miguel looked at me, then his eyes dropped down, flashing long curly dark eyelashes, apparently in shame. He was always the macho guy. Being attacked and taken down had injured his image more than his body.

"Thanks, Jeff. I just want to go home right now."

So my teammates and I helped to collect his books and his broken cell and his tattered clothes, and we walked to the car. He got in without help and I went around to drive. I knew a lot about Miguel—probably more than any other student at the school. We had spent hours, no days, together as I coached him into our soccer club which I captained. He was a valuable addition and a great player. He was also a good student, very mature and directed in his outlook, and funny. He spoke perfect colloquial American.

Miguel was part of a family that had immigrated (I think they had sought asylum and were awaiting adjudication of their case). They weren't poor. Miguel's father had been a surgeon; his mother had been a school principal—in Mexico City. But, the father had crossed one member of the cartel—he refused to operate on a "lord's" squeeze to augment her already EE cup breasts. She was only about 15 and clearly already addicted to him and substances. No parents were in evidence. So the Dad stood his ground in the clinic and refused. Within a day, the clinic was the target of vandalism, and it became clear that the entire family (the MD, his wife, Miguel and his younger sister) would be kidnap targets and never seen again. No one disses a cartel capo. They immediately called the US DEA office in the US Embassy, and within hours, flew to the States.

The doc had managed over the years to invest in US real estate, mostly in the suburbs north of San Diego. He had a few houses, a small strip mall, and a medium sized office building. They wouldn't be rich, but they would be comfortable until things settled down—and the doc could manage to get a license to practice in California, or somewhere else if necessary. The family moved and changed their last names—with the full support of the Justice Department and with the promise that, at the right time, Doc would testify against the cartel. They needed to lead a very quiet life for at least a few years. Miguel and his sister were placed in private parochial schools—the sister in elementary, Miguel a senior in the high school I attended. Coach learned that he had soccer talent and asked me take him on as friend and mentor.

Miguel had been a star football goalie in Mexico—perhaps destined for the national team and ultimately the pros—in a country where soccer was the number one sport. That made him a super-star in the California private school soccer league. He was smaller than most of our teammates, but not by much: he was 5-10, and lightly muscled. His light brown skin showed mixed race parentage; his black hair had just a bit of curl. He had a magnetic smile and dark brown eyes. He always had a joke, or a compliment, or a "good-job-ass-pat" for a team member. He was completely fearless as goalie. No giant could intimidate him. Almost immediately, the entire team had adopted him as a sort of mascot. And, his performance on the field endeared him to all of us.

Our school was "all boys" so none of us knew whom he dated—but we were pretty sure he was a chica-magnet. He certainly played the role of a total Latino macho stud.

The assault could have been a rival team tactic, a racist incident—or perhaps even the first warning of a cartel. I was probably one of the few who knew the possibilities. After the soccer sessions, Miguel and I became friends, and he had confided in me.

I guess it's time I tell you about myself. I'm a senior and this is my fourth year on the team. I'm captain. I plan to go east to school next year, hopefully Ivy, but I know that's a lottery. I'm probably not enough of a soccer star to warrant an athletic recruitment. I've lived just outside of San Diego on a ranch all my life. I'm pretty tall, about 6-3 with dirty blonde hair, a California year-round surfers tan, and blue eyes. I love to ride and often take hours in the quiet wilderness that surrounds our ranch. I've got typical late adolescent athletic muscles—beginning to show, but not bulging. I'm hung—at least by the standards of the guys I shower with—but I don't delude myself into thinking I'm a porn star. I've seen some of the internet videos.

I'm a good soccer player—the result of years of practice and work-outs, so I've got a nice cut pretty slim bod. I'm good looking enough that I don't really need to try to date—they come to me. But, I don't have a steady and I'm a unicorn—a horned up 19 year old male athlete virgin. I've necked, squeezed more than a few tits, sucked a few nipples and rubbed a girl's pussy—without removing her panties. A few of them have rubbed my dick, again through denim, and I've even popped a few times into my knit boxers. I've never been blown. I'm definitely not a sex animal—my dickhead brain doesn't rule my body. I'm pretty much a loner, an only child and an introvert—although I'm a vicious competitor on the field—perhaps the only outlet for my aggression.

Miguel, in many ways, is my yang: he's extroverted, talkative and friendly. He's been good for me—and has drawn me out quite a lot in the three months we've known each other. He always brings others into our circle. We always seem to have enough guys around us to start a party. And occasionally, we've even gone to mixers together. He's a good dancer and girls seem to be drawn to him; on the other hand, I'm a wall-flower.

We soon arrived at my home. Miguel had asked me not to take him home right away. He wanted to clean up first—and try to figure out how to explain his torn clothes. He knew his Dad would be upset and would blame himself. He'd assume the worst—and maybe even make the family move again.

The ranch was pretty deserted. Dad was at work in downtown San Diego. Mom was away at her sister's. There was activity in the barn and paddocks. We rented out space to horse owners who cared for their own horses. They loved the fact that the ranch bordered on extensive state forest property—great places to trail ride. No one paid attention when I drove right into the garage. Miguel and I headed for my room which had a large attached bath.

"Go take a shower. I'm going to look around to see if I have any old clothes that might fit you. Mom never throws anything away."

Miguel walked into the bath and without shutting the door stripped and stepped into my pride: a great big massage jet and rain shower. I had seen him naked before in the lockers—so there was no modesty required. Miguel was bruising, coloring and he did have a few visible cuts that were already healing. Abrasions on his hips were probably from being pushed on the parking lot surface. It was going to be hard for him to conceal all of this from his father. He was going to need a story.

As he finished the shower, he toweled off and I approached with the first aid. He put his towel on the vanity top and hopped up. I applied some healing medicated ointment to his chest and back bruises. Then I had him stand. I bent down and repeated the process on his hips and thighs. When the back of my hand brushed his balls, he groaned quietly, and his dick lifted slightly and brushed my cheek. I quickly moved back.

Then I said something that I never thought I would. I was so surprised at myself and embarrassed that I whispered, "Okay, pal. Turn around and bend over. I've gotta check your asshole." Somewhat slowly, he bent, reached around and spread his cheeks. The anus was red and swollen, but there didn't appear to be any skin breaks. There was no evidence of blood, lube—or cum. I wondered if they would have raped him if we hadn't come along at that moment. I put some ointment on my fingers and worked it in and around. Miguel responded by pushing his ass back into me. He squirmed and groaned again.

"That hurt?"

He laughed. "Not at all. Are you sure you haven't done this before? Are you trying to turn me on?" Miguel turned and his cock had begun to harden. He was big, definitely a grower. In fact, he probably had me beat when erect, at least in width. It was darker than the surrounding skin, hooded, and his pubes were manicured. I quickly turned aside—to hide my own chub. Never before had I touched, let alone massaged, another guy's ass. Seeing dicks and asses in a school shower populated by a dozen horny guys was quite different from the one-on-one intimacy that we were now sharing. It scared the shit out of me. But, I realized I was attracted to Miguel like a bear to honey. That couldn't be. I was actually salivating over his muscled little ass. He was a very attractive young guy. What the fuck? I turned and picked up his pile of clothes. I had to get out of there.

"Here is what I found. Take your pick—there are tees, jeans, briefs, even a sweater. The jeans are like your old ones and the old letter jacket is similar to the one you lost." Miguel took his time sorting, all the while standing just a few feet away—stark naked, bending to flash his ass, swinging his dick and balls and chubbing. He was definitely teasing, pushing the limits. But, at the time I was so naïve that I didn't connect the dots.

"Thanks, Jeff. I've been waiting for months to get into your pants. Too bad I had to get beat up to do it."

Then the lightning bolt struck: Miguel was coming on to me. Was he gay? Did he think I was? Holy shit!

Miguel must have noticed the sudden confusion that appeared on my face—probably because I was blushing big time.

He took charge immediately. "Don't worry, amigo. I'm just playing with you. We won't do anything that turns you off. When we lived in Mexico, I had a regular buddy. Neither of us was gay. But that didn't stop us from jerking together, getting each other off regularly, doing some tasting, and even some finger fucking. When there wasn't a chica around, we used what was available—each other. It was fun—and no harm was done. Nobody got pregnant; nobody got an STD; nobody was hurt. I've missed it. And I've been perving on you for more than a couple of months. In some ways, I think you're sometimes from another planet—you are so oblivious. But, I'd like a new playmate if you want to give it a try."

"I guess I'm flattered. But I'm not sure I'm ready to play on that side of the field, Miguel."

"Have you tried? If you haven't, you don't know what you've been missing. You've got nothing to lose. Besides I can see you're interested. Hard cocks don't lie." He could easily see my erection bulging under my tight denims. It was almost painful.

Without even beginning to dress, Miguel stepped into my space and unzipped me. He was right. I was rigid. He reached in and pulled it out. "He's beautiful. Long and straight with a nice ripe head and a monk's hood. Let him enjoy life a bit before he's too old. He needs light and air and exercise if he's gonna continue to grow and be happy. I know you jack. Do you dance alone? Then why jack alone?" Miguel began to stroke. His other hand reached out and cupped my balls. That was probably the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me in my life. It was like scoring a goal after slipping by a guard to a roaring crowd of spectators.

Then he stopped, unbuckled and pushed the jeans and boxers down below my knees. He grabbed me again. Almost automatically, I reached out and fisted his cock. We stepped closer together and using two hands, he massaged our cocks together while I reached under and fondled his low hangers. It took only seconds. I was so excited. My abs tensed and I bucked forward. And we both shot, hitting abs squarely. The cum began to drip from both of us, mixing as it did so. It was probably the hardest orgasm that I had ever experienced—even after a day or two of abstinence and a hot new copy of Penthouse.

I was probably hooked. Miguel had me. But, I wasn't yet ready to jump into the deep end. I was ready for doggie paddle. Somehow, I thought Miguel was already doing the crawl. I was really confused.

We washed off. Miguel dressed, choosing the sexiest small briefs that I had pulled from the drawer. He looked awfully good in my old briefs. After he finished, I noticed, perhaps for the first time how nicely his butt filled the jeans and how nice he looked—as a sex object. He finished and we went to the kitchen for a snack and a drink. I was going to drive him home—but he needed a story. "It won't be hard. I'll just tell them that I dove for a ball, slid and was spiked. It's a chilly day and I had kept the sweater on. It happens all the time." He lied so easily.

We were already past the incident, and I was relaxing. He wasn't going to force the issue.

"I think for the next few weeks, we are going to be together a lot. I'll pick you up and take you home—for school and for games. When I'm not available, another teammate will sub in. I don't want you to be alone again outside the school or your home. We'll go get your car now and I'll follow you home."

"He smiled a mischievous grin. I can handle that. But, I think you need to protect me at home too."

I understood exactly what he was proposing. I needed time to think. "We'll see. You ambushed me. I need some time to think this through. I can't say I haven't enjoyed the last few minutes. But, I'm not gay. No way. Let's get you home before your folks get there. I'll pick you up for the game tomorrow morning."

The match was near the end of the season and would be one of the title deciders for the league. Archbishop Stoltz vs. Corpus Christi. (Oh what religious historians would do with that headline: an ultra-right bishop was pitted against the Body of Christ—a metaphor for the whole Christian church and a proxy for social justice theology! But only the teachers and students of our school, which was decidedly liberal, would catch the irony.) The first periods were hard fought, mostly defensive and the score, going into the last few minutes was 1-1. Then, probably after a hidden signal, Stoltz broke pattern and rushed our goal with three forwards. Two quick side passes were followed by a shot on goal. Miguel leaped and trapped the ball just outside the net and all three Stoltz players crashed into him trying to push him and the ball into the net—one spiking him hard. Miguel looked up and recognized one, perhaps two, of his attackers.

He was hurt and bloody. But after a very short time out, he was pronounced okay to continue. Of course a penalty was called—although Miguel refused to call out the attackers. And so in the last two minutes we had the advantage. We rushed; I scored; and, the game was over. We needed only one more win to be league champs for the season.

After drenching Coach in ice water, we carried Miguel to the locker room in triumph. Coach came in and took Miguel aside to have him thoroughly examined by our trainer-medic. By the time they finished, everyone had left but me—I was Miguel's ride and I wasn't going to leave him alone. I called to Coach that I'd lock up so he could leave. Miguel returned, stripped and headed for the showers. He was bruised, but smiling. "I'm okay. I'll have a little more color for awhile. Thanks for waiting. Have you showered?"