Chapter 2: The Interview
I was glad I was early. I took a seat in the outer office, and tried to collect myself. But as soon as I sat down, the receptionist told me that Mr. Johnston was ready to see me, and that I should go right in.
Johnston sat behind his desk. Blond, tanned, and just over thirty, it was immediately clear that he was not just the coach, but a former gymnast himself. His broad shoulders filled out his white jersey, spreading the top tightly across a full, molded chest. His face had excellent proportions, and was full of character -- totally appealing. He stood to shake my hand revealing a full basket packed snugly in its jock under his shorts. When he returned to his chair, he leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and smiled.
I realized, again too late, that my dick hadn't gone down yet from the walk over, and was tenting out my pants. For the second time in half an hour, I blushed deeply, and took a seat.
"It's all right," he said. "Nothing to be ashamed of."
"Yes, well..." I stammered trying to change the subject, "...you said you had a position you wanted me to consider?"
He laughed, and, after a moment of horror at my own Freudian slip, I joined him, totally cracking up. That helped to loosen me up, and we started to talk more casually.
Johnston described the gymnastics program at the school. That year, he explained, he had the best male squad he had ever coached, and he was sure that the team was going to be able to win the following season at Nationals. The team was strong, deep, committed, and willing to do whatever it took to achieve victory.
"That's all wonderful," I finally broke in, "but what does that have to do with me? I'm a graduate student in psychology -- not sports administration."
"I know," he said. "Summa cum lauda with a B.A. in clinical psych. Picked first in your class for admission to the doctoral program here. Not bad."
"You've read my resume," I said.
"I know a lot more about you than you think. At only twenty-two, you've already published research papers on power dynamics in male relationships, non-verbal communication, and have come up with an interesting theory you're currently researching for your dissertation on something you call the alpha-male personality type."
"Well, you've done more than read my resume, Mr. Johnston, you've talked to my advisor as well, which, all in all, is pretty flattering" I said. "But I still don't quite see how this fits in to your plans for your gymnastics program.
"I think we've got one here."
"Pardon? One what?" The seeming non-sequitur threw me for a loop.
"An alpha-male."
The words hung in the air between us.
A few years back, after reading some papers on the structures of the societies of animals who travel in packs, I began to wonder if there were analogies to humans. Careful study and research had led me to the conclusion that there should be individuals, rare though they might be, who were able, somehow, to totally control the society of individuals around them -- the human incarnation of the alpha-male. While I had never found one, I was sure they existed, and it was upon this surety that I was basing my dissertation. And now, this man was telling me that not only did he think they existed, but one existed on that very campus.
"I see. How do you know he is? And how do you know what one is," I asked?
"I don't. To either question. I was talking to your advisor, and started describing him. It was your advisor who put two and two together. So here we have an interesting situation; you're looking for someone, and I may have him. He's on the team. On the other hand, I'm looking for someone, too."
"Who are you looking for?"
"The nationals mean everything. I've said that before, but I'm not quite sure you understand just how far the boys and I will go to win. We'll do what it takes," he said, and then, added somewhat ominously, "whatever it takes. This summer, they've all signed on to an intensive, full-time training program. They'll be sequestered at a facility up in the mountains -- no distractions. I need someone who's willing to be there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to see that all their needs are met. Whatever they want, you get. Whatever problems they have, you fix. Whatever their needs, you meet them. In return, you'll have three months up close and personal to study your alpha. You'll be well paid -- a salary no university could match, plus any expenses. Room and board, of course. The only problem is, you have to decide relatively quickly. The bus for the training camp leaves in a week and a half."
Chapter 3: Arrival
Needless to say, I signed on. I was packed and ready to go two days early. The team was taking a bus up to the training camp, but Johnston told me I should go separately in my own car, so that I could run errands for the boys should they need it. When the day came, the four hour drive into the mountains gave me a nice long time alone to clear my head and weigh the advantages and disadvantages of taking the job.
I had signed up to be a gopher for a group of gymnastic jocks for an entire summer. Definitely a con. One of them was, according to the coach of the team, and, more importantly, my advisor, a candidate alpha-male. An unbelievable pro -- one that could potentially make my career. I was to be stuck in the middle of nowhere for two months -- a fact that became more and more plain the farther into the mountains I drove. On the other hand, I was going to be stuck with a group of what I expected to be some pretty prime college beef. On the other hand, of course, the chances that any of them were gay were pretty small. On the other hand, it was only two months. On the other hand. On the other hand. Part of the difficulty of being a psych major is the inability to see anything except shades of gray.
Still deep in thought, I pulled into the compound that was to be my home for the next summer. From what I could see, there were five or six smaller buildings surrounding an enormous complex. That must be the gym. One building looked to be a dining hall, another an administration building. The rest must be the dormitories. The setting was spectacular -- nestled in a pine covered valley between two towering peaks, the air was crisp and clean, and smelled of evergreen. The bus was idling next to the main building, getting ready to leave. The team must have arrive some time ago. I parked, and climbed the steps to what I guessed was the administration building.
Coming out the door as I climbed the front steps I found Johnston who welcomed me, told me that the team had, indeed, arrived, and that I should stow my gear, and join them in the gym. He pointed out my apartment -- a small suite adjoining one of the dormitories. I headed off toward it while he veered off toward the main complex.
My room was nice, if you like spartan digs. It had no separate entrance; you had to enter through the dorm. There was a hallway with five doors on either side (the guys' bedrooms, I guessed) at the end of which was a door which led to my apartment. A main room, a bathroom, and a galley kitchen. There was a bed, a table, and two chairs. The walls were nouveau cinder block. I showered, changed into sweats, and headed off toward the gym.
Now, as I said, I'm no slouch in the looks department, and I can pretty much get laid when ever I wanted. When I had just come out, I wanted it a lot. I've been with a good share of men, and, at 22 already felt myself a bit jaded. Don't get me wrong -- I still love sex. But while good looking guys were fun to look at, I didn't view them with the same...urgency...with which I had five years before. Still, I was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted me as I entered the gym.
There were ten guys on the floor. Each a little more well developed than the one before. They were warming up -- on their backs doing crunches. Shirts were off revealing ten washboards each capable of grating carrots. Shoulders were massive and sculpted. There was probably not an ounce of fat among them. The one in the middle was calling the rhythm of the crunches. It was the guy from the gym. A cold shiver ran down my spine. He was the alpha.
Chapter 4: Introductions
Johnston met me in the gym, interrupting my reverie to explain what my responsibilities would be.
"Days are mostly going to be spent in here," he began. "In the mornings, you'll meet the boys in the locker rooms, and make sure they have everything the need for the practice: clean sweats, unis, jocks, towels, whatever they need. You do their laundry. When you're done in there, come out here and help with the mats, apparati, taping, whatever is necessary. After the practice, hang in the locker room until they're done. Clean up in there and get it ready for the next day. Dinner is at 6:00. Their nights are free, but they're not allowed to leave the compound. So you'll be expected to help keep them entertained. That all okay with you?"
"Sure." It was somewhat more than okay. It would give me all the time I needed to study my alpha, with plenty of time left over to...appreciate...the gentlemen with whom I'd be working.
When the boys were done with their crunches, Johnston interrupted them.
"This is Mark," he said, introducing me. "Mark's going to be my administrative assistant for the summer. He's here for you guys. He'll be staying in the suite at the end of your hall, and will be attending the practices. If there's anything you need -- day or night -- anything at all, you ask him. " The boys called out greetings. Some waived. They were all clean cut, chiseled, and with the easy going confidence that comes from having complete confidence with one's body. Together, they looked like a Neitchean poster for a Midwestern Uber-4H club. The alpha stared at me from the center. Alone of the group, he said nothing -- just raised his head a fraction of an inch in a nod of condescending acknowledgement. Having glanced at him, I found myself, as in the gym, unable to look away. It was as if I was being somehow compelled to watch him. The analytical side of my brain recoiled. What was it about him that was so binding? It certainly didn't look like he was doing anything unusual. He was just sitting there on the floor, leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him. And yet -- he was somehow exercising power. While my analytical side wondered, the rest of my brain went entirely blank. I was captive to my eyes, which were captive to him.
He had short cropped brown hair, a little longer on top than on the sides and back, where he had had it razor cut. Short, trimmed sideburns extended half way down in front of his ears. His eyebrows, perfectly spaced under a strong forehead, were designed to draw your attention into his thick-lashed dark brown eyes. His eyes were of infinite depth, and staring into them, I felt lost -- selfless -- consumed. So trapped by the intensity I saw there, I hardly registered when his lips curled into a sinister, knowing, triumphant grin.
There was a noise coming from far away -- something trying to pull me away from the state of complete emotional nakedness in which I found myself trapped by those eyes. The sound recurred, and though it came from miles away, this time it was accompanied by a sensation on my arm. Finally, after how long? Seconds? Years? the eyes released me, and I was brought back to my body, which, I realized, had grown weak and was slightly trembling. The sound was Johnston, who was gently tugging my arm and saying, "breathe."
I turned to him, still getting used to being back in the world.
"That's him, of course," Johnston said, smiling, "but you already figured that out. The star of our team. His name is Adam."