Chapter 5: The Team
I found myself in the locker room at 4:00 waiting for the boys to finish their work out. Sitting there alone, I had some time to reflect on my experience earlier in the day.
Clearly, Adam was a prime candidate for an alpha male. He had me -- had me completely and irresistibly -- and without his even having to do anything other than look at me. I was, at the same time, tremendously intrigued, professionally curious, and, if truth be told, somewhat scared. Part of the art of doing research is the ability to stay detached from your subjects. The scientific method requires it. But how could I stay detached from Adam when all he had to do was look at me for me to forget where I was? This summer was not about washing towels and keeping a bunch of jocks entertained, after all. It was a time for me to be able to do research for my thesis. And if that thesis was to stand up to peer review, I would have to remain an indifferent, impartial observer. But this should not prove too difficult, I argued to myself. I was no psychological light weight. Top of my class in a prestigious graduate program, I, more than most my age, understood the methods men used to emotionally control each other. It was my main focus of study. And understanding the process, my inner voice reasoned, gave me an unassailable advantage. He could not control me if I understood his tactics, and without his control, I could be free to do what I had come to do: observe, document, and report. I determined, to begin with, not to look him in the eyes until I could figure out from where he derived his power.
With this newfound strength, I returned to the present. The practice had broken up, and the team began filtering in.
The first two came into the room, and walked up to me.
"Howdy," said the first, a lightly freckled blond with an open, generous smile, "I'm Brad. This here is Steve."
"Hey," I replied, "I'm Mark. Nice to meet you."
We shook hands, and they handed me their sweat towels, which I dumped in the appropriate bin.
Brad and Steven went to their lockers, where they began to remove their warmers and shorts.
"I haven't ever seen you on campus," Brad said. "You part of the program?"
"Nope. I'm in grad school. Johnston recruited me for the job."
"Seems like a shitty job to me," said Steve, throwing me his dirty clothes, "don't you guys usually do internships in the summer?"
"I don't know," I replied, throwing the damp uniform into the bin, "a summer in the mountains, pretty scenery, clean air, get to relax, and the pay's pretty good, too. I needed a break from thinking all the time." I had resolved, from the start, to keep my research under wraps. If they knew what I was doing, it would change the model. I didn't want to affect their behavior in any way.
Two more of the gymnasts came into the locker room, laughing over a joke one had just told. There were more introductions. Soon, eight of them were in the showers, washing off the day's sweat and chatting amiably in the easy banter of the locker room. Doug was complaining half heartedly about the workout.
"Fuck," he said, "eight weeks of this shit. If the rings don't kill me, the lack of pussy will!" "Just be careful in the weight room," enjoined Matt. "Remember: it's clean and jerk, not the other way around." The boys laughed.
"I'll be jerking all right," Doug replied, grabbing his crotch with his soapy hand and pointing it at his roommate, Corey. "That's why I took the top bunk. Corey's gonna have to take an umbrella to bed."
"Your disgusting," replied Corey, turning to face the shower head to hide his deep blush.
But it was all in fun. The boys continued, talking about everything and about nothing. One by one they finished cleaning themselves off and left the shower. When only a few were left, the last two gymnasts, Adam and his roommate Dan, entered the locker room accompanied by Johnston.
I avoided Adam's eyes, which was easier than I had expected, since he seemed uninterested in my presence. He continued discussing one of his routines with the coach as he stripped in front of his locker and walked, nude, to the shower. While the other guys had all made it a point to introduce themselves to me, Adam ignored me entirely. Where they had handed me their dirty sweats, some of them even putting them in the bins themselves, Adam left his kit in a heap on the floor in front of his locker, as he discussed his routine with Johnston, who joined him at the entrance to the shower area. A good part of me was relieved -- my resolve would not have to be tested while he was naked. But there was another feeling in there. What was it? I went inside myself for a moment to sort out my feelings. Was it sadness? Concern? No -- it was...disappointment. There was a part of me that felt disappointed that Adam was not paying attention to me. How odd.
I walked over to his locker, and bent down to pick up his clothes. Standing again with his sweat soaked clothes in my hands, I was overcome -- a rush like the first hit on a really good joint on an empty stomach. When I came to again a few seconds later, it was with the realization that I had buried my face in his gym gear. The aroma was overwhelming, like nothing I had ever experienced. Musky, thick, insistent. I blushed, and looked around to see if anyone had caught me smelling his workout clothes. No one had. The guys that were left were busy dressing, talking with each other, or combing their hair in the mirror.
How strange, I thought. To begin with, I didn't even remember bringing the sweats up to my nose. One moment I was leaning down to pick them up, the next, I was upright with my face buried in them. It was a completely non-volitional act. Furthermore, it seems as if I had actually lost consciousness for a moment or two. Pheromones,' reported the analytical part of my brain. There must be something in the sweat.' Throwing the clothes into the bin, I resolved to see if I could get a sample to send off to the lab back at school.
Cleaning up the locker area, I considered the hypothesis more fully. Of course pheromones had to be involved, if this was a true alpha male. Pheromones -- air borne hormones the secretion of which, in the animal world, indicated sexual aggression or receptivity -- were a potent part of the game of sexual arousal. Clearly Adam's body chemistry produced an abundant supply of particularly potent pheromones.
This also created a problem for me, of course. Pheromones were invisible, pervasive, and acted directly on the unconscious. The olfactory sense connects directly to your limbic system -- the animal part of your brain. How could I defend myself from something I could not see, or sense on a conscious level? Reason would be of little use. I had to think of something, or my treasured objectivity would be down the tubes.
With Adam still in the shower talking with Johnston, and the rest of the team gone, I resolved to protect myself for the time being by withdrawing to the laundry.
I wheeled the bins into the adjoining room, where I tried to clear my mind with the task of loading the machines and folding clean towels. I did not come out until I was sure the locker room was empty.
When I joined the boys again, it was at dinner. They were all sitting at a long table in the cafeteria, chatting.
Brad, sitting at one end, greeted me when I entered, and called me over to the empty seat next to him. This suited me fine, as Adam was at the other end of the table, and I still felt shaky in light of my recent glimpses into the power he held.
Brad was a pretty good looking young man. A sophomore, a Nebraskan wholesomeness permeated his good-natured face. He parted his blond silky hair in the middle. Like the rest of the team, it was cut relatively short. I wondered what it was about gymnastics that made them all cut their hair short. He had a pug nose lightly dusted with freckles across its bridge, and full red lips. His smooth skin, unlike many blonds, took on an even golden hue in response to the sun despite the freckles, which served to create a wholly appealing, friendly, and open image. He wore a cobalt blue jersey which set off his blue eyes perfectly. The collar of the jersey lay somewhat askew, showing off the junction between his chorded neck, and full, round deltoid muscle.
We chatted easily. Brad was, indeed, from Nebraska, as was his roommate Steven. He felt confident about his chances at Nationals, and that he had a shot at the Olympics in three years. He loved Johnston's coaching style, and had readily agreed to sign on to the summer camp, though it meant being away from his girlfriend for two months -- a hardship which, though he shrugged off, clearly weighed on him. I got the impression, talking with this genuine, sincere young man, that he was quite in love with his girlfriend, and, unlike the boastful Doug, missed her more than her genitals. I liked him instantly, and silently chastised myself for falling into the trap of assuming that all jocks were, a priori, shallow and stupid.
After a while, I asked him about Adam, and despite the ease of our interchange up to then, Brad became suddenly careful.
"He's the best guy on the team, of course," he said, after a pause that lasted a little too long to be merely reflective. "He's got the best chance of challenging the Russians. I think he'll do it, too. He sure does."
"Confident, huh?"
"Oh, yeah," Brad said. "I've never met anyone with as much confidence. Of course, I've never met anyone with as much talent either, so it's okay."
"Is he arrogant?"
"No..." Brad said, then thought about it for a second. "It's not arrogance. It's...it's honesty. He's that good. He knows it. Johnston knows it. We all know it. He's probably the best in the world, though we won't know that for sure until the Olympics. He's not arrogant about it. He...accepts it. And he expects that we'll accept it too. And we do, because it's true."
"Do you like him?" This was met with an endless pause.
"Sure. He's okay," he finally managed to say.
"Just okay?"
"No," Brad replied, retreating from whatever he had been thinking, "he's a good guy."
"But..." I offered.
"No but. He's a tremendous athlete, a good captain, and he's great for the team."
I had asked about the man, and Brad had answered about the athlete. There was clearly more to it than he was willing to say, but I didn't want to push it.
In the exchange, Brad had gone from being carefree and outgoing to introspected and somewhat melancholic. I let the conversation die, and turned my attention to the other guys at the table.
It was an interesting assortment of young men. Some naturally gregarious, like Doug, who spoke endlessly of snatch and things sexual, and Matt, who never passed up an opportunity to crack a joke. Others were more reserved. Evan laughed and was clearly engaged by the conversation at the table, while himself offering few words to it. Corey was the most demure, a rosy blush regularly breaking out on his fair skin in response to Doug's continuous reference to genitalia. Adam sat detached, listening to the conversation while he ate without participating in it. Dan, his roommate, sat across from him, equally uninvested in the banter at the table. While his attention was, ostensibly, on his food, it was clear from his body language that he was focused on Adam. He glanced at him often, and I found him trying to imperceptibly mimic Adam's stance, gestures, and attitudes.
Each was strikingly good looking in his own way. The majority of them were shades of blond, which made sense, as gymnastics was such a Midwestern sport. They ranged from Corey, whose hair was almost white, through the rich, textured yellows of Brad's hair to Drew's straw and flax, and Steven's strawberry blond. Eric stood out as the darkest of them, with black hair and eyes to match. His skin had a Mediterranean tawniness, and I wondered if he had some Italian or Greek in him. Their bodies were, equally, various shades of perfection. Where Dan's pectorals were round and forward, creating almost a shelf-like appearance, Eric's were equally taught, but squarer and spread laterally more than forward. Doug could have been a football player if he were somewhat taller, having a kind of big-boned bulk about him, while Steven's strength came from sinew. Their shoulders were uniformly large -- all the rings work, I guessed -- but there was variation there, too. On some, the individual tendons and chords remained distinct, with the skin stretching in drumlins and furrows over them, while on others the impression was more of mere unbroken massiveness. Evan was almost beautiful with his big eyes, golden locks, smooth skin, and a full, rounded chest, while Dan was on the other end of the spectrum, at stunningly handsome. Where Eric clearly had a five-o'clock shadow going, Corey, it seemed, didn't have to shave at all yet.
And then there was Adam, whose looks were indescribable only because words would limit them. Looking at Adam, one didn't see a body so much as one got an impression. He was more of an attitude than a physical being, and that attitude was one of complete superiority and contempt. Worse, like Brad, who had, in his own words, described and accepted Adam's superiority in athletic terms, I found myself accepting, as a matter of course, that that superiority was, in every sense, real, deserved, and appropriate. The realization left me cold, and again, afraid.
Chapter 6: The Alpha in Action
After dinner, I went back to my apartment and unpacked. An hour or so later, I walked back down the hall past the boys' rooms to a large common room near the entrance to the building. There were a few tables, some couches, and a wall mounted TV. Most of the guys were in there. A poker game was in progress, with Doug loudly announcing the face up cards he was dealing around the table. Steven sat reading the paper, and Corey and Matt were watching a sit com. It looked like a generic frat common room, but without the cigarette smoke, the mess, or the occasional ugly guy.
I went to the couch and sat down next to Matt, who was seeming somewhat restless. He kept shifting his position, as if he couldn't find a comfortable one in which to sit.
"Sore," I asked, for want of anything else to say?
"Nah," Matt said back, "just can't get comfortable." Corey looked over, for some inexplicable reason, blushed, then turned his attention back to the TV.
"How was the work out," I asked?
"Oh, it was fine," he said, shifting again. "Good for a first day. I hit my floor routine, but Coach wants me to change it."
"That's because you have a start value of 2," called Doug. "Maybe if you, oh, I don't know, actually jumped or tumbled or shit instead of just waiving your arms around in the air like a fucking fairy ballerina, he'd get off your case."
"Fuck off," Matt laughed. "At least I can touch my fucking toes you musclebound ox."
"I can touch my toes," Doug shot back, somewhat missing the joke, "so kiss my ass."
"Matt can kiss his own ass," Brad shot in, "all that flexibility training." The rest of the guys laughed and returned to their own conversations.
Matt had a very appealing face. Light brown hair, a squarish face, with a straight nose and a dimpled grin. A sophomore, he had a light beard which, like the rest of the team, he kept clean shaved. He returned his attention to the TV, shifting and reshifting on the sofa in an absent minded restless way. My gaze fell beyond him to Corey.
It was only then, close up, that I realized just how young Corey was. The only one of the squad who wasn't yet in college, Corey was still just a junior in high school. He had been training with Johnston for four years, and his parents, trusting the coach completely, had been honored by the invitation for Corey to join the college boys in the summer camp. Corey himself jumped at the opportunity, though he very much felt outclassed by the others. It was clear, though, that they had adopted him somewhat as one would do a mascot, both protecting him and having mild fun at his expense, and had accepted him into their fold. Still, his relative youth well explained his quietness, and the frequent blushes that beset his pale cheeks.
With almost silver, silken hair, pale skin, thick red lips which he had the habit of chewing on absently, deep and round blue eyes, a cheek whose translucent peach fuzz had not yet required a razor, the impression that he gave was one of prettiness.
Only his physique counteracted this impression. It was, at the same time, developed and rounded, as if still covered by a layer of baby fat. Still, his muscles were far more developed than your average seventeen year old, lending him the contradictory but entirely appealing look of a man about to emerge from a boy's body.
The evening wore on in friendly comfort. As Doug began losing, his banter got more and more raucous, but never truly belligerent. It was pretty clear that he was mostly mouth. Steve finished the paper, and turned his attention to a book. Corey remained entranced watching the tube, and Matt continued to shift around in his seat. I was watching the drivel on the television when the room spontaneously fell silent. I turned, and noticed Adam standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He was in a sleeveless black muscle shirt through which his nipples were clearly and proudly visible. His thumbs were hooked in the small front pockets of his jeans, which wrapped around his waist to caress the curve of his ass as tenderly as any lover could. The others had all stopped what they were doing, and had turn to look at him, silently, waiting for something. It was extraordinary. His mere presence.
Doug finally broke the silence.
"Hey," he said with a forced and somewhat uncomfortable laugh. It was clear that everyone in the room felt Adam's power. Brad's words from dinner rang in my ears. It was equally clear that what they felt for him was neither affection nor fondness. I wasn't yet able to pinpoint what it was. Adam was many things, I guessed, but not their friend. He returned Doug's greeting silently with the same dismissive nod he had given me when I was introduced in the gym.
"You should...ummm...talk to Matt tonight," Doug went on sounding a cross between helpful and hopeful. "He's got the itch."
Matt looked like he was about to respond, but the retort caught in his throat. Corey, the most nervous of them all, had gone entirely pale, and was vigorously biting his lower lip. Adam surveyed the assemblage. And the boys simply waited. Silently, immovable, as if captured. Adam's gaze finally rested on Steve.
"You," he said. That was all. He turned and was gone as quickly as he had appeared. The boys looked at each other as the spell broke. Steve quietly dogeared his place in the book, got up, and walked out, expressionless, turning toward the bedrooms. The game began again, this time in silence. Corey, the color returning to his face, snapped his attention back to the television which he continued to stare at without watching. Matt, alone in the group, looked somewhat disappointed.
After what seemed like an eternity, I could wait no longer.
"What the hell was that about," I asked?
No one said anything.
"Well," I said, this time directly to Matt?
"Nothing," he said, "just Adam. He's the team captain, you know. He has us in each night to...talk about the routines."
Though he was clearly lying, I let it rest.