Rugby Player's Big Secret

I hope you never get tired of reading about guys who play rugby because I sure haven't gotten tired of writing about them. Also, for many of you who keep sending requests into my inboxes, I'll think you'll love this story for another reason as well...

“Okay everyone, it’s time to put your hands together for our man of the hour. Give it up for Blaine Drummond!”

As Blaine ran out of the tunnel without a look back at his teammates, they were glad that he couldn’t see any of their smirking faces. Ever since he’d been brought onto the team a few months ago, it had been hell. He was a big name in the league with a bigger head. He’d walked into the locker room before his first practice, and honest to god, he had given an unasked-for speech about how he was just a “regular guy” and that we shouldn’t be “nervous to get to know him.”

What a wanker.

He was talented though, and our record was improving. That wasn’t enough though to make up for his douchery. We knew something had to give, and when Bill spoke up with his idea last week, it had been unanimous immediately.

Now, it was just time to see if this would work.

“C’mon over, let’s get you right in the center of the platform.”

In the center of the pitch, a small dais had been brought over after the match ended, and that’s where our general manager and a few dicks in suits were arranged around their new star player.

Blaine was a hulking mass of muscle, and his grass-stained rugby kit was struggling to fit over his body. He had thick arms and thicker thighs, and his barrel chest hinted at anabolic steroid use and not trips to the pub. He had actually never gone to the pub with us once since joining the team, which wouldn’t have been a problem if he didn’t drink. He did though, and he was just an asshole.

“For helping his team turn this season around, we want to give Blaine here a commemorative jersey to show our appreciation.”

Huddled together and hidden from the crowd in the tunnel, we all began to nudge each other to pay attention as if all of our eyes weren’t glued to this spectacle. Michael was grabbing a gift bag to hand to Blaine, and since Blaine hadn’t made any effort to get to know any of us, he had no idea that Michael was my brother. He was our club’s accountant now, and I’d helped get him the job a year after I’d joined the team.

“Oh wow, this means so much to me- this city has been so welcoming since my first match here.”

What a fucker!

“Do you think he even knows the name of this city?”

“Do you even think he knows our names?”

Bill shushed us, and we fell quiet as Blaine held up the jersey in front of him. It was bright gold with his number emblazoned on both the front and the back so that he could show off to everyone at all times.

“Let’s see you put it on for the crowd!”

They cheered at Michael’s insistence, and Blaine lived for those cheers. Putting on a fake bashful act, he wiggled out of his tight jersey before flexing for the camera crew. He was fit, and we truthfully couldn’t deny the effort that he gave every time we played. He was also drop-dead gorgeous, and I truthfully couldn’t take my eyes off his burly, hairy chest. Watching his pecs rise and fall as he breathed was almost hypnotic.

“Wait, that jersey will look terrible with the rest of your kit- we actually got you a new pair of shorts as well. These will have less grass stains for the newspaper photos.”

Suddenly, as Michael lifted out the black shorts from the bottom of the bag that he hadn’t noticed, Blaine’s face finally drooped just a little before he gained his composure again.

“Wait, you don’t want me to drop my shorts right here, do you?”

Before any of the suits could say anything, the crowd answered for them, cheering louder than they had during the game. There were plenty of people in the crowd that had scored cheap tickets purely for him and not the game which also had started pissing us all off.

Michael began waving his arms up and down to continue hyping them up, and the rest of the suits, oblivious to our plan, joined in with him. They were making more money because of Blaine, and they wanted more.

“Well, if the crowd desperately wants to see me, then…”

Before he finished his sentence, he grabbed onto his waistband and ripped the pair of shorts off his legs. These weren’t tearaway pants, and the sound of actual fabric ripping was audible before the cheers got louder. We all wore black compression shorts under our kit, so he wasn’t showing off anything extra right now, and that was the foundation of Bill’s plan.

He didn’t think that there was anything extra under those compression shorts.

After every practice or game, we would all throw our uniforms into the bin beside the shower room, grab a pair of shower shoes to protect our feet from that germ-infested floor, and we’d pile into the shower to wash off the blood, sweat, and dirt from our aching bodies. We were quickly in and out so that we could get to the pub, and I don’t think any of us really noticed Blaine until Bill brought it up.

“He has never once stepped foot in that shower room.”

“He’s a prissy little bitch- I bet he doesn’t use any shower that isn’t marble tiled.”

“Doesn’t he say that his wife likes him all sweaty when he gets home?”

“Has anyone actually talked to her? She never leaves the box during the game.”

As we mulled over this revelation over our pints, Bill kept going. When he asked if we were in, there was no hesitation. There was a little hesitation from my brother the next day, but he eventually folded.

And now, it was time for the moment of truth. As Blaine stood holding up his new jersey in nothing but his boots and pants, we charged out of the tunnel towards him, cheering as if we were proud of him. Catching sight of us, he never noticed Michael stepping behind him and grabbing onto his compression shorts. They were aggressively tight, but since he was covered in sweat, they slid right down to rest around his ankles.

This all happened right before we got to the dais, and the suits didn’t even comprehend what had happened until a few of us lifted Blaine onto our shoulders, naked as the day he was born. Another teammate ripped the jersey out of his hands, and two more grabbed his arms and tried their hardest to hold them at his sides. He was stronger than us though, and he had a reason to use that strength now.

Wiggling out of our grasp after about ten seconds, he was now running back towards the tunnel, hands over his crotch and ignoring the noise coming from the bleachers that had never been this loud before. We weren’t totally sure if our plan had worked, but since we heard more laughter than cheers, we had a suspicion that our Blaine problem had been fixed.

The next morning, we all met up at a coffee shop that still had a newspaper box out front, and we grabbed a copy and spread it on the table. Right below the fold on the front page, a giant photo of Blaine was there with the headline:

Drummond’s Big Success Outshone by Small Problem!

The photographer had been in the perfect spot, right in front of us as we held him up on our shoulders. He’d taken the shot as Blaine’s arms were held behind him, and there was nothing blocking the view of the tiniest cock we’d ever seen. Blaine’s treasure trail ended at his waist, and he was completely shaved down there. He must have done it to make his cock look bigger, but it wasn’t working. His little nub barely took up more than a few pixels, and all of our grins were bigger than his little willy.

A few minutes later, we started getting texts from friends as they saw the photo being spread online. Zoomed-in screenshots were being shared now.

Two days later, the suits would arrive in the locker room to let us know that Blaine had requested a trade to get closer to his family.

Three days after that, we played the best team in the league, beating them mercilessly. Most of us had our best games of the season, and we were just getting started.