Water boy, p.1
Water Boy, page 1
Water Boy
COPYRIGHT
© 2024 by V.A. Vikolia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by: Joshua L
DEDICATION
For Amanda Bynes,
Laughing with you was pure joy. Your fight through the noise and exploitation is pure guts. This one’s for you and every other person fighting battles similar to yours. Keep kicking ass.
In a world where fitting in is the norm, the bravest journey is to belong to oneself. In doing so, one belongs everywhere and nowhere.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
EPILOGUE
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Frankie
Pace Pendragon’s grumbling slices through the field noise, each one a jab straight to my damn patience. And as always, I just want to WRING this whiny motherfucker’s neck.
“Loosen up the tape. Damn,” the fly-half, jersey number 10, grits out under his breath. A former football player, Pace stands out even among the NSU Kestrels.
The El Capitan.
Coach Maverick’s voice booms across the field, his Kiwi accent in full stretch. “That man ready to go, or what, eh?”
Meet the ‘Kiwi Maverick’ hailing from Auckland, New Zealand—the visionary who turned our gridiron into a shared turf for two tribes—football and rugby.
“About done, Coach,” I call out, tightening the tape. “How about you come over and halt your boy’s tears?”
Coach and I laugh at that while resentment flares in Pace’s eyes. That’s when Ryan Atwater, our interim and perpetually late athletic trainer, decides to show up. His eyes are red-rimmed, hinting at an intimate session with the haze.
“Alright, water boy,” he says, hiking his thumb over his shoulder at me. “That’s my job. Now make like Michael Jackson and beat it.”
“Ah! Fuck! Dammit, Frankie,” Pace protests again, ignoring Ryan’s arrival.
My eyes do a complete orbit in their sockets. “The tighter the wrap, the better for the swelling.”
I continue with the tape and glance at the field where the game unfolds. Seeing the players engaged in the brutal dance of rugby sends a surge of adrenaline through my veins.
Rugby isn’t just a sport; it’s controlled chaos of brute force and finesse. The thundering collision of bodies, the primal roar of triumph, and the camaraderie that binds teammates together is the shit I live for.
I love the game’s physicality—the raw intensity of every tackle, scrum, and the test of strength and resilience that pushes your limits.
Once I finish with this grumpy fly-half, I firmly press his knee before standing.
“You seriously want my limbs to fall off, don’t you?” he growls.
“I got you, Pace,” Ryan interjects with the confidence of someone hardly ever there when needed.
Like, dude, fuck off already.
“Cutting off my blood supply isn’t in your job description, water boy,” Pace snaps, shifting his glare from me to Ryan. “And you, showing up late as usual. Wouldn’t trust you to run a bath, let alone manage my injuries.”
“It’s not an injury—yet.” I fish an ice pack out of my bag. “But stretch more, complain less. Your left IT band’s a little aggravated. Typical for you with all the zigzagging and hard stops. It just needs some proper stretching and a bit of foam rolling. Hip abductors wouldn’t hurt either.” I slap the ice pack into his palm. “Press down and pray for healing in Jesus’ name.”
“Fuck off.”
The scream of the whistle cuts through our exchange for half-time while Ryan sneers at me with his arms crossed.
“Let the professionals deal with the players next time, Frankie.”
“Will do. When you’re not under the influence.”
Dickhead.
He tsks before moving to the other side of the field while I turn to line up my water and Gatorade bottles, pushing the tension from my mind.
In my peripheral vision, I see figures moving, and when I look to my right, I see the girls from the NSU dance team.
Alyssa Majors leads the pack.
Confident.
Effortless femineity.
Queen.
Instantly, my stomach plummets.
“Frankie!” she shouts, waving at me.
I wave back, shooting a mega-watt smile as I take in the way her blonde hair sways in an immaculate high ponytail.
As the dancers assemble on the edge of the field, I assess their cobalt-blue Adidas-sponsored tracksuits. But my hawk-eyed gaze focuses on the dance captain, Alyssa Majors. Major hottie, major picky, major every-guy-on-campus-wants-to-fuck Alyssa Majors.
A familiar pang of envy digs into my sternum as I watch Alyssa and her dancers, so tightly knit together. They remind me of what it feels like to long for a family that truly wanted me.
When I try to focus on the game, I realize my mind has wandered. It’s now trapped in a darker place that haunts me even in daylight, where children are treated as commodities and where I once found myself an unwilling participant in a shadowy market.
In this underworld, my guardians were not protectors but brokers. They altered my birth records when I was too young to protest, changing my gender to male and my name to Chess. It wasn’t for any care or concern for my identity or future—no, it was a calculated move to increase my market value.
In those days, there was a specific demand for a ‘perfect son,’ a child who could be shaped into an idealized image by the wealthy and unscrupulous. My striking appearance—sharp features and expressive, deep green eyes—made me a prized candidate.
My guardians were operating under the guise of legitimate adoption agencies but dealing in the currency of flesh and forgery. They exchanged children like me for cash, far away from the prying eyes of the law.
The families that showed interest in me were not looking for a child to love but an accessory to their lives. The transactions were swift, secretive, and soul-crushing. When a match failed to solidify, I was returned to the cycle and repackaged for the next auction.
Despite the charade, deep inside, I never lost the sense of my true self, and I fight for her to this day.
My body bore the typical markers of a girl entering womanhood, but I suppressed these signs—binding my chest and adopting a rough-and-tumble demeanor—all to maintain the facade created by those who controlled my fate.
So, I stand here today, enduring the taunts and toil for the NSU rugby team. Aiming to become an athletic trainer, I seized the opportunity to join the Kestrels in the latter part of my sophomore year. It was a strategic move for a firsthand look at high-level athletes’ physical and mental intricacies.
My role may seem modest—a water carrier and team assistant—yet it’s layered with additional responsibilities, all in hopes of gaining experience. Or at least a foot in the door.
The Kestrels are a different kind of family. Yet, within this kinship, I often find myself on the periphery—somewhat accepted, yet constantly navigating the margins.
“Yo, Franks!” Sitiveni, our fleet-footed winger, calls. He sips with his hand, signaling the need for water.
As I grab a few bottles and sprint onto the field, I stumble over Tobias Castle’s rugby boot and faceplant into the grass.
“Very funny, prick,” I growl as I dust off my knees and pick up the bottles.
“Come on, water boy,” he taunts. “Gotta keep your wits about you.” His silver eyes squint at me as he dabs a towel across his face. “Clutz.”
“That’s why you live on the bench and barely ever get playtime,” I shoot back. “Your mouth runs more circles than your legs can carry on the field, and your play style sucks too.”
“You tell him, Frankie,” Gavins says with a nod.
It’s true. Tobias only has a spot because of his family name.
With his trademark sneer, he shoves past Gavin, who dared to back me up. Tobias is a walking contradiction to his cousin Rebecca—she had a heart, he’s a jack-in-the-box on steroids, always one crank away from exploding. And good looks in the family? Skipped his ass entirely. He has cauliflower-shaped ears from one rugby scrum too many, paired with an unfortunate adenoid face.
After getting my shit together, I hand off a bottle to Sitiveni, always taking extras in case. I hand those off to Dennis and Fritz. Once they get their fill, they’re back in action again.
I watch my towering Fijian titan roommate, Sitiveni Serevatu, as he sidesteps an opponent with ease. His athletic prowess is undisputable, drawing envious glances from the football players who share our field.
He’s like a brother of sorts—if our roommate Taco Tuesday nights reserved just for the two of us are any indication.
Night after night, as the room darkens and confessions flow, Sitiveni spills secrets. And in those whispered stories, Pace Pendragon, the guy with eyes the color of Versace and hair the tone of aged whiskey, stands out above the rest.
An unsmiling, hardened shell.
His demeanor hints at aloofness, a distant coldness in his interactions with me. Yet his intense gaze and the rigid set of his jaw suggest a deeper tension.
It’s more than just the usual player-physio tension. Since I took over responsibilities that used to belong to Rebecca Castle—his deceased girlfriend—there’s been conflict. He treats me as if I’m an intruder in a sacred space.
Each time I hand him a tape or ice pack, his gaze seems to accuse, ‘You’re not her.’ I don’t blame him; losing someone you’ve been with since age fifteen can dramatically affect one’s psyche.
Rebecca was the football team’s athletic trainer before Pace switched to rugby, the beloved heart and soul of the NSU athletic program. Her sudden death in a horrific car accident left a void, not just in Pace’s life but in the very fabric of the team.
As the ‘water boy,’ I stand on the outskirts—watching, learning. I’m here to forge my own path.
Like water, I adapt and flow around obstacles, shape-shifting and enduring. Not to silence the doubters or disrupt a legacy left behind, but to show up, day in and day out, ready to contribute Frankie Mercer-style.
I’m not just waiting for a chance but preparing for it.
Because I know with certainty my moment will come.
CHAPTER 2
Pace
“So, spill, Frankie Mercer,” Sitiveni says with a playful thwack at Frankie’s shoulder. He moves to collect all our dirty jerseys, wincing at the force of Sitiveni’s hand.
“What do you mean?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder.
Sitiveni lounges against the lockers. “You have the intel on Alyssa. I mean, Pace has wanted to spread her legs open for months. Make it happen, homes.”
“Whatever,” I toss back, my nonchalance feigned as a politician’s smile.
Deep down, I’m okay with whatever such intel—not that I’ll throw a parade over it. If the opportunity presents itself, sure, I’ll be down to tango.
Frankie’s Starbucks green gaze meets mine, his presence slightly off-kilter in our machismo world of college sports.
“Are you sure you want me meddling in your love life, Pace?” he teases, his smile cocky.
Sitiveni laughs while my back forms a knot.
Something about how Frankie looks at me—like he knows something I don’t—gets under my skin.
It always gets under my fucking skin.
“No thanks,” I muse, trying not to show the annoyance creeping into my voice. “I’ll pass on matchmaking services from our esteemed water carrier.”
“Just trying to help,” he replies sarcastically.
I deliberately turn to my locker, avoiding the brass plaque affixed to the wall. “You should focus more on hydrating the team than my love life.”
My offhanded comment pulls a laugh from the guys while Frankie shrugs, silently focusing back on his task. Even as I dismiss him, I can’t help but notice him out of the corner of my eye as the flurry of activity resumes.
Voices echo off the tiled walls; steam rises from hot showers. The scent of sweat and grass mixes with the subtle tang of shampoo as naked jocks stroll around with their dicks out. Frankie moves through the chaos, an unfazed, indifferent presence in the haze of post-game adrenaline.
“Ey, Frankie!” Marco, our hulking center with a scar above his eyebrow, barks. He throws his dirty jersey at Frankie with a smirk. “Make sure that one gets extra care, water boy. It’s the winning jersey.”
The others chuckle, knowing Frankie has that shit down pat.
“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie mutters as he rolls his eyes.
Tobias’s condescending smirk at Frankie doesn’t go unnoticed, and it’s become something more than surface-level rivalry.
Watching him, I’m reminded that not all team dynamics are as straightforward as they seem. And for all his quiet competence, Frankie seems to stir something in Tobias.
Breaking up my thoughts, Gavin, one of the props, sprints past, trying to snag a shower before another player.
“Hey, Gav!” I call. “Two minutes max.”
“Fuck off, Pendragon. If I want to shower like a girl, I will.” He laughs and drops his towel near the door, revealing his undies.
He’s the only one that covers up, and we all think it’s because he’s hiding a thumb-sized penis.
My eyes trickle to Frankie as he navigates through the locker room, his figure slightly lost in a baggy hoodie and worn jeans. But there’s a distinct finesse to the pieces he selects for impact.
Unlike us brand enthusiasts, Frankie’s artistry shines through his necessity-driven wardrobe. Patches on his jeans and slightly scuffed Air Jordan Mid-1s—donated by Sitiveni, who received the wrong size—speak volumes.
Style over price tags.
His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and I watch as he adjusts his NSU Rugby cap, revealing more of his short brown hair. But it’s that angel face that confuses the casual observer the most.
He has this soft allure and looks like one of those androgynous pretty boys you see on TV or in a band. I can’t help but notice the cologne he usually wears—it’s light and fresh, subtly blurring the lines with its feminine undertones.
However, it’s a relief to the nostrils past the scent of sweaty balls and socks.
He has bright eyes and high cheekbones, and his lips—neither thin nor excessively plump—curve into a smirk too often. Way too fucking often.
Not that I have any business thinking about it.
Occasionally, I’m drawn to the whimsical accessories on his sneakers, delicate chains attached to miniature anime characters woven through his laces. He’s the only one I’ve seen on campus with this personal flair to his footwear.
Plus, that’s Frankie. The water carrier. Just another part of the team.
His presence feels vaguely familiar yet frustratingly elusive, as if we’ve met in a dream I can’t quite recall.
He’s a fucking paradox I can’t dismiss, and an itch at the back of my mind.
Not out of curiosity but a responsibility to keep track of the boys.
Being the captain isn’t just about leading the team on the field; it’s about ensuring every member is in sync. My job is to know each player’s strengths, weaknesses, and quirks.
Right down to the water boy.
My gaze inadvertently catches the memorial again, the etched letters of Rebecca’s name catching the light. Her smiling face in the framed photo seems to watch over us.
In the basement of my conscience, I see images of her on the field, her focus, her professionalism. I see her laughing in the stands, eyes lighting up the stadium.
