Summer explodes. The heat, the sun. The green on the trees. And in its aftermath, things slow down some. After winter’s cold, dark hand bosses everyone down the streets, people want to stop and take in the warmth. It’s no longer necessary to hurry or scuttle through the wind and snow, coats tugged tight against faces - now there are long, luxurious strides, more skin bared with the passage of every June day.
And with it, comes the inevitable douchebags. Showing up and showing off, right down Main Street, chests proud and arms swinging, lats spread beneath the thin white strings of tank tops. Basketball shorts. Somehow brand new looking sneakers, no matter the day, or maybe slide sandals. They do it to be seen, to be watched.
On the outside, Ethan watches, sees. He is scornful, in passing conversation. Sometimes laughs at a meme he sees online, scrolling through Facebook, with a close approximation of that type. Let’s be honest, he thinks. It’s the jock stereotype. The dumbass, muscle-obsessed, sports-ardent jock. And the jocks are on parade. Behind the wheel of shiny, glinting cars with music hammering the air. In uniforms, sometimes, black eye-paint streaked and pants muddy, cleats half-unlaced. Their fresh, aquatic colognes painting the air with invisible, heavy brushstrokes.
And yet, for all his disdain, Ethan watches them. He didn’t always. And in the winter, it almost feels like he gets a bit of a reprieve - but still, his eyes travel, involuntarily, towards them, whenever he sees a Jock. At work, stocking shelves, he sees a Jock go by, and there goes his attention. He sees the baseball cap - Red Sox! - fitted, dark gray, bright red B, flat-brim, over short, dark hair and dark eyes that sort of suck light into them. Red tank-top, showing off smooth, taut biceps and deltoids rounding slowly higher, still works in progress, but growing. Basketball shorts - gray with a bright Nike swoosh like a blinding white grin down the thigh. His calves lead down in tight diamonds to his Nike Roshes, also flame-red, the outsoles nearly sparkling, clearly well-maintained
Ethan’s face matches the Jock’s sneakers as he rips his gaze away from the bro. Fuck, he thinks to himself. It happened again. How long this time? He shakes his head back and forth to clear it of cobwebs and sets back to the task at hand.
But still, he thinks to himself, how fucking cool would it be to have a body like that? Being a Jock aside - he’d never dress like that, no way - just being fit, being in shape. Being in tune with the body, being agile, being corded with muscle. It makes a sort of practical sense, really. He wonders why he doesn’t go to the gym, actually.
(The Jock bro is crossing the parking lot, his shadow thrown back behind him like a long, thick sword. A brief smile dusts the corner of his mouth, and then he reaches up to curl the earbuds into his ears. Music swells up, the same thud and shout that accompanied his lifts not 30 minutes earlier. He stops at the edge of the parking lot, hikes himself up onto the top of the picnic table, head bowed, knees spread, nodding to the music. The Jock bro checks his G-Force watch, chunky and black against his tanned forearm.)
The Jock was wearing a lot of cologne, Ethan notes idly to himself. He doesn’t hate it. It doesn’t smell expensive, but it doesn’t smell cheap, either. The only words that come to Ethan’s mind are swimming pool, locker room, weight room, high school, mall. A splash of color and sound. The cologne is fresh, sharp, clean. That’s it, he thinks. It smells clean. Transparent, almost, like fresh glass. Like … like a mirror.
Ethan blinks and looks around. He’s in the bathroom. Must’ve wandered in here, he thinks to himself. And there in front of him is the mirror over the sink. “Gonna have to get these blackouts checked,” he says to himself, murmuring, chuckling. Ethan blinks at himself. Not scrawny. Wiry. Dark hair, a little curly, a little fluffy. Time for a cut. Long legs, long arms. Squat torso. Size 10 sneaker, currently a battered, low-top Chuck Taylor, the laces variegated with years. Black-rim glasses and a well-maintained goatee.
He flexes, then, pulls a double bi, right there in front of the mirror. He holds it. He puffs his chest out, he sucks his stomach in. He tenses all of his muscles in the vain, pathetic attempt to somehow envision his biceps inflating, suddenly popping out like found baseballs - or softballs, even! - seeing the veins fill and surge and rise out of his skin like fleshy worms …
The disappointment is nearly intoxicating, along with the rush of vertigo that hits directly after Ethan relaxes the flex. No, he isn’t fit, muscled. He’s got some wire under the skin, but so little mass.
Need to eat more, Ethan muses, the smallest trickle of a stream of consciousness beginning to flow beneath his thoughts. Proteinwould help the muscles grow. But because those thoughts are so foreign - they almost don’t seem to belong to him - his brain rejects them as important on a surface level.
Ethan shakes his head. Work, that’s what he was doing. And life outside of work, well, that’s going okay, isn’t it? Nothing too crazy. School, with its accompanying homework, all the flipping of textbook pages and the quick pace of keyboard fingering, face lit by the screen, crafting essays. Of course, sometimes it isn’t as quick a pace. Sometimes, it’s an argument with speed. He struggles. Everyone struggles from time to time. Just need more coffee. And he always has coffee after a good, hard workout. And that’s why he’s tired, of course. Balancing school and work and his workout routine is exhausting, sometimes.
Ethan feels himself slump a little as he turns to exit the bathroom, feeling a dull ache in his shoulderblades, in his neck. He reaches up to rub at them, digging in with his fingers, and issues an involuntary moan, a deep, throaty sound that verges on indecent.
(The sun is setting. The Jock bro cracks his neck from side to side, feeling the pull in his lats, his traps. He tilts his head to look up at the rapidly darkening sky. The first hot breath of night-wind skirls across his face. He tilts to one side, digs in the pocket of his shorts, and pulls out his phone. His fingers tap over the number pad, and he lifts it to his face, skin bathed in the eldritch, electronic blue)
“Fffffuuuuuck,” Ethan judders out, his upper teeth clenching against the lower, his lips pressed tightly together in order to stifle the noise he makes as he bucks back & forth in the bathroom stall. One hand has flung out against the tiles to keep himself steady as the other one jerks himself off, pumping wildly as his seven-inch cock, engorged in his hand, becomes like steel. Ropes of saliva spray from his mouth, his head flung back in the crescendo of the orgasm. It doesn’t once occur to him that he is fucking jerking off in the bathroom at work.
Ethan’s phone rings. At least, he thinks its his phone. Who else would have Turn Down For What as a fuckin ringtone? Well, him and Justin. Shit.
“Yo.” His voice sounds so far away as he picks up the phone.
“Bro! What the fuck, you get lost?”
(The Jock bro is laughing silently, knee-slapping. He fuckin loves the first Uhhh.)
“Well, hurry the fuck up. I’m waitin out in the parking lot. Pick me up some eggs, wouldja? I forgot em. Oh, and chocolate milk.”
“Uhhhh … okay.”
Ethan takes the phone off the side of his face and adjusts his backwards-facing hat. The bathroom is filled with the smell of his cologne, which - even though he’s been told that one spray is enough - he has sprayed on at least five times this morning before leaving the house, and another before work started. Now, of course, it mixes liberally with the strong, earthy musk of his cum, which has splattered all over the toilet and the floor. Ethan stares at it, confused, and then remembers, and a horking, jerking laugh spills up out of his throat and into the air. He turns on an immaculate, white and gray, Nike AirMax Wright, and leaves the bathroom without either cleaning up or washing his hands.
The night air is cool around Ethan’s bare arms. Still too skinny, he thinks to himself. The trickle of his stream of consciousness has suddenly become a whitewater rapid. A constant rising static, flooding out his other thoughts. Need more mass.
It carries from across the parking lot. The dark has fully descended now, like an eyelid shutting on the world. Ethan feels his Nike Elite basketball shorts swishing around his knees. “Yo!” He cries back, and the sound carries a lot further than he thought it would, surprising even him - but only for a moment.
“Fuckin course I’m ready.”
“Gonna fuckin hit it tonight.”
The world is breaking up into kaleidoscopic colors. Ethan rubs at his eyes, lifting his Ray-Bans to do it. Something feels wrong. Like two super-imposed images have become suddenly unmounted, and he is looking looking through through a haze of exhaust smoke. “Uh, hang on …”
Deep down, in the dark miasma of his brain, sullen red Klaxons have surged to life, and the alarm is cranked up to full volume. The clothes on his frame feel suddenly alien, the hat feels too large, the sneakers, too big. He feels like a kid, playing dress-up in an older brother’s clothes. His heart rate surges, and his eyes dart from shadow to shadow.
“Sup, bro?” The Jock bro is looking back at him, vacant eyes slightly curious, mostly bored.
“I’m not your … bro. Bro.”
The Jock bro moves closer. Ethan would, instinctively, move back, but he doesn’t, not quite, he doesn’t think he does, anyway. The Jock bro is standing so close now, so close that he can smell the entirely unnecessary aftershave under the cologne, so close that he can smell the residue of iron on his fingers, the rasp of slightly fruity pre-workout on his breath. His hand comes up, grasps Ethan’s bicep. His eyes fix, anchoring on something far down inside.
The anchor is being reeled back in, up through Ethan’s body. He feels giddy, dizzy. It is not an entirely unpleasant sensation, Ethan would reflect later - if he were able to reflect, later, beyond flexing in the mirror … and well, let’s be honest, every reflective surface …
“Come on, bro. Let’s go.”
An invisible cloud grows around Ethan as he nods, just once, and then grins, slightly vacantly. “Hey bro.”
Ethan flexes, as hard as possible, his muscles standing out in relief against his short, broad frame. The night flees from their laughter as they throw arms around each other’s shoulders and head towards the gym. And behind them, trailing a sweet, fresh, clean scent; mildly intoxicating, definitely distracting.
Jay Z with his nephew Nahziah Carter and members of the City Rocks team, shortly after they secured a three-point win at the Nike Elite Youth Basketball League’s “Session IV” in Los Angeles on Saturday.
The 6′6″ Carter is the son of Jay’s older brother Eric Carter. He plays for theCity Rocksteam in the EYBL, and currently attends the Bishop Kearney High School in Irondequoit, New York.
Late last year he committed to the Dayton Flyers and was due to begin attending the University of Dayton in Ohio. In a Twitter statement Naz stated: “I’d like to thank God for blessing me with abilities and talents that have accumulated many scholarships for me in the sport of basketball. But with options comes choice, and I am proud to announce I have committed to the University of Dayton, a place with a great atmosphere and campus and a place where I plan to continue to develop myself academically and athletically for the next four years.” In April 2017 Naz reopened his recruitment after coach Archie Miller left for the Indiana Hoosiers. He is now in the Class of 2018 and visiting multiple different universities.
Jay Z and Emory Jones with his nephew Nahziah Carter, photographed after the City Rocks team secured a three-point win at the Nike Elite Youth Basketball League’s “Session IV” in Los Angeles on Saturday.
The 6′6″ Carter is the son of Jay’s older brother Eric Carter. He plays for theCity Rocksteam in the EYBL, and currently attends the Bishop Kearney High School in Irondequoit, New York. He is currently in the Class of 2018 and is visiting multiple universities. In a recent interview with the Bleacher Report he said that last week was the first time his famous uncle had actually seen him ball, and because of his appearance he is now getting a lot more attention online. He named his favorite Hov album as Reasonable Doubt, and also spoke on the notorious shooting incident that happened 35 years ago: “My father tells me some great stories from when they were growing up, and so does my grandma, but they don’t really talk about that one too much. My dad did something and they fought, but we don’t talk about it. My brothers and my sisters all know. Honestly, we usually laugh about it. I don’t know why, but we find it kind of funny. I mean, Jay Z shot our dad. That’s pretty crazy.”
Jay Z, nephew Eric Carter, Creative Artists Agency consultant William “Worldwide Wes” Wesley, and Emory “Vegas” Jones watch nephew and Albany City Rocks player Nahziah Carter at the 2017 Nike Elite Youth Basketball League in Los Angeles.
well Here we have some official photos of the new Nike Basketball Elite series. you can call it Elite 2.0 but no word yet on the “2.0”. but it is the KD V in a low version with a carbonfiber heel and a great leather upper. the LeBron X also has a new look. they still use the base of the shoe but it has carbonfiber on the upper and heel. the Kobe 8 also has a carbonfiber heel. it almost resembles the kobe 7 system heel. but it is said that all the shoes will have (aside from the carbonfiber) Kevlar and foam materials. well who knows but stay tuned to see the new post season shoes.
Here are the air jordan 12 playoffs. they are retros now. but these hit shelves in april 21 after all the Nike Elite Basketball shoes. the Shoe has carbon fiber and its design is inspired by the rising sun. you can cop these for 160