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Preview from chapter one
Turning My Son Gay - Book 2
Sebastian Brock
Aaron had spent months teaching himself not to stare.
It should’ve been simple. A man raised a son, watched him grow into a strong, loud, impatient college athlete, and adjusted to the house feeling smaller whenever Jack was home from campus. Aaron should’ve been able to treat the sight of his son’s body as ordinary, as background noise, as one more piece of furniture in a life built out of laundry, takeout containers, unpaid bills, and ESPN rattling through the living room.
But Jack had become impossible to ignore.
At nineteen, he carried himself with the swagger of someone who’d recently discovered just how much space he could take up. He came home from practices and workouts with his shirt balled in one fist, chest bare, skin flushed from exertion, sweat shining along the hard planes of his torso. His shoulders had broadened across the last year until he filled doorways differently, and his arms had thickened with the vain, obvious results of hours under barbells. He liked being seen. Aaron knew that much. Jack flexed at his own reflection in darkened windows, stretched with his arms over his head in the kitchen, and planted himself in the living room for push-ups as though the entire house existed to witness him.
Aaron saw too much.
He saw the ridges of Jack’s abdomen bunch and flatten when he dropped to the carpet and pumped out reps with cocky little grunts. He saw the deep cut of his hips above low-slung shorts. He saw the swell of thigh when Jack sprawled on the couch after practice, legs spread, one hand shoved into his hair while he complained about coaches, classes, girls, anything that crossed his mind. Aaron saw the young man his son had become, hard-bodied and arrogant and careless, brushing past him in the hallway wearing nothing but gym shorts and a towel hanging around his neck, leaving heat and sweat and bare skin in his wake.
Aaron hated himself for noticing.
He hated the way his breath caught when Jack reached into a high cabinet and his shorts dipped. He hated the way his pulse climbed when Jack clapped him on the shoulder and leaned in too close, laughing about some party or some teammate’s idiocy. He hated the nights he lay awake in the room down the hall, one hand pressed hard against his own stomach, listening to Jack move around after midnight and imagining all the muscle and strength hidden behind that closed door.