Jennifer Love What's-her-face had cooled down her orgasmic squealing long enough to direct Lance, a.k.a. Kevin, to room number one where, she had said and giggled at her own dumb joke, JC was "holding court." It was, as she'd breathlessly explained, a roomier facility than the other courts because tournaments and other large-scale matches were often played on it. Therefore, it had a tiered observation skybox area on the floor above it from which onlookers could watch the competition (or, as in the case this evening, instructional training) through smoked windows. "Out-of-this-world convenient," Lance whispered smugly as they sat down in a back row of the otherwise-empty "bleachers." "Can you believe our awesome luck, man? This is so perfect. Now all I need is a double apple martini, and I'll be good to go." "Yeah, and what if he looks up here and sees us, Lance? You Secret Service dork. Have you got that figured out in your big ol' stalking-slash-spying plan?" Justin hushed and slumped down further in his cushiony chair, stretching out his long legs as much as he could. "I don't think they can see through the tinted glass, man. I think it's that two-way-mirror shit. Stop worrying and, mostly, stop being a paranoid fairy," Lance sighed and relaxed in his own chair, wriggling his ass on it 'til he was comfortable. "So which one of those two do you think is HIM?" "What?" "Don't 'what' me, J. Do what we came here to do. LOOK, damnit." Justin pushed the bill of his cap up off his eyes just slightly and hesitantly forced himself to take them off Lance and direct them down to the court below them. They weren't sitting very close to the action by any means, but he could make out the two men quite plainly as they volleyed the tiny ball back and forth over the low net, chasing and stroking it easily with their racquets until either of them missed or it bounced out of bounds. One of them, the one who missed several volleys in a row as the game progressed and the pace quickened, was short and overweight, probably in his late 30s, Justin guesstimated. The man was almost completely bald on top, but the blond hairs on each side of his head were held secure by a wide, bright, gay-pride rainbow sweatband. "Hmm. I'd say your boy's certainly not the humpty-dumpty, midlife-crisis queen," Lance chuckled, answering his own question. "Check him out, J. Pale. Chubby. Slow as molasses. And probably blind too. Can't even see the damn ball to hit it. If he's the 'instructor,' man, you are in deep trouble. Dude needs him some Slim-Fast, some Mystic Tan, and tons of lessons. Pathetic." Justin frowned. "Shush, Lance! You're pissy mean." "Wrong. I'm realistic. Call 'em like I see 'em……….Now that one is kind of promising. Except for those skinny chicken legs." "Lance! Will you can it?" Justin hissed irritably and slapped at Lance's forearm beside him. "Who told you you were on Wide World of Sports doing lame commentary anyway? And besides, I have skinny chicken legs, like you're always so fast to point out. So you can lay off that, if you don't mind." "Do you mind? The chicken legs? They're really not that bad, not from here. He sure as hell can fly around on 'em, can't he? Check him out." Justin hit his arm again. "Quiet!" The other person participating in the flurry of activity on the court was basically the polar opposite of the first one - younger, slimmer, darker, quicker. Justin narrowed his eyes and silently watched the game going on before him, uneven as it was. No, more specifically, he watched the other guy. JC - and surely this had to be JC - wore a blood-red sleeveless sweatshirt that hugged his torso smoothly but not too tightly and allowed his toned arms to swing about freely and adeptly as they needed to. The length of his black shorts, also not too tight, fell about midway between his knees and his crotch, the hems riding up over slick, defined thigh muscles as he moved like liquid lightning all over the court at once, so quick and graceful, with swift agility and fluid balance, like a strenuously choreographed ballet. Sleek rippling energy and glossy tantalizing wildness, full of fire and mesmerizing. Mesmerizing even if one had never been interested in the sport of racquetball before. His body, overall, was slender, true, but in a fit-and-trim sort of way, lithe and limber and healthy, as much as Justin could see of it from where he sat, elegantly striding and gliding across the floor with free range, gently bending into the curves and angles necessary to slap the elusive ball with his racquet. His hair, mysteriously hidden under a "do-rag" black bandana, appeared to be pulled back off his face for the sake of comfort - with the exception of a couple of renegade dark chestnut-brown strands that had escaped the wrap of material and curled defiantly at the side of his neck. "See something you, um, like down there, buddy? Drool much?" Lance waved a few fingers in front of Justin's eyes and snorted. "He's pretty much your type, isn't he?" Justin tore his gaze off the court and glanced over at Lance with a frown. "He looks like a competent instructor, if that's what you're driving at, smartass." "C'mon, J. You know that's not what I'm driving at. I mean be real. From here, I'd give him an 8.5. And minus the sweat factor, he might even jump up to a 9, man, depending on how he looks up close." "Time out. I thought you were all for the sweat factor." Lance smirked. "I am. As long as I am the one causing the sweating. Or, you know, doing the sweating." "You're such a pervert, Lance. Did I mention that? Do you ever think about anything besides sex?" "Do YOU?" Justin shook his head slowly. "Per. Verted. That is you." "And you're an uptight, needs-some-loving-action drama queen who might just have himself a golden opportunity for booty laid out on his doorstep tomorrow night. You need to seize the day, J. I'm just saying. Wake the hell up." Justin wrinkled his nose and turned his eyes back to the game below. "Even so, dude, he looks straight to me." Lance let out a surprised little gasp of a laugh. "He looks straight? Are you serious? No, you didn't! Man, you have SO been out of the dating scene too long, J. You don't even recognize your own kind anymore. Did you somehow miss the sexy little no-sleeves shirt he's got stretched over that nice bod and how it shows off those hot, juicy biceps? Or the way he stands so right up against - I'm talking closer than he needs to - up against that gnome-with-a-dome down there when he's showing the dude how he fucked up his latest swing? Straight guys don't rub all up on other guys like that. He's one of us, J. He plays for our team. Trust me." Justin watched and sighed as JC apparently found something his client had said so ticklingly funny that he dropped to the floor and fell out on his back, splaying his arms and legs carelessly. He could only barely hear the rowdy, full-hearted laugh, but he could see it overtake JC's whole body, up to the narrowed, crinkled corners of his eyes. "You think?" "I know." Justin had come to the conclusion a while ago that he'd been equipped with a flawed gaydar at the homo factory. "Flawed" meaning inconsistent and unreliable. Sometimes it worked just fine, like when he'd first met Lance Bass. Okay, not that Lance had been outwardly flamey or anything. He and Justin had just seemed to bond and connect right away, and seemed to sense each other's sexual likes and dislikes before they even discussed the subject openly between them. Same had been the case with Joe Fatone, who had a wife and baby daughter at home. He'd instantly registered "totally straight" on Justin's internal blip screen - although there were still times, occasionally, when all the guys went out drinking after a work day and stayed longer than usual, that Justin found himself scrutinizing the "chummy" interaction between Joe and Lance and was almost dead-sure that something, something "chummier," had gone on between them in the distant past even if neither had ever fessed up to any hanky-panky. But, all in all, Joe was a ladies' man. And then there was Wade Robson's over-the-top hetero act, which Justin had truly believed for a long time too. That's right. No tell-tale pings there. Not until recently. Faulty-ass gaydar. He could never trust the piece of crap. So mostly he trusted Lance instead. "Fine, Lance. He's definitely gay if you say so. You're the expert on all things gay. Not that it matters a twit if he is or not," Justin sighed again. "Admit that the dude's not a troll, Justin. Before we leave, admit it." "Why?" "'Cause I saw you ogling him, man. And because it's true. You know it." "I wasn't ogling him, Lance, for your snarky little information." Lance reached out and rubbed the back of Justin's hand, encouragingly. "One thing at a time, babe. Knock it out, slowly. Just say he's not a troll. That's all." Knowing Lance wouldn't give up, certainly not up here in this secluded hideaway, Justin huffed long and loud. "He's not a troll." "Whew! Finally. Step one down. Only eleven thousand more to go……….Man, you'll feel so much better when you let it all go and quit with the denial shit, J." "You're an annoying, persistent bitch, Lance." "Sticks and stones, Timberlake. Blah, blah, blah. Now here's my Prediction for the Week. Want to hear it?" "I don't really have a choice, do I?" Lance ignored him and kept predicting. "One day you'll thank me, pal, for being your annoying bitch of a best friend……….one day when you get to snuggle up to and feel the heat of that." He tapped Justin's upper arm and then pointed a pistol finger to where JC stood still now on the racquetball court. "Know what I'm saying?" "THAT'S your great prediction? Fabulous. You can shut up saying anything now. Thank you very damn much." "J, this is why you can't get laid. You keep fighting it off. And that is one you ought not to be fighting off. He's totally a keeper." "Lance Bass. Big-ass Dreamer and even Bigger-ass Shit-talker." "Hot damn, J! I just thought of something! I'll bet he wears those cute-as-hell little tightie boxer briefs to, you know, protect his package. Imagine the possibilities, man." "Lance, right now, I'm imagining beating your ass in about two seconds just to shut you up. Just so you know." Lance leaned closer, poking Justin in the ribs. "Oh! And what about afterwards? When you're both all steamy and sweaty from all that wrestling around on the court down there?" "There will be zero wrestling around on the court, Lance. It's not the WWF. You moron. Shush!" Justin hissed. "You get to do the shower thing with Sir Hotness, J! Think about it! You get to watch that hot water stream down all over his nice, tight, naked body! You know! In the big ol' locker room communal shower! Woo hoo! You lucky bitch!" "Fuck OFF, man," Justin growled, but it was more gentle than gruff, more distracted than disgruntled. And, intently, he kept watching the figure on the floor of the court. "Fine. I am silenced at your grouchy-ass command." Said figure was facing his onlookers now, unaware of being observed and talked about (spied on, rather), as his attention focused on his pupil. He took in a full, deep breath that expanded his chest for a moment before he released it and brushed absently at the furled wisps of hair that had slipped from under the bandana and lay damp against his throat. Then he swiped a hand towel carelessly around the back of his neck and down his jaw line, gesturing an invisible slow swing in the air with his other hand. Justin bit at the inside of his lower lip as he took in the frontal view of the guy's face for the first time that evening. The bone structure, the eyes, the mouth. Even from this far away, it was undeniable that he was quite………. "A 9.5," Justin whispered and shivered at the unexpected sound of his own voice. He hadn't meant to admire aloud. "What?" Lance's feet fell to the floor from the chair in front of him, and he almost choked. "You were a little off, man. He's a……….9.5……….especially with the sweat factor." Lance sat up in his chair and threw his arm around Justin's neck, pulling him into a close hug as he laughed in the shadows of the observation skybox. "Now that is what I'm talking about, J. Woo hoo! I knew you had it in you to recognize 'fine' when you saw it again. That'll work. You're catching on fast, buddy……….Now how about we get out of here before that sexy 9.5 down there spots us - or, more importantly, spots YOU - peeping-Tom on him? Let's go and meet my sexy 10 for some chow. What do you say, man? All satisfied here? Mission accomplished?" "Sure. I'm famished. This spying-on-folks business is nerve-busting, man. Let's hit it," Justin whispered but made no move to get up or to take his eyes off the racquetball court. "Hey, we need to avoid Miss Thang out in the lobby too, man. She wanted me to hook her up with the JC dude when she found out we were tight. Haha. And you know I'd just have to tell her, if she started that insane gushing all over me again, that her only chances of getting that boy are gonna be in her little wet-dream fantasies." Justin sighed. "And you so would too. I know you."