The Team's Lucky Charm

Professor Herbert Periwinkle had never meant to set foot in The Crooked Antler. Its name alone evoked raucous laughter and sticky floors—the exact opposite of his quiet lecture halls and the soothing scent of old tomes. But when the rain began in earnest, he found himself clutching his drenched trench coat and slipping inside, seeking refuge from the storm.

The air was thick with the smell of sour beer and something vaguely like a sweaty gym bag, lit by a handful of flickering bulbs that seemed ready to burn out. He hesitated at the threshold, ready to turn back, when a familiar silhouette in the gloom caught his eye.

Bobby Hamilton.

The Hammer.

The university’s golden-voiced quarterback, all chiseled jaw and broad shoulders, adored by cheering crowds and envied by students—and, discreetly, by some faculty. Yet here he sat, alone against a faux-brick wall in the corner, half-lit by a buzzing neon beer sign. His varsity jacket hung open; his massive frame sagged inward. He cradled a half-melted drink, the ice long gone.

Herbert’s pulse quickened. He was used to keeping a respectful distance from people like Bobby—icons of effortless confidence. But tonight, the star athlete seemed fragile, unguarded. Something inside Herbert stirred.

He hovered near the bar, silently debating. He should leave. He would leave. Until Bobby looked up, bleary-eyed, and said, “Professor… Periwinkle? Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Herbert slid onto a stool. “Guess we both made a wrong turn.” They exchanged a strained smile, then sat in awkward silence.

Finally, Bobby leaned back. “You know about the championship game pressure?” he asked. “Throw one bad pass, and you’re the dog that peed on the carpet. They want miracles every week.”

Herbert, no stranger to academic pressure, nodded. “Expectations can be a kind of prison.”

Bobby snorted—a laugh. “You sound like a book.”

“I spend a lot of time with them,” Herbert admitted, offering a small grin.

The tension eased. Bobby shifted closer, his arm brushing Herbert’s. “Ever get tired of being who everyone thinks you are?”

Herbert’s heart pounded. He pictured his lined shelves, his solitary cup of tea, the quiet life he’d chosen—and sometimes resented. “I do,” he whispered.

Bobby’s gaze held his. He drained his drink, set the glass down, and muttered, “Screw it,” before reaching out and touching Herbert’s hand.

Herbert didn’t pull away.

Moments later, they slipped out through a back corridor, and what followed was a swirl of hesitant touches and muffled sounds—an intimacy Herbert had never imagined for himself—blurring into the dark until everything felt both impossible and inevitable.

With trembling fingers, he unzipped Bobby's pants, revealing the prominent bulge that had been hinting at his desire. The scent of musk and sweat mingled with the dampness from the rain, making his mouth water in anticipation. He took a moment to gaze at the thick, hard penis before him, feeling his own arousal swell. Then, with a deep breath, he leaned in, closing his eyes as he parted Bobby's boxers and took the head of his cock into his mouth. It was a sensation like nothing he had ever known—intimate and raw. The taste was surprisingly clean. He began to suck, tentatively at first, his tongue exploring the velvety surface. Bobby's hand tightened in his hair, a silent directive to go further, to take more. And so, he did. Inch by inch, he took Bobby's cock deeper into his mouth, feeling the heat and weight of it, savoring the faintly salty taste. He set a rhythm, slow and steady, his cheeks hollowing with each bob of his head. The stifled noises that Bobby made grew more urgent, his hips moving in time with the Professor's ministrations.

Bobby's breaths turning ragged. Herbert felt the tension in the young athlete's body coil tighter. With a low, guttural growl, Bobby's hips bucked forward, and hot, thick ropes of cum shot into the professor's eager mouth. Herbert swallowed reflexively, the salty tang of Bobby's release filling him with a sense of accomplishment that was both strange and exhilarating. Bobby's hand on his head relaxed, his body going slack with relief and pleasure. Residue from Bobby’s dick spilled onto Periwinkle’s tie and shirt. The silence between them was profound, broken only by the distant clink of glasses and the persistent patter of the rain outside. They remained there for a moment, frozen in the aftermath of the act, before both men realized they were at risk of getting caught.

Apologies tumbled out in mumbled stammers from both men, neither quite sure whom they were sorry to—or for what.

When it was over, Bobby looked down at Herbert, chest heaving and eyes dazed.

“Jesus, Professor…”

Herbert rose, cheeks flushed. “Don’t… tell anyone,” he rasped, not ashamed of what happened but mortified by how desperately he pleaded.

Bobby only nodded. “I won’t. I just… didn’t know I needed that.”

“Neither did I.”

They parted without another word. Bobby melted into the night as if a storm had passed.

The next day on the field, Bobby Hamilton was a different man. He moved with electrifying energy: every pass crisp and confident, every play fearless. The weight he’d carried the night before was gone—he looked almost buoyant.

After the final touchdown of evening practice, the small crowd’s cheers swelled. The Hammer raised his helmet to the floodlights and let out a triumphant roar that echoed across the turf. Coaches slapped his back; teammates pounded his shoulders.

In his office, Herbert Periwinkle sat under the sterile glow of his desk lamp, a scholarly article on Tacitus and moral ambiguity spread out before him, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’d convinced himself it was a one-time thing.

Until a knock came a few days later—three firm raps, a pause, then a fourth, louder than the rest.

Herbert froze, hands splayed on the desk. “Come in,” he called, voice cracking.

The door creaked open. There stood Bobby—still in his rumpled letterman jacket, a faint sheen of sweat at his neck, cheeks still flushed from last week’s victory.

“Professor.”

Herbert jumped up—his knee slammed into the desk. “M-Mr. Hamilton—”

“Bobby,” the young man corrected gently, stepping inside and closing the door softly.

Herbert pushed up his glasses. “Congratulations on practice. You were… remarkable.”

“Yeah. I was.” Bobby’s grin faltered, brow creasing. “I’d been in a real slump—no focus, couldn’t connect with anyone, not even on the field.”

He inched closer. “But after that night… whatever happened between us, I don’t know. I’ve been seeing straight ever since.”

Herbert’s throat tightened. “Bobby, I don’t think—”

“I’m not here to get you in trouble,” Bobby said quickly. “It’s not like that. Neither of us planned it.”

He closed the gap until they were only a few feet apart, the mingled scents of sweat, cologne, and artificial turf hanging between them.

“I just—” Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. “I need it again. Whatever that was. You don’t know what it did for me. I went out there like I didn’t have to prove anything. I could just play, like I was enough.”

Herbert sank slowly into his chair, torn between terror and a profound, undeniable yearning.

“Bobby,” he whispered, voice soft as aged paper, “this can’t become a habit. I’m not… I’m not some good-luck charm.”

Bobby knelt beside the desk, deliberate and unhurried, folding himself into the hush of the wood-paneled room.

“I don’t think it’s luck,” he said, eyes locking with Herbert’s. “I think it’s you. You saw something in me that night—something even I couldn’t see.”

Herbert’s breath caught.

“And I think maybe,” Bobby went on, gaze unwavering, “you need something too.”

Herbert removed his glasses, not out of habit but from an instinct to see Bobby without any barrier.

Silence settled around them.

And then, with a barely perceptible nod, he whispered, “Lock the door.”

In the office's privacy, the quarterback had stripped off his varsity jacket and shirt, standing bare-chested, muscles rippling beneath his golden skin. Herbert stared, his pulse quickening. Kneeling on the linoleum, he unzipped Bobby's pants, revealing the hardened flesh. His glasses askew, heart racing, he heard Bobby say, "Professor, you might want to take off your tie and shirt to avoid another accident."

Herbert nodded, fingers trembling as he undid his tie and shirt, feeling Bobby's gaze. He let them fall to the floor and bent forward again. Bobby's hand guided him, the young athlete's cock hard and ready. Each stroke of Herbert's tongue, each suck, drew sounds of satisfaction from Bobby. The taste of precum was sweet, and he craved more. As Bobby's hips bucked, Herbert knew the end was near. He braced himself, ready to receive Bobby's release. With a final thrust, Bobby filled Herbert's mouth with semen, the force making his eyes water. Yet, Herbert swallowed it all, feeling it warm his throat. Bobby's hand dropped away, and Herbert pulled back, licking his lips. Bobby's contented expression was his reward. They shared a silent moment before Bobby whispered, "Thank you, Professor," voice hoarse with pleasure. Herbert nodded, his own voice lost to lingering sensations.

The following week, Bobby Hamilton performed a near-miracle on the field, almost single-handedly securing the team's place in the finals for the first time in years. However, the championship game looming ahead would demand more than just Bobby’s newfound vitality.

Seated in his office that week, Professor Periwinkle was startled by a sharp, authoritative knock causing the glass in the windowpane to vibrate.

A second knock followed, even more insistent. Unmistakable.

“Professor Periwinkle? You in there?”

The voice was instantly recognizable.

Coach “Red” Mallory.

A campus legend. Vietnam veteran, motivational speaker, part-time Baptist preacher. His neck was the circumference of a cured ham, and his voice could carry the weight of thunder. His age was a mystery; his face was weathered like carved oak, and his handshake was rumored to dislocate shoulders. Most students regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. Most faculty gave him a wide berth. He was said to thrive on raw steak, chewing tobacco, and sheer willpower.

Herbert’s face paled. Could this be the consequences of his encounters with Bobby finally catching up to him?

Coach Mallory stood in the doorway, clad in full team attire: windbreaker, whistle around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. A chew stick protruded from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, like chips of flint, scanned Herbert with an unnerving intensity.

“Professor,” he stated curtly. “Mind if I come in?”

Herbert stepped aside, a frantic pulse throbbing in his ears. “Of course.”

Mallory entered the office like a general inspecting enemy fortifications.

“After the way Hamilton played last night, the boy finally coughed up what’s been lighting his fire…never pegged him for that kind of…you, on the other hand…”

Herbert blinked, bewildered. “Excuse me?”

But Mallory simply turned his gaze on Herbert—not with anger, but with a calculating shrewdness.

“I don’t give a damn what went on. Whatever it was, it worked.”

Mallory leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “That kid’s been in a nosedive for weeks. Distracted. Jittery. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t even open up to the team chaplain.” He crossed his massive arms. “Then, after one night, he steps onto that field like he swallowed a damn lightning bolt.”

Herbert swallowed hard. “Are you suggesting that I—”

“I’m saying,” Mallory cut him off, his voice low and gravelly, “that whatever came out of that bookish mouth of yours straightened that boy right out…and now I need a little of that magic for the whole damn team.”

“What?” Herbert stammered, incredulous.

The coach’s eyes narrowed, devoid of malice, only a sharp, predatory gleam. The unmistakable scent of a potential strategic advantage hung in the air.

“So here’s the proposition.”

Herbert felt a sudden weakness in his knees and sat down heavily.

“I got a shot at getting us back to being champions! Something you did reignited that boy’s spark. Maybe it’s intellectual. Maybe it’s emotional. Maybe it’s something else entirely.”

Herbert’s face flushed crimson.

“Point is,” the coach continued, his gaze unwavering, “maybe you can do that for the rest of my boys.”

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a sealed envelope.

“Officially, this is a faculty development grant. Unofficialy… it’s a thank you. You’ll find all the paperwork’s already signed.” He placed the envelope on Herbert’s desk like a loaded weapon.

Mallory paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob. “See you Saturday morning…two hours before kickoff…better get some rest, Professor.”

And then he was gone, as swiftly and decisively as he had arrived.

Silence descended once more.

Herbert stared at the envelope, its crisp edges sharp against the worn surface of his desk.

The air in Herbert’s office hung heavy with disbelief and a dawning sense of the absurd. Saturday morning arrived with a disorienting mix of dread and a bizarre, almost academic curiosity. He found himself walking towards the roar of the stadium, not towards the hushed halls of academia. He clutched the faculty development grant in his pocket, the weight of the unexpected responsibility pressing down on him.

He navigated the labyrinthine corridors beneath the stadium, the sounds of distant cheers and the rhythmic thud of practice echoing around him. He arrived at the door marked “Varsity Football – Locker Room” with a hesitant knock.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing the imposing figure of Coach Mallory, flanked by a surprisingly familiar face: Dean Thompson, the perpetually affable head of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences. The Dean, usually seen in tweed jackets and a reassuring smile, looked slightly out of his element amidst the scent of liniment and sweat.

“Professor Periwinkle! Glad you could make it,” Coach Mallory boomed, his usual gruffness softened by an uncharacteristic hint of anticipation.

Dean Thompson offered a slightly strained smile. “Professor, thank you for your… flexibility in this rather unusual situation. We’re all very keen to see what… insights you might offer.”

Herbert stepped inside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight before him. The entire football team, a collection of hulking figures he usually only glimpsed from a distance on the campus green, stood waiting. Each player was clad only in a towel, their muscular frames radiating a patient, almost unnerving stillness. They regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and something akin to hopeful expectation.

Bobby Hamilton stood slightly apart from the others, a small, almost shy smile gracing his lips as his eyes met Herbert’s. He offered a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

The silence in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The usual boisterous energy of a locker room before a championship game was conspicuously absent, replaced by an almost reverent quiet.

Coach Mallory clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Alright, men! Professor Periwinkle here is gonna… get your heads right. The same way he did for our boy Bobby here.” He clapped Bobby on the shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. “Now listen up!”

Dean Thompson cleared his throat. “Professor, the floor is yours. We trust your… methods will be… effective.” He offered Herbert a look that conveyed a blend of desperate hope and utter bewilderment.

He looked at their expectant faces, at the raw physicality barely concealed by the terrycloth, and a strange sense of… intimidation began to bloom within him.

Coach Mallory, sensing the professor’s hesitation, stepped forward with the commanding ease of someone used to orchestrating chaos.

“You’ll want to set up in the shower room, Professor,” he said, gesturing to a tiled doorway just off the main locker space. “The steam’ll loosen the boys up, get ‘em more… receptive. This is as much about mental flexibility as it is physical comfort.”

Dean Thompson, still trying to maintain some semblance of bureaucratic dignity in the absurd scene, added with a slight chuckle, “Yes, yes, and you may want to undress, Professor. The boys’ll be getting wet, and I’d hate for your suit to suffer?”

Herbert’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, and finally he gave a weak nod. “Of course. Quite right.”

He stepped behind a row of lockers, hands trembling as he unfastened his trousers, the zipper sounding far louder than it ought to. As he undressed, he couldn’t help but feel the full weight of his absurdity—an aged academic peeling off his layers of tweed and cotton under the fluorescent hum of a varsity locker room.

He folded his clothes neatly, almost ceremonially, placing them on a bench before stepping barefoot into the tiled shower room. The air was thick with humidity, fog rising from multiple nozzles already hissing steam into the space. His pale, soft form felt ghostly beneath the harsh lighting. Herbert caught his own reflection in a pane of fogged glass—his round belly, the slight sag of his chest, the thinning hair on his chest and crown—and flinched

The boys filed in behind him, still clad in towels, their eyes flicking toward him with various shades of curiosity, amusement, and something doing something for the team

But then Bobby entered, last among them, steam curling around his shoulders. The towel around his hips clung low, his chest gleaming with moisture. He moved with that odd gentleness Herbert remembered from their earlier session—his power cloaked in something near grace. When Bobby’s eyes met his, there was no mockery, no pity. Only recognition.

“You okay, Professor?” Bobby asked softly.

Herbert nodded, his voice failing him.

Coach Mallory’s voice echoed in from the next room: “Let me know when you’re ready, Professor. The boys’ll follow your lead.”

And with that, the room settled into a charged, expectant quiet once more—steam rising, bodies gleaming, and Herbert Periwinkle, nude and pink with nerves, standing before twenty of the most formidable young men he had ever seen, ready to…

He took a breath, as deep as he could manage in the heat.

“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice cracking just slightly, “let us… begin.”

The players stood in a semicircle, steam clinging to their forms like gauze. There was a stillness among them that felt almost ceremonial, as though they were waiting for a signal to proceed with a rite none of them fully understood—but all seemed strangely ready for.

Then, from the far left, a figure stepped forward.

It was Marcus Delaney—tight end, kinesiology major, known for a silent focus that belied his brutal efficiency on the field. His dark skin glistened with steam, his towel slung loosely about his hips. He moved without a word, his steps echoing faintly as he approached the professor. The room held its breath.

Herbert didn’t flinch, though his heartbeat thundered. He tilted his head back to look up at the towering athlete, then lowered his gaze as Marcus stopped just a pace in front of him. A pause passed between them—long enough for Herbert to see the fine tremble in the boy’s fingers.

Then, wordlessly, Marcus undid his towel and let it drop. The soft slap of terrycloth hitting wet tile reverberated in Herbert’s ears.

He lowered himself to his knees.

Not out of instinct or desire—but deference. The steam swirled around him like incense, the showerheads hissing in quiet rhythm. Herbert placed one hand lightly on Marcus’s thigh—not presumptuously, but as a point of connection, a grounding gesture.

The boy tensed for a second, then relaxed under the professor’s touch.

Herbert took Marcus's thick cock into his mouth, the heat and weight of it filling him with a sudden sense of purpose. The young man's balls slapped against his stubbled chin in a steady rhythm. Initially apprehensive, the nudity only added to Herbert’s pleasure as Marcus’s knees grazed his hairy chest. The air in the steamy shower room shifted, crackling with a new, intense tension that was both exhilarating and disorienting. Marcus’s hand gripped the back of his head, guiding him in a firm, steady rhythm that echoed the hiss of the showerheads. The other players watched, their towels pitched with growing arousal, as the professor displayed a skill none of them expected to see. The sounds of suction, slapping flesh, and hissing steam blended into a raw symphony of lust and power. As Herbert worked his mouth and hands with newfound confidence, he felt a primal connection with these young athletes, something far more basic than any lesson from a textbook.

Marcus came with a shudder, his hips thrusting gently as he released into Herbert's willing mouth. The professor swallowed easily, the taste of Marcus’s come familiar and satisfying. Pulling back, he wiped a stray drop from his chin with a trembling hand, feeling the room's anticipation. Marcus muttered a thanks, squeezing Herbert's shoulder briefly before stepping aside.

The semicircle of players stayed unbroken, each watching with a mix of curiosity and lust. Next was Jake Castellanos, the burly linebacker known for his fierce scowl. He approached cautiously, his towel falling away to reveal his impressive erection. Herbert took a deep breath, then leaned in to repeat his service, feeling the warmth and pulse of Jake's cock against his lips. The ritual continued.

The steam thickened, the air heavy with desire and the scent of male musk. Herbert Periwinkle, the quiet academic, became something more in the shadows of the stadium lights—a catalyst for victory, a silent leader in an unspoken pact.

Herbert continued on with the line, feeling a peculiar sense of pride swell within his chest. This act, as strange and indecent as it was, could be the very thing that propelled the team to victory—and by extension, the university to greater heights. The knowledge was a heady one, and as he leaned in to take another teammate’s cock in his mouth, he couldn’t help but feel a smug satisfaction at the thought of his own unconventional contribution to their success. Herbert felt amusement at the absurdity of his role in this locker room ritual. Who would have thought that his own carnally driven need could be harnessed to achieve such a noble end?

By the time the last player had climaxed, Herbert Periwinkle found himself trembling. His knees ached dully from the wet tile, and his jaw throbbed with the fatigue of a man who had just performed a task entirely outside the scope of any known academic discipline.

Steam clung to his body, his thinning hair plastered to his scalp, spectacles fogged uselessly. For a long moment, he stayed there on the shower floor, eyes closed, letting the heat press in on him.

The team, now silent but visibly transformed, moved with purpose. No swagger, no nervous pacing—just quiet, electric focus. The clatter of cleats on concrete, the rustle of pads and jerseys. Boys became titans in shoulder pads and helmets.

Coach Mallory stepped forward and shut off the main shower valve with a heavy twist. The last hiss of steam echoed through the tiled chamber like a sigh of final absolution.

Then he offered Herbert a strong, calloused hand.

“Come on, Professor,” Mallory said, voice low and oddly reverent. “Let’s get you up. I got a real good feeling about today.”

With some effort and a wince, Herbert let himself be pulled to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, and Mallory—rough-hewn and paternal—caught him just before he stumbled. There was a surprising tenderness in the way the coach helped him to a bench and wrapped a spare towel around his shoulders.

The game that followed would enter university lore.

It would be spoken of in dorms and booster dinners, remembered in slow-motion clips and unlicensed merch for decades. A fourth-quarter comeback. A two-point conversion from the backup tight end who’d barely seen playtime until today. An interception so daring and bizarre it made national highlight reels with operatic commentary.

Coach Mallory’s men played as if possessed—utterly synchronized, unshakable, and radiant with an energy that felt… unnatural. As if something had been unburdened from them in that tiled sanctum before the game began. As if their minds were suddenly, blindingly clear.

The game would be the beginning of a championship dynasty.

Back in the locker room, long after the noise had faded and the Gatorade had dried on the walls, Herbert sat again on the same bench—this time clothed, still achy, but smiling faintly. Mallory slapped him on the back.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” the coach said, beaming, “but the athletic board wants you in the rotation now. Official title. Mental clarity consultant. Think of it as… extended faculty development.”

In the ensuing weeks, Herbert Periwinkle turned into a mysterious figure on campus, both talked about in hushed tones and held in quiet admiration. He kept his position in the Philosophy Department, spending his afternoons with undergraduates who often misquoted Kierkegaard. On weekends, he would be found unclothed, as a queue of cleat-wearing behemoths awaited their turn to step into the steamy refuge.

Exhausted, aching, yet oddly invigorated, Herbert discovered a new purpose.