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 My name’s Marcus. I play wide receiver for the Broncos — not the best player on the team, not the loudest either. Honestly, I’m probably the quietest. I just try to do my part and stay out of the spotlight.

That morning, Coach Beechwood walked into the locker room with his usual booming voice. “Good day, Broncos! I’ve got some news. You’re all getting a medical exam today. The doctor needs to check your bodies, so in one hour, I want you all here in just your underwear. If I catch anyone dressed, it’s 50 push-ups — naked! Got it?”

My heart started pounding. I know medical exams are normal, but the thought of standing around with the whole team in just my underwear… it made my stomach twist. What kind of exam is this? What does he mean by check our bodies?

I nodded along with the others, but inside I felt like I wanted to disappear.

An hour later, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the guys, white briefs clinging to me like they were under a spotlight. Everyone else was trying to act casual, joking a little, but I couldn’t even look at anyone. Why did I pick the front of the line? Now I’m not just nervous — I’m first.

Then Coach shouted, “Alright Broncos! The doc’s here — get ready! The doctor wants to hear you cough!”

I froze. Wait — this is that kind of exam? I’d heard about physicals where doctors checked down there, but I’d never had to do it in front of a coach, or with my teammates nearby.

When Dr. Ross walked in, he looked calm — polite, even. He didn’t seem like a bad guy. But that didn’t make it easier. He started from the back of the line. I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as one by one the guys pulled down their underwear and got checked.

My legs were stiff. I wanted to look away but also couldn’t stop bracing myself. Okay, Marcus. Deep breath. You’re not the only one. This is for football. Just one moment, and it’s done.

When Dr. Ross finally got to me, I felt like I could barely breathe. He gave me a small, reassuring nod and said quietly, “Alright, please lower your underwear to your ankles.”

My face burned. I hesitated, then did as he asked, eyes fixed on the floor. The doctor’s hands were quick, professional. “Cough,” he said. I did, barely getting it out.

Please let that be it. Please let it be over.

Then he moved on, just like that. No jokes, no weird comments. Just work. That helped a little. I stood there for a moment, trying to gather myself as he continued down the line.

When the last exam was done, Coach clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone dressed now! Let’s play ball!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I yanked my clothes back on faster than anyone.

As we headed out to the field, I kept thinking about how nervous I’d been — how much I’d built it up in my head. It wasn’t fun, sure, but the doc was respectful. And no one on the team laughed or pointed fingers. They just… dealt with it.

Maybe being the quiet one doesn’t mean I’m the only one who gets nervous. Maybe I’m just one of the guys after all.


Would you like me to continue with Marcus’s story beyond this scene — maybe on the field or later that day?

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