I woke with a jolt, heart hammering, breath strangled in my throat. At first I thought it was the tail-end of some nightmare, the kind that leaves you slick with sweat, pulse galloping. But then I heard it again. The pounding didn’t fade with waking. It echoed, steady, insistent, shaking the thin walls of my apartment.
Someone was at the door.
The room swam around me, shadows and outlines taking shape in the purple wash of dusk filtering through the blinds. The air conditioner ticked faintly, the only other sound besides the thunder in my chest.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled barefoot across the cold linoleum, each step heavy, clumsy. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and the lavender detergent I’d used on the sheets earlier in the week. My hand shook as I slid back the latch and pulled the door open.
The night rushed in. Cool, damp air filled the room, laced with the metallic tang of asphalt still wet from rain. Beyond, the street was hushed, the trees dripping slowly in the dim light. The silence felt unnatural, like the world had gone still, holding its breath.
And there he was.
Shane.
He stood on the stoop, shoulders slumped, head bowed slightly as though the weight of the sky itself pressed down on him. His face looked raw, his eyes swollen, blotched red in the muted light. His clothes clung damply to him, his hair plastered to his forehead in dark, uneven strands.
This couldn’t be real. The dream wasn’t over. Shane wasn’t supposed to be here. My body forgot how to move. I just stared, numb, my thoughts colliding in panic. Why was he crying? Who had died?
My foot snagged the rug as I staggered back, and before I could catch myself, I went down hard onto the floor.
Shane lurched forward, rushing inside. He dropped to his knees beside me. His hands, warm, trembling, closed around mine.
“Are you okay?” His voice was hoarse, frayed, like it had been dragged raw by shouting or weeping.
He was solid. Real. Not a dream.
“I am now.” My hand rose, brushing his damp cheek. The stubble beneath my fingers was coarse, the skin chilled from the cooler air of the recent storm. “You’re really here. Hold me.”
Tears shimmered in his eyes. He let go of my hand, pulling back as if my touch hurt.
“What is it?” My words barely broke the silence.
“I’ve ruined my life. I’ve ruined our lives.” His voice shook as he rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “And I don’t know how it happened. I mean, I know what happened, and I know I did it, but…” His head lifted, and when his eyes finally found mine, their redness looked almost inhuman in the thin, watery light. “I…”
The apartment tilted around me. The pale walls with their faint cracks, the pile of unopened mail on the counter, the chipped coffee mug on the table, all of it warped, like the familiar world was sliding out of place. I steadied my breath. “Let’s get off the floor,” I said, the words more fragile than I meant them to be.
I pushed the door closed and helped him toward the couch, its cushions sagging in the middle, the old fabric smelling faintly of dust and the fabric softener sheets I tucked beneath them. He moved like a man already broken.
“You sit.” I fumbled for control, clinging to routine. “I’ll… I’ll make some tea. Or cocoa. Which one?” The last words cracked apart. My throat tightened. He was going to leave me, I knew it. Why couldn’t the floor just swallow me whole?
Shane sank into the couch, his elbows braced on his knees, his gaze locked on the threadbare rug as though it might tell him what to do. “I’m so sorry.”
The silence of the apartment pressed down like a physical thing. The air conditioner ticked, a car passed somewhere far off, tires whispering on damp pavement. My lungs still moved, breath shallow and uneven.
“I don’t want anything to drink,” he muttered, not looking up.
I sat down at the other end of the couch, gripping my knees to still the trembling. I ached to close the space between us, to fold into him, to let him fold into me. But all I could do was manage, “Tell me what happened.” My voice was quiet, steady only because I forced it to be, the way I forced my breathing to be regular. My brain slipped into analytical mode; my emotions subsided.
Shane shifted on the couch, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands hanging limp. His voice came out low at first, almost too soft to hear.
“It started after one of our practice games,” he said. “We’d won. Just barely, by a run. Tradition is that the losers buy the pizza and drinks, serve it to us in those little aprons like idiots. Nobody took it too seriously. They brought the pizza, three slices each, and this punch that tasted…amazing. Too good. Sweet, fruity, with this burn at the back of my throat that I didn’t understand at the time. Alfred, he’s our catcher, he even went back for more, bragging about it. He got us all a second round.”
He rubbed his palms on his jeans, as if trying to wipe something away. His eyes stayed fixed on the carpet.
“Later, Terry and I went back to our room with what was left of the pizza and full cups of the punch. Alfred and his roommate, Martin, came with us. It was…loud. The kind of loud that doesn’t make sense. Everyone was laughing too much, like everything was funny even when it wasn’t. The air in that room felt thick, heavy with grease from the pizza boxes, sweat from practice, this sour-sweet smell from the drinks. The windows were shut, the air conditioner clicking, and all of it made me lightheaded. My head didn’t feel like mine.”
He paused, fingers trembling, then forced himself on.
“We were sprawled across the bunks, shoes kicked off, half-finished sodas on the desk. Terry leaned over and whispered, like it was some big secret, that he and his girlfriend had finally done it the weekend before. He grinned like he was proud, like he wanted applause. Then he said….” Shane’s voice cracked. “He said she stuck her finger up his ass, and he liked it. Liked it a whole lot.”
The words seemed to scrape his throat raw. He covered his face for a moment before continuing.
“I laughed. We all laughed. Too hard, too loud. There wasn’t anything funny, not really, but it felt like we couldn’t stop. Terry looked right at me and asked if I’d ever had anything like that, if I’d ever put my dick in someone else’s ass. His voice carried, and Alfred and Martin were snickering, whispering to each other like they were watching a show. My head was spinning. I told him that was personal. I tried to make it a joke. But the air was hot, and my skin felt like it was buzzing.”
He swallowed hard, hands curling into fists.
“Then Terry asked me if I’d fuck him, just like that, because he wanted to know what it felt like. I told him I couldn’t. That if something like that ever happened, you’d have to know. You’d have to say it was okay. You’d have to be there. I thought that would shut him up.” Shane’s voice shook, faltered. “But instead, he leaned back, grinned, and said, ‘Do you like being watched?’ And then, Taylor, he called over to Alfred and Martin. ‘Watch this.’”
The silence in the apartment thickened. Outside, a single car hissed down the wet street, then nothing.
Shane’s voice broke. “He kissed me. Full on. Mouth open, tongue and everything. I thought he was screwing around, so I laughed and said, ‘Not in front of the children.’ That made them all howl. But then, ” His shoulders caved inward. “Then his hand was in my pants. Grabbing me. And I, ” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I got hard. Right there with them watching. He looked at me, dead in the eye, and I just let him. I let him jerk me off.”
He pressed his fists against his eyes, his whole body trembling. “I came. And then I laughed again. Like it was all just one big joke.”
His voice shrank to a whisper. “I went into the bathroom to clean up. That’s when Coach came in. Someone must’ve told him we’d been drinking, that we were drunk. I wasn’t drunk. I swear I wasn’t. But he didn’t care. We’ve all been suspended. Me, Terry, Alfred, Martin.”
Shane lowered his hands; his eyes were crimson, swollen, rimmed with despair. He lifted them to mine. “But none of that matters. Not compared to what I did. I betrayed you.”
I drew in a slow breath, steadying myself against the weight of his shame. His shame was in my favor. There was no sexual relationship with Terry. Terry was acting like a fool. More than likely, he was drunk as well. “I hardly think a quick handjob while you were out of your mind is betrayal,” I said, my tone firmer now, though my chest ached. “If you weren’t drinking, and you felt off, that sounds less like bad judgment and more like being drugged.”
Disbelief flashed across his features, his mouth trembling. “Taylor?”
My heart screamed to cross the space, to kiss him, hold him, wrap him up, but the mucus glistening on his face made bile rise in my throat. I swallowed hard. “Go wash your face.”
He froze, unmoving.
“Now,” I said, sharper.
Finally, he stood, shoulders heavy, and shuffled toward the bathroom.
I exhaled, pressing my palms into my knees until they ached. The air conditioner ticked again, louder somehow in the silence he left behind.
“I’ll make us tea,” I said softly, though he couldn’t yet hear me. “Then we’re going to sit together, and I’ll tell you how much I’ve missed you. We’ll talk about how you fix things with the team. And then…” My voice lowered to a promise I meant with every trembling part of me. “…then you’ll make love to me. Because you do love me. I know you do. And if you don’t already know how much I love you…”
The silence swallowed the words, but I left them there, suspended in the stillness. “…I’ll make sure you do before this night is over.”
I awoke the next morning to the soft glow of sunlight, its delicate fingers creeping around the edges of the curtains, spilling a pale, golden warmth across the room. It was early, the world still holding its breath, suspended in that quiet time just before the day fully unfurled itself. The air felt crisp and fresh, like a new beginning, though it still carried the lingering heaviness of the night before.
The kitchen window, still partially open, caught the light just right, casting a kaleidoscope of rainbows across the walls. A prism of colors danced—soft blues, violets, fiery reds—on the beige walls and the hardwood floor. The sight felt like a fragile moment of beauty, too delicate for the tension that simmered in the room.
I turned my head, my eyes drifting toward Shane. He lay next to me, a tangle of disheveled hair and soft breaths, the rise and fall of his chest steady but shallow. The warm, close scent of him clung to the air, and I felt my heart twist at the sight—this was the Shane I knew, the one I had fought so hard for.
But then, I shifted slightly. That was when I felt the unmistakable stickiness against my skin. My buttocks were glued to the bed sheets, the dried remnants of the night’s passion clinging to me. I winced slightly at the sensation, my mind circling back to our vows—the promises we’d made in the heat of our love, that we would stay faithful no matter what tried to tear us apart.
We had sealed that promise physically and emotionally, a union that felt unbreakable. And I had to admit, Shane’s words—his playful “seed of ecstasy” that he’d said with a mischievous grin—had made me roll my eyes. But when he’d promised to call it “baby batter” next time, I’d laughed, and I couldn’t help but feel a warmth flood through me.
I shifted again, trying to free myself from the sticky sheets. As I did, my mind began to drift toward the bathroom, wondering whether I should shower now or wait for Shane so we could share one together. The decision didn’t matter for long, though. Just as I was about to stand, Shane’s phone buzzed, its shrill ring slicing through the stillness of the room.
I froze, eyes darting to the screen. The caller ID read Coach Henderson.
A surge of instinct made me hurry over to the phone, carefully silencing the call before it could reach Shane’s ears. I held the phone up, still muted, and pressed it to my ear.
“Hello. This is Taylor, a friend of Shane’s. He’s still asleep.” My voice was quiet but firm, trying not to disturb the fragile peace of the morning.
The voice on the other end was gruff, gravelly, a tone that spoke of late nights and endless tension.
“This is worth waking him up for,” Coach Henderson’s voice crackled through the speaker.
I hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. But before I could respond, I glanced at Shane, still oblivious to the incoming call. He stirred slightly, a quiet grunt escaping his lips. The tension in my chest tightened.
“Hold on, please,” I said into the phone, then quickly pressed mute.
I reached over to shake Shane gently.
“Shane,” I murmured, my fingers brushing through his tangled hair. “It’s Coach Henderson.”
He groaned, his eyes fluttering open, but not with the sharpness of someone fully awake. His gaze was unfocused, wandering, his eyes crossing slightly as they tried to focus.
I stifled a small laugh. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
He blinked a few times, clearly trying to shake off the fog of sleep. “OK. OK. What is it?” His voice was thick with disorientation.
“Well, Mr. Grump, it’s Coach Henderson. Should I tell him to fuck off?” I teased, my voice playful despite the tension creeping into my thoughts.
Shane’s eyes widened. “Shh.” He pressed a finger to his lips.
“It’s muted,” I assured him.
A sly smile tugged at his lips. “Want to listen in?”
I nodded.
He reached up, pressing the unmute button. The phone clicked, and suddenly we could hear faint voices in the background. Rustling papers, a murmur of a meeting or perhaps just the soft shuffle of people moving about. Then, a voice broke through—Henderson’s voice, sharp and no-nonsense.
“Kowalski here, sir,” came the voice.
“OK. I’m going to tell this to you straight,” the coach continued, his tone matter-of-fact, but there was an edge to it now. “Miner confessed to spiking the drinks with some vodka. But because the four of you were acting weirder than that, Detective Ruskin kept his drilling, and it turns out another member on your team drugged the pizza for a guy he claims is named Logan.” There was a brief pause before the coach continued. “I think he’s making it up, though, trying to get you and Medcalf off the team.”
Shane rolled his eyes. The tension in his jaw tightened as the words sank in.
“A guy named Logan, eh?” he said, his voice flat but with a growing note of interest.
I found myself staring at the bed sheets again, my fingers absently tracing the fabric as if I could unravel this knot of confusion.
“Yeah, why? You know someone with that name?” The coach sounded incredulous, his voice dropping in pitch, almost casual.
Shane looked over at me, an eyebrow raised. He gave me a knowing look. My pulse quickened. I nodded.
“I know someone with that name. Logan Snyder.” Shane’s voice dropped, and there was something almost dangerous in his words. “He’s been hitting on my boyfriend.”
The coach’s voice changed, just slightly. There was an almost imperceptible shift in his tone, like he was recalibrating to this new information. “Your boyfriend? You gay, Kowalski?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Shane replied, his voice calm but with a glint of something I couldn’t quite place. “My boyfriend Taylor answered the phone.” He smiled at me, though it was more of a quiet recognition than any real amusement.
The coach paused, the silence stretching before he spoke again, a rustle of papers in the background. “Well, I need you to be here on campus. Where are you now?”
“I went back home. I’m about four hours away—maybe longer. I need to shower, change clothes, and I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”
“I’ll set things up for tomorrow, then,” Henderson said, his voice clipping the words. “Take your time, get here safely, but call me the minute you get back to your dorm room.”
“Yes, sir.” Shane’s words were firm, almost mechanical.
The line went silent. We sat there, the phone still in my hand, just staring at each other. The weight of the conversation hung between us like smoke in a room. My mind raced.
Logan Snyder. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to handle it, but my thoughts turned dark and sharp. I could picture it—Logan tied up, shoved in the back of the truck, his fate sealed. It didn’t matter if he was still breathing by the time he got back to Shane.
The silence felt thick, suffocating, as we exchanged another glance, each of us processing this new piece of the puzzle. Neither of us spoke, but in that moment, everything felt more dangerous than it had the day before.
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