This is a slow transitional chapter. I'm trying to balance the erotic content with plot development, but I've found that no matter what, there will be long sections lacking erotic content. Please be patient.
Late at night, the overhead white lights reflected off the pristine ice surface with an almost surgical brightness. The hum of the ventilation system mixed with the occasional sharp scrape of blades cutting across ice. Though most of the team had left after Coach Brennan's brutal two-hour practice, a few players were still scattered across the rink—mostly bench warmers hungry for more ice time, plus a couple of starters trying to make up for subpar performances.
Their lonely sounds echoed under the high ceiling. The pungent smell of sweaty gear mixed with the crisp scent of freshly zambonied ice.
Blake dropped onto the bench next to Mike, who was already unlacing his skates, face flushed and dripping with sweat. Mike had a similar build to Blake, slightly smaller but still built like a tank. He didn't have Blake's sculpted features but was a pretty boy-next-door type. Blake wasn't admiring his best friend's looks though—he whipped Mike's head with a towel instead.
"Dude, you look absolutely wrecked," Blake said, that subtle half-smile playing at his lips. "Was Brennan's practice too much for you, Mikey?"
"Fuck off," Mike groaned, grabbing the towel to wipe his face. "Whose fault is this? You skip practice, but who does Coach punish? Us! If he makes us do one more suicide drill, I'm transferring to fucking lacrosse. At least they have nice uniforms." He rolled his shoulders dramatically, grimacing. "I'm pretty sure my legs are technically dead."
"Drama queen," Blake laughed, expertly unwrapping the tape from his stick. "You said the same thing Tuesday. And last Friday. And basically every day since September."
Mike grinned, yanking off his right skate with satisfaction. "Yeah well, one day my legs really will fall off, and then you'll feel like an asshole for not believing me." He looked toward a sophomore still frantically shooting pucks on the ice. "Poor kid. Coach benched him for ten minutes after that fuck-up."
Blake's eyes followed Mike's gaze, studying their teammate. "His weight transfer is completely wrong. Someone should tell him overtraining is worse than rest."
"Not everyone's blessed by the hockey gods like you, superstar." Mike said it without jealousy. He paused, lowering his voice even though the stands were empty, leaning closer to Blake. "Speaking of natural talent, word is there's NHL scouts coming next week to watch you." His green eyes lit up with excitement. "That true?"
Blake's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Brennan mentioned the Crimson Falcons might send someone. Not necessarily for me—could be checking out Adrian."
"Bullshit, it's definitely you. Adrian's played two years already, they wouldn't come early for him!" Mike's eyes went wide, temporarily forgetting his exhaustion. "The Falcons are solid, though not your favorite team." He pulled off his left skate, wiggling his toes. "You got an agent yet? I played a game with this guy from our high school who signed after sophomore year. He warned us rookies the biggest mistake is not having early representation. If teams think you're just some starry-eyed kid, they'll squeeze you dry."
Blake met Mike's gaze, blinking as he said, "I'm not signing anything before regionals are done."
"But you're thinking about it? Signing, I mean." Mike studied his friend's face, searching for clues in that carefully maintained expression. He reached for his water bottle, taking a long gulp. "What's your plan? You've got what—two, three more years of eligibility? You gonna use them all or cash in early?"
Blake launched his used tape roll at a nearby trash can, perfect shot. "Depends on the offer. Brennan thinks I should at least finish sophomore season." He leaned back, stretching his legs. "Says my draft position will improve with a championship run. Teams value winners."
"Coach is right about that. Adrian could've left last year but stayed for better positioning," Mike nodded, absently rubbing his sore knee. "NHL scouts go crazy for championships. But..." he hesitated, fingers drumming on his water bottle, "if they throw serious money at you now, you'd jump, right? Like a million-dollar rookie contract—I've never even dreamed of that much."
Blake's expression flickered briefly before he looked away noncommittally. "It's not just about the money."
"Bullshit," Mike laughed, but when Blake didn't join in, his eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you're serious? The Blake Banks I know wouldn't pass up an opportunity." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "What's making you hesitate? Your fancy advanced math classes?"
Blake shrugged. "Engineering's not something you can half-ass."
"You don't half-ass anything. And don't flex your STEM grades to me—I just got a C-minus in finance," Mike countered. "But come on, man. Educational clauses exist for a reason. You can get the degree and the contract."
"Maybe." Blake stood, stretching his arms overhead, clearly eager to change the subject. "What about you? Planning to play all four years?"
"Hell yeah," Mike grinned, showing his mouth guard he'd forgotten to remove. He quickly pulled it out, laughing sheepishly. "Some of us need every minute of development time. I'm not a certified hockey genius like you. Plus, gotta struggle through that fucking degree." He pointed at himself. "I know my place. I'm a... what do they call it? Role player. Here to play hockey, make friends, hope someone remembers me at graduation."
"You're selling yourself short," Blake said, his tone surprisingly sincere. "Your hockey IQ is better than half the guys who'll get drafted. Even Adrian said you're at least second round."
"Oh, second round, that's 'at most,' not 'at least.' And lots of second-rounders end up on the farm. But that's sweet of you to say." Mike pressed his hand to his chest dramatically. "Don't forget us peasants when you're making millions and dating models in Beverly Hills."
Blake snorted. "Hard to forget someone who never shuts up."
"That's my charm," Mike laughed, standing and grabbing his gear. "Speaking of never shutting up, yesterday when you weren't here, Adrian told everyone the scouts have connections to team GMs." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Said you're looking at a top-two-round contract immediately."
A flash of resigned amusement crossed Blake's face. "Adrian needs to mind his own business instead of using me to rile people up."
"That'll happen when hell freezes over," Mike snorted. "And he was shutting down people bitching about your absence. Though Colton and his crew weren't thrilled. Heard them in the locker room complaining about Adrian giving you power play time."
"Not my call," Blake said, his voice cooling.
"No, but you're getting ice time," Mike pointed out as they started toward the locker room. "Those sophomores are already pissed about freshmen getting minutes. Now scouts coming specifically for you?" He whistled softly. "Watch your back in practice. Colton's the type to 'accidentally on purpose' check you when Coach isn't looking."
As they approached the increasingly loud locker room, Mike lowered his voice and continued, "Hey, I ran into Ruth yesterday."
Blake's step had an almost imperceptible hitch.
"She's still asking about you." Mike watched Blake's reaction. "At the library, she came up asking how you were, if you were too busy with games..."
"Mike." Blake's tone made it clear this topic was done.
"I know, I know." Mike held up his hands. "I didn't say anything, just that you were busy. But dude..." his voice softened, "she looked really hurt. Like she thinks she did something wrong."
Ruth, that beautiful redhead who until two days ago had occupied Blake's thoughts. Her incredible warmth and openness had once made Blake mistakenly think she was some kind of hippie party girl, that cross necklace just decoration...
Blake remembered that night, Ruth lying in his arms, the decorative cross resting quietly on her collarbone, Ruth whispering softly in Blake's ear. And Blake staring at the blood on the sheets, feeling the whole world spinning.
"Blake?" Mike's voice pulled him back to reality.
"She'll be better off this way." Blake didn't elaborate.
"Maybe, but she doesn't think so." Mike leaned against the wall. "She asked if her family being too traditional scared you off. Asked if it was because she mentioned wanting to get married after graduation..."
A smile so bitter it was almost painful crossed Blake's face. If she knew the truth—knew what he did in hotel rooms on weekends, knew where the deposits in his bank account came from, knew about those client messages—she'd probably throw up.
"It's not her fault," Blake finally said.
"Then what is it?" Mike looked confused. "I mean, you two seemed perfect together. She's beautiful, sweet, good family. Hell, when my mom visited and saw you together, she said 'what a perfect couple.'"
Too perfect, Blake thought. Too heavy.
Blake had tried to be the best version of himself for Ruth, the man who could accompany her to church, become her future husband. But the harder he tried, the more suffocated he felt. Every time he made excuses to leave for clients, every time he came back to her trusting eyes... the guilt cut like knives. He was lying, deceiving this pure girl. Worst of all, Blake really cared about her. Her innocence, the way she saw the world—everything he'd lost. But the more Blake tried to protect Ruth, the more he realized the person most capable of hurting her was himself.
The lies kept piling up. When she started talking about going to her family's lake house together over summer, when her mom started asking about his "family plans," when she mentioned her cousin's wedding needing a plus-one... She deserved someone genuinely straightforward, not a polished rent boy like himself.
"You okay?" Mike asked. "You look..."
"Just tired."
Blake knew there was a monster living inside him, a sickening creature nurtured by blood.
Blake thought of Adrian—the junior assistant captain was an asshole who didn't care about trampling others for his goals. Blake didn't hate Adrian; the upperclassman was the most supportive of freshmen, Blake was just making an honest assessment. That asshole never hesitated. Blake even knew some upperclassmen dealt controlled substances, some rich kids embezzled from their frats. But they slept fine at night. Why couldn't he?
*Because you're not ruthless enough,* that voice said. You could have everything—Ruth's love, build a family with her, drain those clients' money, and have a bright hockey future, if only you could stop with the fucking guilt.
"...and the corned beef pie she brought was really good." Mike was still rambling.
"Mike." Blake interrupted, his tone gentler than expected. "Let it go, please."
Mike looked like he wanted to say more but decided against it. That was another thing Blake appreciated about him—knowing when to push and when to back off.
"Also," Mike paused, clearing his throat before adding, "I told her if she needs a study partner, I could help. I mean, she could tutor me in my electives, right?"
"Mike." There was warning in Blake's tone now.
"What?" Mike defended. "I'm not trying anything. She just... shouldn't be alone. And you know those frat assholes are already circling?"
Those predatory vultures! Blake cursed internally, but what right did he have to judge them? Besides, Blake had already decided not to go back to Ruth. Ethan's face immediately appeared in his mind.
Ethan... the warmth of holding him at noon seemed to linger on Blake's fingertips, remembering how Ethan had humiliated him still made his nerves tingle with excitement.
*I move on fast. How long have we been broken up?* Blake thought, but when Ethan had called out to him yesterday, Blake felt like he'd been hit by a massive hammer—that was fate's bell tolling.
"Well, she needs someone around, but don't hurt her... You should be careful too, those assholes might think you're in their way." Blake chose his words carefully while thinking of Ethan. Mike was concerned about Ruth—maybe he should act more jealous? But this was probably better. Mike's concern for Ruth somewhat eased Blake's guilt about her. He was sure he'd loved Ruth, but being with her, he'd felt crushed by his own anxiety. But Ethan—with him, Blake could bare everything. Even though Blake hadn't told him everything yet, he'd already experienced that relief after being degraded.
Blake wanted to give himself completely. No, but not yet. On one hand, Ethan had a king-sized cock, but Blake still thought he was more masculine, more experienced, more suited to be the top. On the other hand—
*Ethan, make your move. Tell me how much you want me.*
Blake almost laughed thinking about his own petty calculations.
"Oh, sure—" Mike squinted, studying Blake. "You've got a new target? God, Ruth's gonna be pissed! Oh, which girl? You skipped practice for her yesterday!"
"Yo, rein in that overactive imagination. You need to learn when to shut up." Blake clapped Mike's arm, half-joking, half-serious, pulling him forward. Mike looked goofy but was sharp about some things.
As their joking quieted, faint arguing voices began drifting from behind the closed locker room door ahead. Blake's pace hesitated slightly, shoulders straightening.
"Speaking of assholes," Mike muttered, nodding toward the door. "Sounds like someone's still throwing a tantrum."
They continued down the bright hallway, Blake's seemingly relaxed stride holding something coiled, ready—Mike recognized it from games as Blake's stance before a big hit.
When they reached the locker room, arguing voices carried through the closed door. Blake slowed, his hand hesitating on the handle.
"What's going on?" Mike frowned. "Shouldn't be many people in there now."
Blake's expression darkened, that cold look settling over his features.
"Sounds like Colton," Blake said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register Mike knew.
Mike groaned. "Dude, I'm too tired tonight for his bullshit."
Blake pushed open the door, and the locker room's chaos spilled into the hallway. The guys shoving each other stopped as heads turned toward them.
Colton stood in the center of the room, face red with anger. Around him, several sophomores and juniors formed a semicircle, Marcus flanking Colton's right. Pushed against the lockers was Jensen, a freshman goalie who looked like he wanted to disappear into his gear bag.
"Well, well," Colton's voice dripped with contempt as his eyes locked on Blake. "Look who graced us with his presence. Hockey royalty deigning to join us. Stomach feeling better, Banks?"
Blake's face revealed nothing, but Mike felt him tense beside him. The easy, almost friendly Blake from minutes ago had completely vanished, replaced by something colder, more dangerous—when their friendship's soufflé wasn't enough to contain Blake's edge.
Blake pushed the locker room door aside, surveying Colton and the others. "Much better," Blake answered calmly, tension and deodorant hanging in the air.
"Yeah?" Colton stood. "Because you missing practice yesterday fucked the rest of us. Forty straight minutes of suicides. But I guess Adrian's boy toy always gets special privileges?"
"Oh, maybe that's Coach's or Adrian's fault then. Maybe Banks' stomach hurt because something got left in his intestines," a sophomore beside Colton sneered, the implication making several guys snicker.
"Guys, this isn't the place for your boring bullshit." Blake's voice remained calm, but Mike could sense the shift.
Marcus pretended to think. "Bullshit? Or did someone hit too close to the truth? Let me think... a freshman gets Adrian's 'special attention' day one, now gets to skip practice whenever... Sounds like someone's earning his position the wrong way. Tell me, Banks, what special moves did Adrian teach you? How to handle his shaft?"
"Exactly," Colton jumped in, voice full of malice. "Yesterday at practice, Adrian kept asking where his 'bitch' was. Worried his 'cocksucker' ran off? I bet you weren't sick yesterday—you were in Adrian's room getting fucked so hard you couldn't walk—"
The sophomores burst into ugly laughter.
Blake immediately noticed that while Colton was talking, Marcus stood cleverly behind him, arms crossed, nodding encouragingly whenever Colton raised his voice. The others kept glancing at Marcus, as if checking for approval. The dynamic was clear—poor Colton, completely set up as the fall guy.
Blake didn't respond immediately. He methodically set down his gear bag, movements unhurried, assessing the situation. The room quieted except for Jensen's nervous breathing and the overhead lights' hum.
"Got a problem? Coach and the assistant captain value players who can score. Some people should reflect on whether they've been slacking at practice. I just saw a few guys who lost ice time still on the rink," Blake's gaze swept the room before landing on Jensen, his voice casual but with an edge that made several step back. "Instead of taking it out on rookies here."
Colton snorted. "Taking it out? No, we're just chatting with the new kid here about team hierarchy." He pointed at Jensen. "Making sure he understands how things work."
"Five-on-one chat?" Mike muttered, loud enough to be heard. "Seems excessive."
Marcus stepped forward, his six-foot-three frame trying to loom over Mike. "Nobody asked your opinion, little Mikey."
Blake moved then, a subtle shift in weight that somehow placed him between Mike and Marcus. His eyes never left Colton's.
"Jensen," Blake said without turning, "hit the showers. We're done here."
"He leaves when I say," Colton snapped, but Jensen was already grabbing his towel, slipping past the crowd toward the showers.
He threw a quick "thanks" to Blake before disappearing. The sophomores shifted uncomfortably, the room crackling with potential violence.
Blake shrugged casually, his easy tone carrying just a hint of threat. "Looks like he already left."
"You think you run this team now, Banks?" Colton pushed into Blake's personal space. Blake didn't budge an inch. "Score a few goals, suck Coach's and Adrian's dicks, suddenly you're in charge?"
The slight tremor in Colton's voice—Blake almost pitied the guy. He wasn't just angry, he was anxious. Colton was watching his position slip away, and beneath the bravado was the fear of a player who hadn't been drafted last year and was running out of chances to prove himself.
"Nobody's in charge," Blake replied, voice steady. "Just don't see the point in five guys ganging up on a freshman."
"We're teaching him respect," another guy chimed in. "Something you could use a lesson in too."
Blake's eyes flicked to the guys behind Colton, watching their pathetic circus act. His mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile. "Respect is earned."
"You think you've earned anything?" Colton's voice rose, finger jabbing toward Blake's chest without quite touching. "How long you been here, six months? I've put two years into this program, suddenly you're getting the power play time that should be mine! The scout attention that should be mine!"
There it was—the real source of Colton's hostility. Not just standard freshman hazing or team politics, but genuine fear. Blake had seen the draft rankings; he knew Colton was projected as a mid-round pick last year, then completely fell off. This season was supposed to be his redemption tour, his last chance to get noticed before the hockey world gave up on him completely.
And now Blake was stealing his spotlight, his ice time, and potentially his future.
"Your power play time?" Blake's eyebrow lifted slightly. "How much did you waste when you were running it last season?" He paused, watching the hit land on Colton's face. "Check the tape. My conversion rate's way higher than yours."
Colton's face darkened, Marcus stepping forward. "Watch your mouth, freshman."
"Just facts," Blake shrugged slightly. "Numbers don't lie."
"You arrogant—" Colton started, but Blake cut him off.
"You're blocking my locker," Blake said, tone now almost bored. "I need to shower."
The dismissal was so casual that it took Colton a moment to process. His face twisted with rage as he shoved Blake's chest hard. "Don't walk away from me!"
Blake barely swayed, absorbing it like taking a check on the ice. Then his body moved with precision—one hand shot out, grabbing Colton's wrist, twisting with just enough pressure to cause discomfort without actual damage. The motion was so fluid and exact that Colton had no time to pull back.
"I can," Blake said calmly, his low voice making the words sound more like a promise than a warning.
The locker room went completely silent. Even Mike seemed surprised by Blake's move. For a moment, everyone froze.
Watching Colton's pained expression, Blake released him, stepping back as if nothing had happened. "We've got regionals in two weeks. Save the energy for the ice."
Colton rubbed his wrist, hatred burning in his eyes. "This isn't over, Banks."
"What's this, girls? Having a tea party without me?" A new voice came from the doorway.
Adrian Whitmore swaggered in like he owned the place. His helmet tucked under his arm, sweat glistening on his forehead, shirt clinging to his solid frame. A freshman and a junior flanked him like personal bodyguards. Even after intense practice, Adrian somehow looked like a model heading to a photoshoot—a complete mystery.
"Colton, could hear your whining from down the hall. Excluding this gentleman from your girl talk?" Adrian's voice was loud, confident, instantly filling the room. His eyes swept the scene with predatory precision. When he spotted Blake and Colton, a dangerous smile spread across his face. "Or should I say, what's happening, gentlemen?"
"No problem," Blake said before Colton could answer. "Just different opinions on power play strategy."
Adrian sauntered further into the room, presence immediately commanding attention. He raised one eyebrow, moving with the absolute confidence of someone who'd never questioned his place at the top of any hierarchy.
"Power play?" Adrian's smile didn't reach his eyes as he dropped his gear bag heavily. "Interesting timing, since Blake's gorgeous goal last game just got Coach to permanently move him to first unit. Banks gets sick yesterday, comes back today and still skates circles around you guys." He stared directly at Colton, not bothering to hide his enjoyment. "Colton, who was it that turned the puck over on the power play last time? Or did you forget what your plus-minus was last season?"
Adrian casually stretched, flexing his biceps in what was definitely not an accidental display. "But hey, maybe second unit will appreciate your... unique passing style."
Colton's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He couldn't win a locker room power struggle against Adrian.
"If you guys have this much energy after practice," Adrian continued, casually unzipping his warm-up jacket to reveal a physique built for both hockey and intimidation, "Coach would love to add another bag skate tomorrow. I can arrange it." His smile widened, almost hoping someone would challenge him. "Been a while since anyone puked during conditioning. I think we're overdue."
Bag skates—the punishing conditioning that made even the fittest players vomit—were Adrian's favorite disciplinary tool as assistant captain.
Colton broke the silence first. "You think you're the captain, Assistant Captain Whitmore?"
"Captain? You mean Tom? Oh Banks, when's the last time our beloved captain showed up? I'm guessing he's busy with his law school exams."
Blake didn't take Adrian's bait, but he knew they were approaching the end of regionals, and senior Thompson had been absent almost the entire season.
"So what, you're daddy to the freshmen now?" Marcus interjected. "Or does Banks call you 'daddy'? Since you love grooming rookies so much."
Junior Eric stepped forward from behind Adrian, staring down Marcus. "Watch your mouth, Marcus. Don't let it write checks your ass can't cash."
"Oh, speaking of asses," another guy beside Colton stood up, "Banks' technique is really something, especially flexible. Adrian must really appreciate that."
Adrian's grin widened, but it was full of threat. "You pathetic sophomore wastes. Can't make it on your own, so you fantasize about how others succeed?"
"Fuck you," Colton's face flushed red. "Whitmore, not everyone's willing to be your boy for ice time!"
"My boys?" Adrian repeated, then suddenly laughed. "You're right. They're my boys, my teammates, my brothers. Problem?"
"Brothers don't—" Marcus started.
"Don't what?" Adrian closed in, "Don't support each other? Don't recognize talent? Or..." Adrian's cold voice held danger, "you trying to say something else?"
Blake shrugged, picking up Adrian's casual ball. "He's trying to say they think you need to dance on your knees to succeed. Because that's the only way they understand."
"Fuck you, Banks!" Colton exploded.
"No thanks," Blake replied calmly. "You're not my type. Too much whining, not enough scoring."
Adrian burst out laughing. "See? This is why Blake's starting and you're benched. You're just jealous bitches who can't stand seeing others succeed. Then playing the 'hey, is he gay!' card like high schoolers." He shook his head. "That's what's pathetic."
"Calling us pathetic?" Colton clenched his fists. "At least we don't have to—"
Adrian suddenly stepped forward, Colton instinctively backing up. Adrian didn't touch him, but that ready-to-fight energy filled the entire space.
"Don't have to what?" Adrian's voice was soft but deadly. "Choose your words carefully."
The entire locker room air froze. Colton's friends exchanged glances, deciding to shut up.
"Looks like everyone's out of opinions." Adrian clapped loudly. "Then I think we're done here. If you really think I'm running some kind of gay frat... your sexual fantasies are way too rich." He nodded toward the door, tone instantly shifting from playful to commanding. "Colton, Coach wants to see you. About your penalty kill positioning—about as effective as a screen door on a submarine."
It was a clear dismissal. Colton's eyes darted between Adrian and Blake, every muscle radiating anger, but he had no cards left to play. He gave Blake one last glare, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door, his friends trailing behind.
When Marcus passed Blake, he shoulder-checked him hard. "Watch your back, Banks," he muttered.
Blake didn't even flinch, just watched them leave with an unreadable expression.
When the door closed behind them, Adrian turned to Blake, his entire demeanor instantly shifting from threatening alpha to intimate brother. He draped an arm over Blake's shoulder, voice becoming light and teasing.
"Making friends as usual, I see," he grinned, that sweet smile making him even more charming.
"You know me," Blake replied dryly. "I'm a people person."
Adrian laughed, the loud, genuine sound echoing off the lockers. "Fuck, Banks. I leave for twenty minutes and you're already having a dick-measuring contest with last year's draft bust and his minions." He squeezed Blake's shoulder before releasing him. "Though judging by Colton's face, you won that round."
The remaining guys chuckled as Adrian expertly opened his locker, peeling off his practice jersey to reveal the results of countless gym hours.
"Seriously though," he said, tone becoming slightly more serious as he rummaged through his expensive gym bag, "they just throwing desperate tantrums or actually bothering you?"
"Nothing I can't handle," Blake said, finally moving to his locker to start unpacking gear.
"No doubt." Adrian pulled out a water bottle and cracked it open. "Just watch Marcus," he took a long drink, then pointed the bottle at Blake. "Marcus is rallying people with this 'upperclassmen unite against rookies' bullshit. Colton's an easy target because he's terrified of being overlooked in the draft again—kid's desperate. Remember, we need you at 100% for regionals. No hero shit, no fighting. If Colton or anyone tries something, you come to me. That's what assistant captains are for—handling this bullshit."
Blake met his gaze. "I can handle my own problems."
"Not on my team," Adrian's demeanor hardened slightly. He leaned close to Blake's ear, speaking in a voice only Blake could hear. "We handle things together. That's what separates us from those assholes. They only think of themselves—we work together." Then Adrian stepped back, meeting Blake's gaze seriously. "I protect my people. End of story."
Mike, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet during the whole scene, finally spoke up. "Did Coach really move Blake to first power play?"
Adrian's serious expression vanished, replaced by that infinitely charming smile that had convinced countless professors to accept late assignments. "As of ten minutes ago." He launched the empty bottle at the recycling bin across the room, perfect shot without looking. "Said he was tired of watching us pass around the perimeter like we're playing fucking patty-cake."
He clapped Blake's shoulder hard enough to stagger a smaller guy. "You're the trigger man now. Congrats, ace."
Blake nodded—he'd already known this, but Brennan's trust still made him a bit excited, his tone rising. "I'm ready."
"Good." Adrian checked his Richard Mille. "Team meeting tomorrow, 7 AM sharp. Don't be late—Coach is showing game film of our next opponent." He looked around the locker room, raising his voice. "Tell Tanner if he oversleeps again, he's doing suicides until his legs fall off."
Eric laughed. "Ad, I'll personally drag his ass there."
"That's why I love you, Eric." Adrian stripped off his underwear, completely unbothered about displaying his cock—he had a big one, according to Adrian himself 7.8 inches hard, probably one source of his fearless confidence, though Blake had now seen bigger. "Where we drinking tonight? My treat." He smirked at Blake. "Unless you've got another date with your textbooks?"
Blake didn't take the bait, just continued methodically organizing his gear.
"No way." Adrian wiggled his eyebrows. "Banks, you bailing again for some fucking... systems whatever?"
"Industrial Systems Engineering," Blake said without looking up.
"Right. Whatever gets you off, man." Adrian wrapped a towel around his waist. "O'Brien, you coming after you shower? Or you permanently attached to Banks' ass?"
Mike grinned. "I go where the free beer flows."
"That's what I like to hear." Adrian headed toward the showers. "Let's wash off this stink and get properly drunk! Everyone else, don't study too late—save some brain cells for the next game."
After Adrian and the others entered the showers, Mike let out a low whistle. "Holy shit, that was intense." He looked at Blake with new respect. "Where'd you learn that wrist grab thing? For a second I thought Colton was gonna piss himself."
Blake shrugged, already removing his practice jersey. "Around."
"Around," Mike laughed, mimicking. "You're something else, Banks." He glanced toward the showers where Adrian had just entered, shaking his head with a mix of awe and amusement. "And Adrian, man... dude walks in and completely flips the whole situation in like ten seconds."
"That's Adrian," Blake said simply, pulling out his towel.
"We're both in business, but I'm just trying to get the degree," Mike lowered his voice even though they were alone. "But he was born for that shit. You should see him pitch investment ideas to our TAs."
Blake gave a small nod of acknowledgment as he continued changing.
"But Adrian's right about how he handled Colton and those guys," Mike added, tone becoming more serious. "Let them go and they'd make your life hell right now. Colton's dad has connections, his donations let Colton get away with whatever he wants at school."
"Then he's overdue for disappointment," Blake said simply, heading for the showers.
Mike shook his head, watching his friend walk away. Mike had come to campus early for summer training before school started, spending that break living with Blake in rooms Brennan arranged—seemingly provided by Adrian. Two small-town pretty boys in the big city bonded fast, but Blake always seemed to be carrying something he didn't want to share with Mike. Sometimes Mike couldn't help worrying about his promising friend.
