The warm water sluiced over Blake's body, washing away the sweat and fatigue from practice.
"What's making you hesitate?"
Mike's earlier question echoed in his mind. Signing the contract now meant escaping the life he'd been forced into. Both the streaming and the escorting were dangerous for his future prospects; ending it sooner was better. But Coach Brennan… Blake wanted to hand him that championship trophy with his own hands. He owed him.
As the water beaded on his skin, he was pulled back to the rainy day he'd arrived in this city, nearly a year ago.
It was last July, just three days after his high school graduation. With the money he'd earned from cam shows and escorting, he bought a one-way bus ticket to the city where the university was located. The fight with his father had happened months ago, and he had no lingering attachment to his small town. There was no place for him there anymore.
Brennan... Coach. He remembered that day, earlier in the year before the conflict with his father, when several university coaches had spoken with him one after another. His teachers and his high school hockey coach couldn't hide their proud smiles. Blake had led the small-town team to a state championship. He was the star.
Of all the coaches, Brennan had been the most captivating. It wasn't just that he offered the most attractive package: a prestigious school, a big city, a full scholarship, and a guaranteed starting spot. It was also… that Brennan was young, not yet forty, recently retired from his own pro career. He didn't have the striking good looks of Blake or Adrian, nor the classic, handsome-neighbor charm of a young Mike. Brennan's jawline was good, but his features were unremarkable. Yet his mature, clean-cut face and the physique he maintained from his playing days radiated a powerful appeal—
But the most critical thing was his unreserved praise for Blake and his belief in his potential.
"Kid, I need a championship team. Our team is called a powerhouse, but what do they call us now? A 'fallen dynasty.' Yes, it's been too long since we made it to the finals, but we have an outstanding arena, ample funding, and a strong alumni network. What we need to change is the culture—to inject new blood into a decaying family—and Blake, you will be the core."
Remembering those words still made Blake's body flush with heat. Blake believed that the small-town boy he was back then had witnessed the explosion of a supernova in his eyes.
It was after midnight when he stepped off the bus into the torrential July rain. He could have found shelter at the station, but he didn't. He let the rain plaster his cheap t-shirt to his skin, soaking his hair and sending cold streams down his cheeks as he dragged his duffel bag through puddles. When he stood at a gas station near the bus terminal, he looked exactly as he wanted to: a lost boy, a victim, a prodigy waiting to be rescued from the storm.
He dialed the number, his heart pounding not with fear, but with anticipation—the anticipation of a predator.
"Blake? Is that you? It's after one in the morning, is everything okay?" Brennan's voice was thick with sleep, but it sharpened with immediate alarm.
"Coach... sorry to call so late," Blake began, his voice trembling slightly from the rain. "I just got off the bus. I... I'm at a gas station near the terminal. I don't have a place to stay. I don't know where to go. I had a fight with my dad... about going to college. I ran away... I don't have any money."
The truth, but concealing that it had happened months ago. Blake knew he was deceiving him. He wanted to appear innocent and pure. He craved Brennan's attention, his pity—and perhaps even more.
"Stay right there. Don't move. I'm coming to get you."
A dozen minutes later, when Brennan pulled up, his face was etched with worry. He took one look at the soaked, shivering Blake and didn't ask many questions. He just threw Blake's bag into the back seat and drove him to his quiet suburban home.
"I'm fine in the car. It's comfortable in here, I can sleep for a night."
As they neared Brennan's house, Blake said this deliberately. Ah, a well-mannered, humble boy. Running away from home surely wasn't his fault. He hoped Brennan would think that.
"Anaya would kill me if she knew I left one of my athletes in the car. Come on, kid, come inside. I've got a room for you."
Blake inwardly rejoiced. His first step was a success. He entered the house, filled with a predatory desire for Brennan.
Blake recalled the line of muscle on Brennan's forearm, and he could feel his own cock begin to swell. He was about to reach down to deal with it.
That day he had entered Brennan's house, he—
The shower curtain was suddenly ripped open.
A sharp curse pulled Blake from the depths of his memory. Adrian stood there, naked, radiating an aggressive alpha energy.
"Fuck!" Blake jumped, instinctively covering himself.
"Relax, Banks. Nothing I haven't seen before in the locker room." He stepped into the stall before Blake could protest. The small space was suddenly crowded, Adrian's broad shoulders and solid chest taking up most of it. "Besides, you've been looking distracted lately, Banks. I need to make sure my star player isn't having problems."
"Adrian, what the hell are you doing?" Blake hissed, forced against the tiled wall by Adrian's presence as he tried to hide his erection. "There are six other empty stalls."
Adrian grinned, pulling the curtain shut without a care. "This one has the best water pressure." He stepped directly under the spray, forcing Blake to shuffle aside again.
"Then I'm getting out," Blake said, covering his dick and trying to escape the stall, but before his hand could reach the curtain, Adrian clamped a hand around his wrist.
"Hold on, freshman. We need to talk."
Adrian moved closer, trapping Blake against the wall, his hand still tight on Blake's wrist, pulling him back to face him. Adrian glanced around, making sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation. His eyes, startlingly blue against his tanned skin, returned to meet Blake's.
"About what?" Blake was getting annoyed, but Adrian rarely sought him out alone, which piqued his curiosity.
"About you," Adrian said, releasing his wrist but keeping his gaze locked on Blake, water streaming down his face. "About the team. And about what happens after the regionals."
Blake shifted uneasily. "What about it?"
"You know the scouts have their eyes on you. The Crimson Falcons. I know you're an Avalanche fan, but either one is a strong team." Adrian's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp and appraising.
"I've heard."
"But you're not jumping at the chance." Adrian reached past Blake to grab the shampoo, his arm brushing against Blake's chest. "Why? Most guys would kill for the kind of attention you're getting."
Blake shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I'm just keeping my options open."
"Bullshit." Adrian began lathering shampoo into his dark hair. "Did Brennan tell you to wait? Boost your draft stock with a championship title?"
"Something like that," Blake admitted with a nod.
Adrian nodded, starting to rinse his hair. "Smart. Better contract, stronger team. But that only works if we actually win."
Adrian studied him for a moment, his eyes moving over Blake's face with an almost physical intensity. The shower steam swirled between them, creating a strange intimacy despite the crowded bathroom. Water tracked in rivulets down Adrian's neck, tracing the lines of his collarbones before disappearing below his chest.
"Look," Adrian said, lowering his voice further and moving closer, "I know the coach told you to stay until at least your junior year. He's right about your draft stock—but there's more to it."
Blake raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"Tom hasn't shown up to practice in two weeks," Adrian continued, referring to their nominal team captain, an increasingly absent senior. "He's deep in LSAT prep and law school applications. The guy has his future all mapped out—daddy's firm is waiting with his name already on the door."
The disdain in Adrian's voice was palpable. "Tom represents everything that was wrong with this program before Brennan arrived. The old coach recruited country-club boys who treated hockey like an extracurricular for their grad school applications."
Blake had heard the rumors about the former coach's disastrous tenure—three consecutive losing seasons before he was replaced by Brennan.
"We're going to win." As he said it, Blake found his tone was more confident than he felt.
Adrian's smile turned sharp. "I'm glad to hear that. Because I'm not graduating without a championship ring, Blake. And you're the key." Adrian didn't give out compliments without a reason, which put Blake on guard. "You understand what I'm saying?"
"I'll do my part."
"Do your part?" Adrian took another step closer, pinning Blake against the tile. "You seem distracted lately. Missing practice, late to meetings. Is that the kind of focus we need heading into regionals?"
A flash of anger sparked in Blake's eyes. "I took one sick day."
"Oh, a stomach ache." Adrian squinted with a hint of disdain, though perhaps it was just water in his eyes. "You, with your iron stomach, get a stomach ache. Right. I'm guessing it was about your girlfriend, or should I say ex-girlfriend? Ah, or maybe you didn't want Brennan to see you when you were down."
"It's none of their business, especially Brennan's."
"Banks." Adrian's voice dropped suddenly. "You're into Brennan, aren't you? Oh, I like Brennan too, we're like-minded comrades, after all. But you... you don't just like Brennan as a coach, do you?"
"Adrian, what do you mean?" Blake's annoyance was spilling into his voice. "Didn't you just say that 'is he gay' game was childish?"
"The game Colton and his crew play is childish, of course. But I'm different. This is experience and deduction. Your eyes. You try to hide it, but sometimes when you look at Brennan, they still have that—hunger." Adrian smirked slyly.
Blake felt his blood run cold. He took a sharp breath. "You're crazy. I'm not gay."
"I know you're not," Adrian laughed, a superior, all-knowing sound. "Mike told me all about your heroic exploits with the girls at the summer beach party. Summer, night, bonfire, parties, and girls hanging all over you. Sounds exciting, you should invite me next time." He saw Blake's surprised expression and snorted. "Don't blame him. Mike's a good kid, but he's a bit simple. A couple of beers and he gushes like a happy fountain. He's dumb, which is a good thing. Everyone loves a young, handsome, strong, friendly, and slightly dumb jock, right? No threat. The perfect social buffer."
"Calling your own friend 'dumb' is capitalist bullshit, Adrian," Blake's voice was cold. He hated the way Adrian assessed everyone like an asset. "Mike's not dumb. He's loyal, and he loves this team more than anyone. You shouldn't treat him like an asset. It's too transactional."
"Transactional? No, it's reality." Adrian's smile faded, though his eyes still held a playful glint. "You love Mike," he declared, not as a question. "I get it. It's like how I love Eric." He gestured vaguely toward the showers where their other teammates were. "It's a good quality. But don't mistake my pragmatism for a lack of emotion. And don't mistake your affection for a lack of pragmatism in yourself. We're all here for a reason."
They were silent for a moment before Adrian continued. "Look, Brennan and I are comrades. We're cleaning up the mess the last coach left. Why do you think Tom is captain? Because he's a rich, obedient trust-fund baby. Brennan's different. He wants a team that wins, a team that's hungry. He wants us. And you, Banks, you have real talent. The kind that comes along once in a generation. I'm not going to watch you waste it."
His expression shifted, becoming more serious, more like an ally. "Whatever issues you have with Brennan, or your ex, or some other girl or boy, or whatever the fuck you're scheming in that head of yours, I don't care. But there's one thing you have to believe: I love hockey. If it was just about the money, I wouldn't be here. I could have transferred to a program with a bigger budget last season. But I believe in what Brennan's building, and I believe in his championship goal. That's why I stayed."
His sharp, dissecting gaze returned to Blake. "Brennan and I are on the same page. But you, Banks? That loyalty you have for him—is it for the team, or is it… for him?"
It was a trap. An interrogation of desire wrapped in the language of loyalty. Adrian had sensed a part of it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Blake denied.
"Don't you?" Adrian leaned closer, a massive hard-on pressing against Blake's erection. Blake's eyes flickered down involuntarily. At least Adrian wasn't bullshitting about his size; it was impressive—though Ethan's was bigger.
"I'm not small," Blake said, his voice tight, as the two erections touched in the shower. Adrian's was clearly longer, though thankfully they were similar in thickness.
"Of course not," Adrian replied nonchalantly, as if they were discussing stick specs. "My stick doesn't always go all the way in the hole, you know? The part that does go in is probably about your size. Plus, you've got good girth." He waved a dismissive hand. "You're probably a little above average, Banks. Eric's average-sized too. Don't compare yourself to porn."
Blake blinked, surprised by the sudden mention of the team's reliable junior defenseman. He was even more surprised that the person saying this wasn't porn-sized himself—Adrian looked bigger than many porn models, and perhaps he was being modest about his own size, even though Blake thought Adrian was a man who didn't know the meaning of modesty.
"Yeah," Adrian continued, completely unbothered. "See Eric? That tall, handsome, dependable black stallion over there?" He gestured again toward the main shower area. "His dick probably isn't even as big as yours. A girl turned him down once after seeing him naked because he wasn't a 'BBC.' Fucked him up for a while. He didn't need to get down over some shallow bitch."
Blake stared at him, bewildered by the turn in conversation. "How do you know all this so clearly?"
Adrian shrugged as if it were obvious. "I've played with Eric for three years, and we're roommates. You find this stuff out. Of course, I'm totally straight."
The statement hung in the air. The deep friendship between Adrian and Eric was a well-known fact on the team. Eric was Adrian's most trusted lieutenant, cleaning up after the unruly guys. Their bond seemed unbreakable, yet also as if Adrian could discard it at any moment—he seemed to both use Eric and genuinely protect him. It was another one of Adrian's complex, contradictory relationships.
"The point is," Adrian said, pulling his attention back to Blake, "your dick is fine. It's that mess in your head that's the problem. Now, back to my question. Are you with us for the championship, or are you living in your own world?"
He pressed his erection more firmly against Blake's. "Because if you're with us, you need to prove it to me."
"The fuck..." Blake cursed under his breath. "What are you trying to pull, Whitmore? Aren't you totally straight?"
Adrian laughed. "I couldn't be straighter, Banks. But I know a suggestive look when I see one." He winked. "And I know when someone's looking at me a certain way, I can feel it."
"I wasn't—" Blake started, but Adrian cut him off with an impatient gesture.
"I'm not saying you were. And even if you were, I don't give a flying fuck. You like men, women, both, neither—it's not my business." His expression grew serious again. "The only thing I care about is you helping us get to the Frozen Four. After that, you can fuck whoever you want."
Blake felt off-balance, unsure what game Adrian was playing. "This is a manipulation," he finally said. "You're making sure you have leverage."
Adrian's smile held a hint of admiration. "Smart kid. Yes and no." He reached for the body wash, squeezing some into his palm. "Yes, I want to make sure we understand each other. No, I'm not trying to fuck you. We want the same thing, Banks. A championship, a shot at the pros, recognition for our skills on the ice."
"Then what's this shower ambush?" Blake gestured at their tangled dicks. "This whole... whatever this is."
"Trust-building," Adrian said simply, holding up the body wash bottle.
Blake didn't move. "Trust?"
"Yeah, trust. You know—the kind where I don't pry into your private life, and you don't abandon the team when we need you." Adrian's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "We need to trust each other, Banks. On and off the ice. I know what you're thinking, that I'm threatening you."
"Aren't you? And with a baseless threat."
"No, I'm not. What could I even threaten you with? That you're gay? That's not a big deal these days, especially in the pros where we're all equal. I'm just two years older than you; on the professional ice, we're peers. I won't blackmail you." Adrian rubbed the body wash in his hands, and then, without warning, he reached out and grabbed Blake's cock.
"What the fuck are you doing!" Blake flinched back, but there was nowhere to go in the small stall.
"Relax," Adrian said, his grip firm but not aggressive. "This is trust-building." Adrian held his own dick and Blake's together, the two hard, trimmed cocks now lathered in soap. "See? No big deal. Just guys in a shower. Happens in every locker room in the country."
Blake stared at him, utterly confused. "How the fuck is this trust-building?"
"It means I'm not afraid of you, and you shouldn't be afraid of me." Adrian lowered his body slightly so their tips were roughly level, then stroked the heads of both their dicks with his soapy palm, the touch of his thick hand gliding over Blake's corona as if it were as normal as a handshake. "We're teammates. We cover each other's asses. Sometimes literally." He grinned. "Don't act like this is new, Banks. You've been in locker rooms your whole life. Don't tell me you haven't seen this kind of shit before."
Blake had, of course. The casual homoeroticism of sports, where straight guys did things that would be considered gay in any other context. The ass slaps, the naked roughhousing, the occasional crossing of a line everyone pretended didn't exist.
But this felt different. This was deliberate. A power play disguised as brotherhood.
Adrian released his hand, pressing closer, his soapy dick now completely flush against Blake's. "See? Not so bad, right? Just a little frottage between teammates." Adrian began to gently rock his hips, creating friction. "A trust-building exercise."
Blake stood frozen, his mind racing. Was Adrian testing him? Or was this really Adrian's twisted form of team-building?
"Adrian, what the fuck do you want," Blake said again, but his body, despite his confusion, had already reacted, pressing back against Adrian, their cocks rubbing against each other in the slick foam.
The challenge, raw and undeniable, hung in the steamy stall. This was now a contest between two alpha animals, all shrewd calculations abandoned for a purely masculine power struggle.
"An exercise—" Blake muttered, a provocation in itself. "Your idea of trust-building is to jack me off like a nervous rookie? Maybe what Colton said about you starting a gay fraternity wasn't just bullshit."
"This is the feeling." Adrian smiled, satisfied. He didn't mock or sneer as Blake expected, but spoke in an almost seductive tone. "Ambitious, provocative. Your desire, your ambition, your loyalty… these are forces that can be harnessed, Banks. You can waste them on useless fantasies, or you can apply them where they can actually change our destiny—on the ice."
Blake didn't answer with words. He poured some body wash into his hand, working it into a thick, white lather. Then, slowly, almost insolently, he placed his hands on Adrian's chest. He felt the hard, sculpted muscle tense under his touch. Adrian was undeniably handsome, a classic alpha specimen. Blake began to squeeze Adrian's chest with slow movements, spreading the slick foam over his pecs. He moved from the broad expanse of muscle toward the center, his thumbs circling Adrian's nipples, which immediately hardened under his touch.
A low hiss escaped Adrian, and Blake quickened the movement of his hips, grinding his dick hard against Adrian's. The savage pleasure made Adrian's confident smirk falter for a split second. Blake pressed his advantage, leaning forward and grabbing Adrian's firm ass, pulling them forcefully together until their chests almost touched. He could feel the heat radiating from Adrian's skin, could feel their nipples rubbing against each other.
Adrian felt like Blake was about to pry his ass cheeks apart. The shower spray hit his asshole directly, and the strange sensation made his movements soften.
"Is this part of the 'trust exercise,' Captain?" Blake whispered, his voice laced with mockery.
Adrian recovered quickly, his eyes glinting with a competitive fire.
"Looks like you're an alpha wolf after all, Banks. I thought a boy who's into the 'daddy' type would be a beta. But this is better. I'd be worried about your lack of competitive spirit on the rink otherwise, and that would be fatal." Adrian licked his lips, pressing Blake back against the wall, feeling their ribs press against each other. He pushed his body fully against Blake's, their chests rubbing, skin slick with soap. Adrian purposefully ground his nipple against Blake's, a jolt of physical pleasure shocking through both of them.
"Careful, Banks," Adrian panted, his voice a low growl right next to Blake's ear. "Wouldn't want you to moan too loud. The guys might get the wrong idea."
The taunt was meant to make Blake back down, but it had the opposite effect. Blake locked his gaze with Adrian's, a silent declaration of war. Blake's hand slid down Adrian's olive-tanned, chiseled six-pack abs and cupped Adrian's scrotum, his fingers moving restlessly at his perineum. Adrian's breath all but stopped.
"Don't worry about me," Blake murmured. "I can take it. Can you?"
"Fuck you, Blake." Adrian grabbed Blake's hands, pinning them up against the wall, and began grinding his dick against Blake's to his own rhythm.
For a moment, all pretense of a calculated test fell away, replaced by raw, competitive lust. It was a duel fought with muscle, nerve, and friction. Blake met Adrian's rhythm, their hips grinding against each other in a frantic, silent struggle for dominance, their harsh breathing echoing off the tiled walls.
They rubbed intensely, almost instinctively, a clash of bodies and wills. Neither would give the other the satisfaction of breaking first. They came almost simultaneously, with a shared, ragged groan suppressed through gritted teeth.
For a moment they just stood there, pressed together, panting in the steam, the air thick with the scent of soap and sex.
Adrian was the first to pull back, his cocky grin firmly back in place, though his breathing was still heavy. He reached into a small, waterproof pouch that had been hanging near the door—a detail Blake hadn't even noticed—and pulled out his phone.
"Gotta commemorate this alliance," Adrian said, his voice regaining its casual swagger. He slung a wet arm around Blake's shoulders, pulling him into a tight side-hug, and aimed the camera. "Smile, superstar."
Blake, still reeling from the intensity of the confrontation, his mind a blank, found himself pulled into the frame as Adrian snapped the picture. Blake glanced at the screen and saw Adrian's other photos—Adrian and Eric after a win, sweat-plastered and victorious; Adrian alone, flexing in the gym mirror; Adrian naked, practicing hockey in his backyard. It was a carefully curated album of thirst traps. He knew his followers, and he played them like a violin.
"Who's taking pictures? It must be Adrian feeding his followers again!" Laughter erupted from outside their stall, and Nolan—the freshman who had been following Adrian—poked his head in, then let out a yell. "Oh my god, are Whitmore and Banks showering together? The hockey power couple is officially here!"
A chorus of "Oooohs" and whistles echoed through the bathroom. Several guys poked their heads over the stalls, making exaggerated kissing noises.
Adrian's expression didn't change. He simply lowered the phone, his arm still firmly around Blake's shoulders, and called out, completely unbothered.
"Just making sure our star rookie knows how to wash behind his ears," he yelled back. "You animals could use a few lessons in grooming yourselves!"
The locker room banter erupted, the tension of the power play completely dissolved into the team's usual, chaotic rhythm. Adrian had won, declaring Blake his man in the politics of the locker room.
"Fuck you, Whitmore!" one of the guys called out good-naturedly, flexing an arm in a mock threat.
"Not even in your dreams, big guy," Adrian retorted with a wink, sparking more laughter. "You couldn't handle all this." He gestured dramatically at his own body.
Mike appeared at the corner of the stall, a shit-eating grin on his face. "So that's why Banks gets the power play position. Private coaching in the shower, huh?"
"Jealous, O'Brien?" Adrian replied without missing a beat, his arm still draped casually over Blake's shoulders. "Don't worry, I've got enough charm to go around."
The jokes flew faster now, each more outrageous than the last.
"Jesus, get a room that isn't full of naked men," Nolan yelled, wiping shampoo from his eyes.
"What, and miss the audience?" Adrian quipped, finally releasing Blake with a casual squeeze of his shoulder. "Besides, we have to protect our secret plays from spies. Colton's crew has probably already added our next opponents to their speed dial after today."
"Is the wedding before or after regionals?" Eric asked, having finished his shower. "Because I need time to buy a gift."
"After the championship," Adrian answered smoothly. "Banks here has to put a ring on it for me first." He waved his left hand dramatically, then reached for the shampoo on the rack, his bicep flexing impressively with the movement. "Speaking of which—where's our fearless leader? Anyone seen Tom today?"
"Probably in the library," Nolan called back. "LSAT prep waits for no hockey player."
"True dedication to the team," Adrian said with exaggerated gravity, the sarcasm thick. "Nothing says 'loyal captain' like missing every practice for a month before regionals."
The banter continued, and Blake remained quiet, letting the jokes wash over him like the shower spray. Adrian navigated the potential awkwardness with ease; he was the king of the locker room. This was the part of team sports he'd never fully mastered—the way the others so effortlessly navigated the locker room culture, the constant verbal sparring that somehow strengthened bonds instead of breaking them.
Adrian turned back to Blake once the attention had shifted elsewhere. With the same easy motion, he walked out of Blake's stall, water dripping down his back, his compression shorts now soaked and clinging even tighter. He immediately launched into a heated debate with Nolan about some party over the weekend, the serious conversation forgotten as quickly as it had begun.
"See? Trust established." Adrian winked back at Blake, lowering his voice again. "Watch yourself. Colton is probably going to get more desperate, which makes him dangerous. But the one to really watch for is Marcus. He's calculating—and I suspect there's someone else behind him." His eyes locked onto Blake's with that same unsettling intensity from before. "Think about what I said. Next year could be special. Everyone will want you—with a national championship on your resume." He walked out of the stall, leaving Blake alone with the cooling water and a head full of questions. What the hell had just happened? Was it a twisted initiation rite? A sincere attempt at team-building? Or was Adrian really so calculating that he would go to such lengths to ensure Blake's loyalty to the team?
Blake stood under the spray for another minute, mulling over Adrian's words, trying to ignore the residual tension in his body. The captain's—or future captain's—ambition was clear. Adrian wasn't just looking out for Blake's draft stock; he was building his own legacy. A national championship, with Adrian wearing the 'C' and Blake as his star player. With a championship on his resume, his value would only rise. But a full season meant more games, more exposure, and more risk of someone discovering what he did on weekends to survive.
And then there was the money. A signing bonus now versus potentially more money later. Instant relief versus greater security.
When he stepped out of the shower, Adrian was already dressed, lounging on a bench and scrolling through his phone as if nothing had happened.
"Back to Earth, Banks," Mike called out, throwing a wet towel that slapped against the tile at Blake's feet. "You know, some of us want hot water too. Are you planning on using up the entire campus supply?"
Blake grabbed the towel. "Just trying to wash off the stink of your performance in practice today," he retorted.
The guys within earshot erupted with exaggerated "Oooohs!" while Mike clutched his chest in mock pain.
"He speaks! And it's to kill me!" Mike staggered dramatically. "I've been waiting all semester for you to snap back, and this is what I get?"
"Maybe he used up all his energy in the shower with Adrian," someone yelled, sparking another round of laughter.
Blake wrapped the towel around his waist and walked out of the shower to change. The familiar ritual of the locker room—the jokes, the jabs—was more comforting than he'd expected. It almost felt like belonging.
Almost.
Blake knew he had lost his right to belong.
It was the summer after graduation, three months after his father had called him a monster and kicked him out. Those three months had been a desperate struggle for survival. He was eighteen, jobless, moneyless, waiting for high school to end. The initial pride of freedom had quickly been replaced by the gnawing fear of homelessness.
He'd couch-surfed for a while, but favors ran out quickly. He was cornered, panicked. He couldn't find a job in his small town; no one wanted to hire someone who would be leaving in two or three months. Desperation clouded his thinking.
Then came the suspicious ad on a streaming site, promising easy money.
No one will find out. I don't have to show my face. And so Blake started camming. But the industry was more competitive than he'd imagined. Without showing his face—his greatest asset—it was easy to get lost in the crowd. The money wasn't as good as he'd hoped, until a private message came, asking to meet offline—
Blake quickly skipped past those memories, landing on the day he arrived at Brennan's house after graduation. He had walked in with Brennan, an asshole predator eager to hunt his own future coach—a man who had shown him nothing but kindness.
Later that night, Blake stood showering in the bathroom. His own clothes, still damp, were piled in the hamper. He heard a soft knock on the door.
"Blake? It's me." Brennan's voice came from the other side. "Your things are probably still wet. I brought you some dry clothes for the night."
This is it. The opportunity.
"Come in, Coach."
The door opened, and Brennan walked in, holding a folded T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. He wasn't the towering figure from Blake's fantasies; he was just a man, his hair slightly messy, the worry on his face softening the lines around his eyes. He stopped when he saw Blake standing there, the harsh bathroom light casting shadows on his fit, young body.
"Oh, you didn't pull the shower curtain," Brennan said, his gaze flickering down for a split second before returning to Blake's face, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He quickly looked away, placing the clothes on a hook behind the door. "Here. These should fit. My wife will do your laundry tomorrow."
Blake saw it, that momentary crack in his composure. It made Blake's dark desires stir.
I can have this man. I will have this man.
After his shower, Blake picked up the clothes. The T-shirt was soft, washed countless times, worn in just right. The shorts were made of a light, breathable fabric. They smelled of Brennan—a clean, masculine scent, nothing like the cheap beer and stale smoke that clung to his father's things.
He dried himself slowly, deliberately, then put on Brennan's clothes. The shirt was a little loose in the shoulders, the shorts a bit long, but wearing them felt like putting on a new skin. It was the costume for the role he was about to play. He was no longer a desperate drifter; he was the trusted guest, the promising talent, a boy invited into the heart of the family.
Alone in the quiet guest room, the house silent around him, Blake's dark fantasies returned with suffocating force. He lay on the clean, crisp sheets of the guest bed, the soft cotton of Brennan's shirt against his skin. He could still see the flicker of conflict in the coach's eyes—that vulnerability was the key.
His hand moved down, closing around his hard cock. He closed his eyes, and the clean guest room became the stage for his ambition.
He imagined it all. He saw himself pushing Brennan against his office wall, the championship trophies on the shelf rattling from the impact. He would be the one in control, his youth and strength a weapon against Brennan's disciplined composure. He would kiss him hard and rough, a kiss of conquest, not affection. He would tear off the respectable coach's clothes to reveal the lean, powerful body underneath.
He could almost feel it: his hands gripping Brennan's hips, the firm muscle tensing with shock and reluctant desire. He would force Brennan to his knees. The man who held Blake's future in his hands would kneel before him, humiliated, his authority dissolving with each slow, deliberate blowjob. The man who had "discovered" him would discover what it truly meant to be possessed by the talent he had unleashed.
A low groan escaped Blake's lips. His hips began to rock, masturbating in the dark room. The fantasy intensified. He saw himself pushing Brennan onto his own marital bed, the scent of his wife's perfume on the pillows a twisted, delicious irony. He would flip him over, that strong back arching with a mixture of pain and pleasure as Blake's cock slid inside him. He would ride him hard and relentlessly, his own name a desperate gasp on the coach's lips. "Blake... fuck..."
The image was so vivid, so powerful, it stole the air from his lungs. It was the ultimate act of patricide. By conquering the body of this kind, decent father figure, he would annihilate the ghost of his own father. He would become the monster his father had accused him of being, and he would revel in it.
He came with a muffled, violent snarl, spilling his seed onto the soft fabric of the shorts Brennan had lent him. He lay there, panting in the aftermath, his body trembling as the silence of the house pressed in on him. There was no pleasure, only the cold, satisfying hum of a plan set in motion. He was vile. He was a predator. But he had never felt so powerful.
Carefully, silently, Blake slipped out of bed. Holding the soiled shorts, he crept out of the guest room, intending to rinse them in the bathroom sink, praying they would dry by morning. The hallway was dark, lit only by a faint nightlight near the floor. As he tiptoed past the living room, a figure on the couch made him freeze. His eyes adjusted to the dark, his breath catching in his throat.
It was Brennan.
He was sleeping on the couch so he wouldn't wake his wife. He was on his side, his back to Blake, shirtless. Moonlight spilled through the large window, striping his back in pale silver. The broad sweep of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his back and lats were clear even in repose. He wore loose athletic shorts, but just visible above the waistband, riding high on his hips, was the distinct white band of a jockstrap.
The image hit Blake like a physical blow. His recently spent cock gave a twitch, then began to swell with a fresh, painful surge of blood.
The fantasy that had been confined to his mind now crashed violently into reality. The man from his obscene imagination was right there, vulnerable and asleep. The couch became the stage. He could do it. Right now.
He crept closer, his footsteps swallowed by the soft carpet. He imagined it with a stunning, feverish clarity. He would straddle Brennan's sleeping body, pinning him against the cushions. He wouldn't wake him with words, but with the press of his hard cock against his back.
A fleeting, gentler thought flickered through his mind—an image of waking Brennan softly, of being seduced by him, drawn close and cherished, cared for by the very man he wanted to destroy. The thought was warm and comforting, but it was faint. His obsession, the powerlessness he'd felt his whole life demanding violent overcompensation, was too strong. That gentler fantasy was annihilated, replaced by the more powerful, more brutal vision: Brennan, broken beneath him. Moaning. Submitting. Becoming his muscle-daddy bitch.
Blake now stood beside the couch, a predator hovering over his prey. He looked down at his coach, at the strong lines of his back, the bare, sleeping nape of his neck. His gaze fixed on that white elastic band. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingertips hovering inches from the fabric, from the warm skin beneath. All he had to do was touch him. Pull the strap. Awaken the beast and conquer it.
His fingers touched the elastic band…
Then, Brennan grunted in his sleep. It startled Blake so much that, though Brennan hadn't woken, Blake fled back to his room like a spooked deer.
This is a good start, Blake thought, his heart pounding behind the door. He told himself he should get some sleep. Even soldiers needed rest. The plan would begin tomorrow.
And then the next day, and the third day—Brennan's home was so warm, and Brennan himself deflected every one of Blake's hints. The delicious Asian meals Brennan's wife cooked, the afternoons spent practicing hockey in the yard with Brennan's son, the evenings watching hockey games on the couch with Brennan—it all left Blake bewildered.
What am I doing?
Blake was in a daze.
What do I want to do? I want to use a good man to satisfy my need for revenge, a man who has nothing to do with my hatred and is actually helping me.
Blake remembered his father on the floor, staring up at him with terrified eyes, screaming, "Monster! You're a monster! Get out of my house!"
So some people don't deserve to belong, because they are monsters...
Coming back to himself, Blake found his tears had soaked the pillow in the guest room. He was repenting. The monster was repenting. He knew what his father had seen in his terrified eyes—it was his erection, aroused by the thrill of beating the man who had always abused him.
He couldn't stay in Brennan's house any longer. Monsters didn't deserve to belong, but at least he could repay Brennan. With hockey, with trophies. That was what he owed Brennan. After that, Blake proposed renting a place of his own and asked to borrow some money from Brennan—money he would repay with his scholarship once it came through. Brennan helped him get in touch with an off-campus fraternity house that was mostly empty at the time. The owner didn't require Blake to pay rent, only that he maintain the house's cleanliness before the school year began.
He was immensely grateful.
Now, Blake walked through the night, the ice rink growing distant behind him. He zipped up his worn leather jacket, the cold March wind biting at his bare legs beneath his shorts. The artificial warmth of the locker room vanished as he pushed open the double doors and stepped into the night. The campus streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and a chill wind rustled through the early spring leaves. He shivered, but it wasn't just from the cold.
He flexed his legs, feeling the satisfying ache of a hard practice. His thoughts, however, weren't on his muscles. They were on his room—their room. His and Ethan's.
Maybe now I have a place to belong.
Right there, in that dorm, in the small space he shared with Ethan. Ethan. The name echoed in his mind, a silent prayer. He wanted to see his roommate, to find solace in the frank arrangement they had. The cold air filled his lungs with a pleasant burn, and he began to run, the name Ethan filling his thoughts. Even a monster was allowed a place to belong, wasn't he? With that thought, Blake quickened his pace...
