**Sorry for the long delay on this update - my collaborator and I have been swamped, but we're back! Although this is a transitional chapter, I think there are enough sexy elements. I hope you enjoy reading it.**
Ethan let out a scream when he saw Blake walking in.
"Fuck, why are you still here!"
In his sharp roar, Ethan realized he hadn't told Blake about Adrian's party, which made his scalp tingle.
Blake just smiled and walked over to his dresser, somewhat playfully saying: "I came back to hang out and play video games with you, build some roommate bond. Isn't that cool?"
"No!" Ethan screamed again, then desperately lowered his voice: "You idiot! That—that super chad from your team is going to kill me!"
"Chad? We don't have anyone named Chad on our team," Blake said while pulling on a pair of sweatpants. "You got the wrong guy? Football's got a few Chads though."
"Don't play dumb! I'm talking about that black-haired Greek statue alpha male who treats everyone like servants because he thinks he's so hot!"
"Adrian?" Blake was about to say something when his phone rang, interrupting him. He hopped back a few steps while holding up his pants and grabbed his phone from the shorts he'd tossed on the bed, answering the call.
"Blake! What the hell are you doing? The girls are all asking about you, heard you're single again and plenty are interested."
Mike's loud voice burst through along with party music, loud enough that even Ethan could hear what he was saying. Then someone else seemed to take the phone, speaking with a king-like tone: "Banks, where the fuck are you? Don't tell me you're on a date with your textbooks or doing some other nerd shit. You're part of the team, man! Get your ass over here!"
"I'm changing clothes, gotta make a good impression for the ladies."
Blake talked on the phone while throwing on his jacket. After trading some typical jock banter, he hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket.
"This what you meant?"
Blake looked at Ethan with a bitter smile. Ethan frowned, looking away at his computer, responding airily: "Yeah, go charm those girls, breed your seeds in pussies. Not my problem!"
That's when Ethan felt warm, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders, Blake whispering in his ear: "You're jealous."
"Jealous?" Ethan snorted. "We're not dating. Why would I be jealous of you hooking up with some girl? Besides, I remember when I said I'd lock your dick in a cage, you looked like you wanted to murder me."
Suddenly, Ethan felt the arms around his shoulders tightening, his neck feeling that strong pressure as Blake's voice became low and heavy in his ear: "Murder you, like this?"
It was no longer a casual hug. Muscle and sinew suddenly tightened, Blake's arms like a living steel python, pinning him firmly to the chair. His throat compressed, breathing becoming heated, Blake's arm strength and heat triggered survival alarms in Ethan's brain. His light hum was cut off at his throat, air blocked. The buzzing of his computer fan, distant footsteps in the hallway... everything was rapidly fading, replaced by the roaring blood flow in his ears. Ethan's own pulse, under Blake's arm restraint, was like a captured, dying bird, frantically but futilely beating—but at the same time a euphoric feeling began secreting through his nervous system.
"You like this?"
Blake's deep voice merged with the "bully Blake" from Ethan's dreams, like a hallucinogen making Ethan's whole body tremble. His shaking hands weakly climbed Blake's arm, just feeling those bulging muscle lines—it couldn't even be called struggling.
"Mmph, mmph—"
"Shh..." Blake's voice became softer, almost like a lover's whisper, "Don't move, Boss. Just feel this."
The suffocating sensation made Ethan's brain begin to lack oxygen, brilliant spots bursting before his eyes. He had never felt so helpless, and never felt... so excited. Ethan felt his breathing sound as loud as a plane roaring in his ears. Just as Ethan felt consciousness about to be swallowed by darkness, that pressure vanished without warning.
Seeing Ethan's flushed face, Blake immediately released his hold and stepped back several paces.
"Gasp—cough! Cough cough!"
Air rushed back into Ethan's hungry lungs like countless sharp blades scraping his fragile throat. He coughed violently, instinctively bending over, gasping for breath. The world spun before his eyes, filled with black spots.
"Fuck..." After a moment of silence, Blake spoke first, without playfulness, only a hoarse voice mixed with annoyance: "I... I hurt you? Just messing around. Me and my friends—hockey friends—do this all the time. I didn't realize that pressure was too much for you."
Ethan just glared at Blake, then looked down without speaking. The excited trembling wouldn't stop, the euphoria from suffocation and danger crashed against his neurons. Ethan was afraid if he opened his mouth, he didn't know what kind of nonsense would come out.
"Sorry boss, didn't mean to hurt you."
Blake's voice sounded like a guilty puppy, even his breathing sounded wet. His apology seemed so clumsy, completely different from the cruel executioner just moments before. He reached out wanting to touch Ethan, but stopped mid-air, finally just scratching his own neck awkwardly. Blake stood there, seeming not to know what to say. The room's air had become thick and suggestive from their recent "joke." Just then, his phone buzzed persistently again.
This time, Blake didn't hesitate. Like being awakened from this dangerous dream by the ringtone, he strode over to grab his phone, glanced at the caller ID, then quickly grabbed his jacket from the chair.
"It's Adrian's party, I gotta go."
"...Go then." Ethan let out a rough breath, silently nodding. After seemingly confirming Ethan's meaning, Blake said "wait for me" then turned and closed the door.
The room was left with only Ethan.
"You always pretend to be submissive to confuse me," Ethan buried his head in his arms, his voice still trembling, but the subject of his words could no longer hear: "You act all obedient thinking if you butter me up I'll spread my legs for you... and I did! You made me think I could dominate some sexy-as-hell jock, but it's all fake. I'm just your toy when you get bored of those cheerleader girls."
Ethan remembered Blake's smile, Blake holding him warmly, Blake taking him running in the morning, Blake saying yesterday he hoped to play video games with him, Blake knowing exactly what he liked to drink.
*Nobody really cares about me anyway,* Ethan thought. "The novelty Blake felt from him would eventually fade. He shouldn't have been so caring from the start, acting as if they actually had some kind of intimate relationship.
***
The bass vibrated through Blake's sneaker soles, deep, primal humming seeming to sync with the frantic pulse in his own chest. The party was at a spacious rental party house, with beer and cologne scents filling the air, boys' and girls' laughter and roughhousing saturating the space. Flashing colored lights from Adrian and Eric's fraternity letters on the wall illuminated young faces, bottles of beer chilling in ice buckets, the primitive chaos of revelry organized with methodical precision, and its conductor standing in the room's center.
Adrian Whitmore.
He leaned against a makeshift bar, wearing a cashmere knit sweater with partial cutout vertical stripes that hugged his muscular and sharp body contours, the pure white fabric half-revealing against his wheat-colored skin, casual tight shorts making him look like a rich boy vacationing at the beach. He gently swirled beer in a glass, casually draping his arm over a tall blonde beauty's shoulder—even Blake knew that lady was Charlotte Winslow, a prominent figure in the local sorority chapter. Miss Winslow often appeared at school or student activities, sometimes as a leader, sometimes as a student representative, and even Adrian seemed somewhat humble when speaking with her.
Seeing Blake enter, Adrian set down his glass and waved with the Richard Mille on his wrist, greeting Blake. He seemed to want to come forward and give Blake a hug, but Miss Winslow in his arms made him abandon the step he was about to take.
"Banks, you finally made it! You really know how to keep the ladies waiting!"
Along with Nolan's encouraging roar, some girls gathered around Adrian turned to look at Blake, letting out clear laughter. Meanwhile, Mike, surrounded by several girls, stood up waving, then patted an empty spot on the couch for Blake to come over.
"Dude, you're later than Tanner!" Mike laughed mockingly at Blake as he sat down, while a nearby girl smoothly hung on Blake's arm and giggled. Mike gestured with his eyes for Blake to look at Tanner on the other side.
Blake had already heard when squeezing through—though the indoor music continued, Tanner was discussing outdoor hiking, camping, and skiing with a group of girls.
Mike wore a smile, whispering in Blake's ear: "Animal Planet—silverback gorillas displaying dominance to the females in their group."
Blake playfully smacked Mike's head, then greeted the girl hanging on his arm.
Mike grabbed two beers from the ice bucket, handing one to Blake. "Adrian invited so many beautiful ladies. They keep saying how excited they are about our team's revival, want to cheer us on before semifinals and finals."
"Yeah," the girl hanging on Blake's arm took the beer Blake poured into a glass with ice, giggling: "Winslow said she wants to cheer for Whitmore and Whitmore's boys, so here we are. I've never really watched hockey before, but I think I'll become very interested very soon."
"So ladies, should we start by explaining what 'icing' means?" Blake's voice was sweet in the music. He knew most of these girls weren't genuinely interested in hockey, but they came here and couldn't be treated like fools. These girls might be sorority members or from Winslow's upper-class circles, at least from middle-class families—they couldn't just be treated as silly party girls looking to hook up with hot athletes. "I'll tell you when to cheer for us, like—"
Blake began simply explaining hockey's key points to the girls, with Mike supporting his topic. He'd been explaining this game to pretty girls in high school hallways for years, quite successfully. Blake would explain a concept like power play offense, then Mike would supplement with dramatic real examples like brutal checks or game-winning goals. They knew the girls' interest in technical details was brief; the real goal was giving them enough vocabulary to understand the violent and elegant rhythm they'd witness Friday night, making them feel respected with enough information to follow the game without being bored. If they actually became interested in hockey rather than some boy, they'd learn more on their own.
"Basically," Mike concluded with a smile, "our job is to hit the other guys and put that little black thing in their net. Blake's job is to do it better than anyone else."
"So hockey is basically soccer on ice, but with sticks?" a girl laughed, leaning forward for her beer.
"Lots of similarities, though," Blake smiled and winked: "Think about flying around on ice, plus the game actually encourages body contact... you'll understand Friday night."
The girls giggled—Blake and Mike's explanation worked well for them. Another girl in designer clothes, eyes darting between Mike and Blake, smiled: "O'Brien said you guys are from small towns. I thought you'd be more... awkward. In my community, kids playing hockey spend serious money—what's it like in small towns? I mean, I've always lived in Atlanta—when I tell people I'm going to watch a hockey game, half of them ask if it's on ice or grass."
"Different," Mike said with a nostalgic voice: "In my town, October through March every year, when the lake freezes over, the skating rink becomes the whole town's center."
"Yeah," Blake agreed: "Same where I'm from—everywhere you go are people you know, rink or lake, whether it's Nathan the baker or old Pat from the auto plant, they'll all be there."
"Sounds really different, with that traditional intimacy. I don't even remember my neighbors' names."
The girl looked at her companions with curiosity while Mike began enthusiastically discussing tradition and community. "We're a Catholic community—not everyone, but three-quarters of the town comes to Mass on weekends. Everyone looks after each other's kids, everyone feels safe letting children play outside."
"Sounds really nice. Honestly, I'm no champion of traditional family values," another blonde girl with glasses joined the conversation: "But I feel our generation is too cold, lacking trust between people. Sometimes I think about leaving the big city someday to experience small-town life."
"Yeah, some virtues never go out of style. Family gatherings, neighborly friendship, treating people kindly—my mom kept reminding me through middle school not to sneak out at night looking for girls, some things should be saved for someone special."
Blake almost spilled his drink hearing Mike talk about premarital abstinence. He fought not to laugh out loud. Mike was sometimes naive, a typical church boy, a total "good boy," but he was definitely not innocent when it came to women.
Blake still remembered that summer before school started when they lived together for early team training. One weekend, he and Mike hooked up with a group of girls at the beach. That night by the bonfire, Mike was flirting with several girls on the sand—that night he and Mike got plenty from those girls. It was a hot night.
But Blake wasn't going to call out Mike. Mike knew his limits—he could be wild but also give a girl a perfectly harmless night and safely see her home.
As Mike continued his traditional values and small-town charm spiel, Blake's attention drifted across the room. Jensen leaned against the wall near the kitchen, looking like a deer in headlights while two particularly aggressive girls hit him with increasingly bold questions and "accidental" touches. The poor kid was blushing furiously, gripping his drink tight, constantly looking around desperately for an escape route.
Blake made a quick decision.
He extracted himself from his circle. "Team building," he said, striding toward Jensen's direction. He smoothly slid between Jensen and the girls. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies, I need to borrow our goalie to explain some goals to people here to cheer us on."
Jensen grabbed onto Blake like a drowning man clutching a life preserver, sliding tightly into position between Blake and Mike under Blake's guidance. The two girls showed disappointed expressions but didn't pursue.
Though the girls hadn't given up on Jensen, being among teammates let Jensen relax somewhat.
"He's a big guy," Mike introduced Jensen to the nearby girls: "He looks like the type who'd live in the library all day, but his thighs are thick as tree trunks."
Blake was about to build on Mike's topic when his eyes met Adrian's. Adrian sipped his drink and nodded at Blake approvingly. He seemed satisfied with this situation, then while chatting with the respected Winslow, cast his gaze toward Eric, who was talking with some backup players.
Blake dove back into conversation. Nolan, who'd been circling Adrian, brought over some girls attracted to Blake and Mike's discussion. Nolan leaned against the couch back to join the topic, and soon they were discussing campus celebrity gossip and professor scandals.
"Surprised not to see Colton though—he should never miss a chance like this to show off that long, fancy surname of his," a girl casually threw out an awkward topic. The boys tacitly didn't want to bring locker room politics to this setting.
"Adrian invited him. Maybe he's still hoping for Thompson's recommendation, thinks he might still be under consideration so doesn't want to get too close to other fraternity territory," Nolan easily changed the subject.
"He actually thinks he still has a chance?" The blonde girl with glasses showed a contemptuous smile, setting down her drink: "He's already out. As a sorority member, I can say directly that review periods aren't that long—he was dropped, and we haven't seen Colton showing off that yellow AMG GT around campus these past few days."
"Oh, he crashed into a roadside barrier a few days ago. Fortunately nobody was hurt, but the car was wrecked. That was a nice car," Tanner said, surrounded by girls, moving closer to Blake.
"I thought you'd only be interested in cars with good off-road performance." Nolan seemed a bit surprised by Tanner's assessment of Colton's car.
"Hey, I don't like taking cars into the mountains! That's what legs are for," Tanner winked. "Now Colton's driving some super high-displacement pickup."
"Oh my God. He totaled a supercar then seamlessly switched to driving a massive pickup? Seriously, guys like him should just have their licenses revoked," the girl harshly critiqued Colton while another chimed in: "My dad says you can tell someone's attitude toward life from how they treat their car."
"Then Colton's definitely an asshole."
Everyone looked surprised at Jensen, who'd acted like he hadn't spoken and was just drinking. After avoiding eye contact, Jensen set down his glass: "Not many people don't think he's an asshole, right?"
Blake and Mike hugged Jensen, then exchanged knowing looks with the girls. Some perceptive girls quickly understood and responded with sympathetic looks toward Jensen, causing some knowing laughter.
"Speaking of which, we haven't seen Blake or Jensen driving," Nolan quickly switched topics to keep the mood from cooling, directing the question to Blake and Jensen.
"Brennan gave me the keys to his old Toyota when I need it," Blake smoothly continued Nolan's topic progression.
"You're practically Brennan's son," Nolan teased Blake while looking at Jensen, and Blake shrugged like "so what?"—actually feeling a bit happy about being seen as Brennan's son.
"I don't have a license... I usually take the subway," Jensen gave a very fitting answer for his image. Taking this opportunity, everyone quickly steered toward more popular topics.
Cars, cruising, bullshit academic topics—Mike took a hit for being a business major jock lacking personality, while when Tanner mentioned majoring in meteorology, a group of girls looked at him like they'd seen a unicorn. Then there were the sorority girls' vicious critiques of sorority affairs, though most of the boys in the U-shaped couch center except Tanner weren't fraternity boys. The hockey team could use this party house mainly because Adrian and Eric were authority figures in their fraternity, so everyone stayed out of that topic—Tanner was actively recruited as a "more academically diverse STEM student meeting fraternity values," but his free-spirited nature meant he barely participated in fraternity affairs.
As beer changed rounds repeatedly and the speakers switched to a rhythm-heavy, somewhat provocative pop rap song, a girl who'd just returned from the bathroom and looked well-off perfectly seized the moment with her friends.
"Alright," her voice was clear and loud, then she playfully winked, her gaze sweeping across the boys. "I heard the hockey team guys' physiques are legendary around campus. Is the legend true? Or just locker room bragging?"
This direct challenge was like a stone thrown into a lake, immediately creating ripples.
Tanner was first to respond—already outgoing and loving to be the center of attention. He laughed loudly, and amid the cheering, directly grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and yanked it over his head, revealing his defined, sun-bronzed torso. It was a standard, well-trained athletic body, solid and powerful. He deliberately tightened his abs, making the six-pack definition even clearer.
The girls let out mixed screams of admiration and laughter. Some named Chloe or Sarah boldly reached out to poke his tense abs, making Tanner dramatically "shock" and twitch, causing more laughter.
Nolan also pulled off his shirt. His body wasn't as sculpted as Tanner's but was equally healthy and powerful. He hung his shirt behind his head and began clumsily but enthusiastically gyrating to the music, his comical movements drawing laughter and pushing the atmosphere higher.
Jensen quickly became the girls' target again, putting him back in an awkward position. Blake noticed Adrian watching their way, making a "do it!" gesture. Blake patted Jensen, quietly telling him it was no big deal and that they'd all strip together soon.
Under half-pushing, half-coaxing, Jensen hesitantly, almost shyly, removed his hoodie. When his pale but surprisingly strong physique was revealed, the entire room fell silent for a moment, then erupted in even more enthusiastic cheers. Like Mike said, Jensen was a beast—he was a goalie, and despite having what could even be called a delicate pretty face, he had a muscular, developed body. This "contrast" drove the girls wild. And stripping alongside him, Mike, though also quite the charming boy-next-door, was overshadowed by Jensen's appeal.
As girls' hands reached toward the panicked Jensen, Adrian brought others over.
"Hey, you guys became the party's center without inviting us to this kind of thing?"
Adrian lifted his shirt corner but immediately dropped it, shaking his head and giving Eric a look. Eric expressionlessly removed his black T-shirt with no extra movements. He didn't deliberately show off, but that dark skin sculpted like granite muscle definition was itself, under the lights, like black gems. Eric's body was full of wild, awe-inspiring beauty. A bold girl couldn't help but whisper: "My God, this is literally art."
Now all eyes focused on Adrian and Blake.
Adrian enjoyed this spotlight feeling. He set down his beer, wearing that arrogant smile as he removed his designer shirt.
That was a perfectly sculpted torso—thicker than Tanner's, more sculptural than Eric's, just like Ethan had described him as a Greek god. Sweat traced down the valleys of his chest, disappearing into the shadows of his abs. Undoubtedly, Adrian proved he was the pinnacle among the boys in the room.
"Blake! Blake!" the crowd began rhythmically chanting.
Blake stood at the storm's center, wearing his signature slightly shy smile. He didn't want to do this—this feeling of being watched reminded him of other things—but he also knew that right now, he couldn't refuse. This was a "duty" that came with being part of the team.
Under Adrian's encouraging gaze, Blake took a deep breath and pulled up his shirt too.
Blake revealed his perfect body. His muscle definition wasn't as aggressively thick as Adrian's but was more fluid, elongated, combining strength with refinement. He and Adrian formed a picture of deadly beauty.
The girl who'd been sitting next to Blake was completely mesmerized. She grabbed a half-empty beer bottle from the nearby table, walked up to Blake, her eyes bold and direct: "Mind if I borrow this?"
Before Blake could react, she slowly poured the cold beer down the center line of his chest. Golden liquid wound over his rising chest muscles, following the valleys of his abs like a stream flowing through a canyon, finally disappearing at the edge of his athletic shorts. The cold liquid and surrounding hot gazes made Blake shiver. The girls' fingers began tentatively touching his beer-slicked, cold but firm skin.
He smiled, allowing their touches, playing the generous, charming sports star they expected to see. But Blake remembered familiar feelings—shame and self-loathing quietly rising. Those whiskers wandering over his body, clients' fingers touching him.
*That's different, this is just entertainment. I haven't done those things since the season started...*
Now his bank account numbers were enough to keep Blake comfortable for a while, but what about later? If he had to play another year, would he stop?
*I can stop anytime, I have a plan, I won't get trapped in easy money.*
Really? A sliver of panic wormed its way into his mind. To get away from that feeling, he found himself taking a strange sense of solace from this playful humiliation.
Adrian watched everything from the side, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. He saw his "star product" succeed spectacularly, igniting the whole room's passion. He saw team cohesion, saw the boys' confidence, and saw undisguised desire in the girls' eyes.
Everything was under his control. The party atmosphere reached its peak at this moment.
The girl pouring beer on Blake was the bold move that completely opened the party's valve of madness. Alcohol and hormones stirred in the air, boundaries began blurring.
"Not enough! This isn't enough!" a girl screamed, her voice full of excitement. "You're just showing off! We want to see something else!"
"Right!" another girl chimed in, "Let us see how you guys get along in the locker room! How you hug after winning games, spend intimate brotherly time! Don't tell me that's not a thing."
This suggestion was boldly outrageous but seemed natural in the current frenzied atmosphere. The boys looked at each other, both embarrassed and eager to try. Tanner and Nolan, amid the cheering, exaggeratedly slapped each other's chests, their movements comedic like a farce, drawing hearty laughter.
But Adrian knew this level of performance couldn't satisfy the audience or achieve his desired effect—that ultimate, possessive dramatic effect. He mysteriously smiled, pulling three black bow ties with white collars and three pairs of fluffy, ridiculous bunny ear headbands from a drawer under the table.
He walked straight to Blake, ignoring the surrounding noise, and with an undeniable intimate gesture, personally put one of the bunny ear headbands on Blake. The black bunny ears looked particularly absurd and bizarre against his golden hair. Then he tied the black bow tie around Blake's naked neck, his fingertips deliberately brushing Blake's carotid artery.
Blake stood stiff like a pet being carefully dressed by its owner. The silky bow tie texture and those stupid bunny ears brought shame far more intense than being touched by girls.
Next, Adrian handed another pair of bunny ears to the stunned Jensen. Jensen instinctively wanted to refuse, but seeing Adrian's humorless eyes, he could only tremblingly accept them and put them on like a frightened animal. His pretty baby face with bunny ears made him look like an innocent sacrifice who'd stumbled into a wolf pack.
Finally, Adrian casually put the last bunny ears on himself. Even kings could occasionally be bunnies.
"Alright, my bunny servers," Adrian's voice was deep and magnetic as he turned to Blake and Jensen, declaring, "The guests need service. But first, your uniforms aren't quite standard."
Saying this, he smoothly unbuttoned his shorts and let them drop at his ankles. He wore only black, perfectly tailored Armani athletic briefs that perfectly outlined his muscular thigh roots and contained contours.
The room erupted in deafening screams and whistles.
Adrian's gaze locked on Blake. That was a command.
Blake's blood seemed to freeze. He understood the meaning in Adrian's eyes. This wasn't a request or joke, but a public, undeniable order. This was a submission ceremony. He felt dizzy, shame and a kind of dominated excitement battling in his body. Finally, he closed his eyes as if accepting some verdict, slowly, humiliatingly removing his outer pants.
He wore black jockstrap. His back and thigh sides were almost completely exposed, with only the front key area covered by black fabric. This extremely functional and provocative underwear was more arousing than full nudity. It exposed his body's most fit, most private lines, and exposed his inner submission.
The girls' cheers nearly lifted the roof.
Finally, poor Jensen. He blushed like he was about to cry, both hands gripping his waistband desperately. Mike nearby couldn't watch and wanted to help him out, but Eric's cold stare stopped him.
"Jensen," Adrian's voice softened somewhat but still carried unquestionable authority, "this is part of the team. We're together."
Finally, Jensen gave in. He closed his eyes, messily pulling down his pants, revealing pure white boxer briefs underneath. Compared to the other two, this seemed comical and innocent, but this innocence in the current scene seemed more fragile and... tempting.
Three boys, three bunnies, shirtless, wearing only underwear and ridiculous headgear, stood at the party's center. One confident and controlling everything, one ashamed and submissive, one terrified and helpless.
"Cheer!" Adrian raised both arms like a king giving a speech: "Cheer for your bunnies!"
The girls went completely wild. They screamed, laughed, pulled out phones to take pictures. This was a night they'd never forget—full of young, strong bodies, blurred boundaries, and permitted indulgence.
And Blake, wearing comical bunny ears and a bow tie symbolizing submission, stood under the lights, feeling completely stripped bare. He was not only the king's sharpest sword but also, at this moment, his most gorgeous, most obedient plaything.
The party music seemed enchanted, becoming more psychedelic and rhythmic. Adrian, Blake, and Jensen became the absolute center of this mad kingdom.
Adrian openly enjoyed it all. Like a tyrannical ruler, he strode confidently through the crowd. Girls looked at him with awe, occasionally bold enough to reach out and carefully trace his arms or back muscles like touching a temple statue. He responded with tolerant, arrogant smiles. Some male teammates like Nolan looked at him with worship, then laughingly slapped his ass—Adrian accepted this crude friendship expression without care.
Blake worked to play his role. He picked up a tray full of beer glasses and began circulating among the girls. He wore a business smile, but the silk bow tie around his neck and bouncing bunny ears constantly reminded him of his situation.
"Hey, little bunny, your ears are so soft," a girl laughed, pinching his bunny ears, then her hand slid down his neck, fingertips circling on his collarbone.
Blake stiffened but still smiled politely, offering a beer.
Another bolder girl, as he bent to set down the tray, grabbed the elastic strap of his jockstrap from behind, pulled it back lightly, then released it with a sharp "snap." That crisp sound was clearly audible even in the noisy music.
"The straps are really sturdy," the girl whispered in his ear, warm breath blowing on his skin.
Blake's face instantly reddened, shame like electricity coursing through his body. He could even feel the unkind gazes and suppressed laughter from several teammates behind him. Mike wanted to come help him, but seeing the flash of mixed humiliation and resignation in Blake's eyes, he ultimately stopped. Blake was paying invisible "tax" for his position on this team.
Most difficult was undoubtedly Jensen. He moved almost with matching hands and feet, his face flushed from neck to chest. His white boxer briefs seemed absurd yet pure in this highly sexually suggestive scene.
The girls seemed especially fond of teasing his innocence.
"Oh, look at this shy little bunny!" a girl blocked his path, using her finger to trace circles on his tense abs, "Are you scared?"
Jensen was too nervous to speak, just frantically shaking his head. He felt like a real rabbit thrown into a wolf den. His mind went blank, all senses amplified. The girls' fingertip sensations, their mixed perfume scents, teammates' undisguised laughter...
Under this extreme tension, shame, and physical stimulation, his body's most honest part betrayed him. He could clearly feel a small tent slowly rising in his underwear, uncontrollably, embarrassingly.
This change was quickly spotted by sharp-eyed girls.
"Oh—my God!" she let out an exaggerated scream, pointing at Jensen's predicament, "Look, our bunny server seems very 'excited' to serve us!"
This statement exploded like a bomb across the room. All eyes focused on Jensen's underwear. The boys erupted in thunderous laughter and whistles while girls collapsed in laughter.
Jensen wanted to find a crack in the ground to crawl into. His face was hot enough to fry an egg as he desperately wanted to use his hands to cover himself but felt that would draw even more attention. He stood frozen, unable to move, like a criminal being publicly executed, enduring humiliation and ridicule from all sides.
Just then, a hand rested on his shoulder.
Jensen stood at the party's vortex center, his physiological reaction making him the focus of all eyes and laughter. Shame burned every inch of his skin like flames—he was nearly crushed by this sudden, public embarrassment.
Adrian sensed Jensen's breakdown edge and realized this excessive humiliation might damage his carefully constructed "team family" atmosphere. As the de facto leader, he knew when to apply pressure and when to show magnanimity.
He smiled playfully, without scolding anyone, instead choosing a more direct, more dramatic way to divert attention. He jumped onto a table in the room's center, then under curious stares, he unabashedly used his hand to stroke himself through his black Armani briefs, beginning self-stimulation.
His movements were more confident showing off than erotic. He was displaying his prized asset. Within ten-plus seconds, his already impressive contours visibly swelled and hardened, stretching the tight fabric to an intimidating degree. That nearly 8-inch size, even through underwear, created an extremely impactful and aggressive bulge.
"Ladies," he began, his voice deep and raspy, full of undisguised bragging, "rather than startling our little bunny, why not appreciate something more... mature?"
This action instantly stole everyone's breath. The girls' attention immediately transferred from poor Jensen to Adrian like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Screams and laughter mixed with shock, curiosity, and desire.
Jensen's predicament was instantly forgotten.
"My God, Adrian..." Winslow gasped, stepping onto the table to grasp Adrian's erect outline through his underwear.
Adrian magnanimously allowed her touch. Her fingers explored that hard, burning contour through fabric, then withdrew like she'd been shocked, her face flushing with excitement.
"You really love showing off," Winslow whispered beside Adrian. Adrian smiled: "You're not the first time touching it."
"But you always bring me surprises," Winslow said, then jumped down from the table.
With the first, there was a second. Soon, several boldest girls surrounded him, their hands roaming his sweaty body, stroking his tight thigh muscles, feeling his heartbeat slightly accelerated from excitement. Adrian calmly accepted this star-like "worship," his eyes looking over their heads to give Jensen a meaningful look.
This strange, explosive scene also ignited other jocks' hormones. Tanner laughed and came over, smacking Blake's firm ass hard with a loud "slap."
"Hey, Blake! Don't let only the girls have fun!" he joked crudely about homosexuality, "Want to come to my room tonight to 'exchange' tactics?"
Blake turned around, cooperatively rolling his eyes, laughing back: "Fuck off, Tanner, I can't learn your 'tactics.'"
Nolan joined in, hugging Blake from behind, pretending to kiss his neck, making Blake laugh and push him away.
Even poor Jensen was pulled into the joke in a friendly way by Mike. Mike went behind him, also patting his equally firm ass, but much gentler.
"Hey, this is rock hard!" Mike winked exaggeratedly: "Looks like you're not just good at guarding goals, your defense is pretty 'solid' too!"
This double entendre finally got Jensen to relax from his frozen state, showing an uglier-than-crying smile. Though Jensen didn't like this crude locker room humor, Mike had a warmth that diluted Jensen's shame.
The girls erupted in even more enthusiastic screams and whistles. For them, the current situation was much more exciting than simply watching boys show off abs. The boys' intimate actions touched a kind of safely forbidden taboo, full of visual impact and drama.
"Kiss! Kiss!" a girl began leading the chant, her voice sharp and excited.
This cry spread like wildfire. Soon the entire room rhythmically shouted: "Kiss! Kiss!"
Tanner and Nolan, the two biggest attention-seekers, exchanged glances, seeing the same light in each other's eyes. Under alcohol and vanity's double drive, nothing was impossible. Tanner laughed and pulled Nolan's neck, giving him a loud, exaggerated cheek kiss like children playing, drawing good-natured "boos."
But this obviously couldn't satisfy the audience.
"Not that kind! We want to see the real star combination!"
The girls shouted, several pushing Mike and Blake together.
Mike froze, then laughed and waved his hands: "Oh no no no, this won't work, I can't match our ace."
But before he finished speaking, Blake was pushed forward by teammates behind him, stumbling into Mike's arms. Blake was already dizzy from alcohol and the scene's frenzied atmosphere, that familiar feeling of seeking comfort in humiliation rising again. He looked at Mike close up—his only real friend—and suddenly showed a mischievous smile.
Before Mike could react, Blake cupped his face and pressed their lips together.
Blake's lips were soft and warm, carrying beer's slight bitterness and the party's sweetness. He even playfully licked Mike's lips with his tongue tip.
The entire party exploded!
Mike's brain instantly crashed. He could feel Blake's soft lips and the heat from his friend's body, plus the deafening cheers around them. Almost immediately, Blake released him, wearing a victorious, slightly provocative smile. Mike's face turned tomato red as he pointed at Blake, stammering wordlessly, finally just laughing and raising both hands in surrender, admitting his "defeat."
This kiss completely ignited everyone's madness.
The girls were like sugar-fed children, excitedly screaming, some even pulling cash from their purses to stuff into the boys' underwear waistbands, turning this jock show into an impromptu "male strip show."
Tanner excitedly bit a twenty-dollar bill a girl gave him between his teeth, beginning to wildly gyrate to the music.
Eric, who hadn't participated in this crazy performance, hoisted a slightly chubby backup defenseman onto his shoulders like a trophy, spinning around the room to cheers.
Now only the core trio remained.
"Bunnies!" probably Chloe shouted, "You guys need to do one too!"
All eyes focused again on Adrian, Blake, and Jensen.
Adrian wore an inscrutable smile. He knew the performance had to escalate. He didn't look at Blake but turned to the most helpless Jensen.
He approached Jensen, Adrian didn't kiss Jensen like Blake had done to Mike. He just reached out, using his thumb to gently wipe sweat from Jensen's forehead, then his fingertip slowly slid along his jawline, finally stopping at his Adam's apple, gently caressing.
This action was full of ultimate control and possessiveness. He didn't kiss Jensen but was more erotic than any kiss, more suffocating. Jensen trembled under his gaze, even forgetting to breathe.
Then Adrian turned to Blake, giving him a silent command.
Blake understood. He stepped forward, gently embracing the still-shocked Jensen from behind. He rested his chin on Jensen's shoulder, lips almost touching Jensen's ear.
"Relax, it's okay," Blake's voice was light, like devil's whisper, with soothing magic.
Then Blake, in front of everyone, extended his tongue tip, slowly, gently licking Jensen's earlobe.
Jensen's whole body shivered, letting out a suppressed, almost whimpering sound.
This scene—the powerful bunny applying mental control from the front, the beautiful bunny server giving physical comfort from behind, while sandwiched between them was that pure, helpless, terrified strong boy. This image sent everyone's adrenaline to peak levels.
One girl even screamed from over-excitement.
The boys were completely immersed in this atmosphere of being chased and worshipped. They felt like gods, like kings, like the most dazzling stars on stage. They were providing girls with a unique entertainment while building a twisted but unbreakable "brotherhood" among themselves. In their view, this was just a game—a game proving they were confident enough, open enough, "cool" enough.
No one thought anything was wrong. This was just a crazy party night. Nothing more.
Jensen's suppressed whimper from Blake's tongue's wet heat was like dropping water into boiling oil. The girls' screams reached a new, ear-piercing height, their eyes flashing with almost feral light.
The girl in designer clothes held an opened beer bottle, unhesitatingly pouring golden liquid from Blake's exposed back. The cold liquid made Blake tremble, beer flowing down his spine valleys, over his back muscle ridges, soaking his black jockstrap waistband, finally pooling in his hip shadows, dripping onto the floor.
This action was like a starting gun.
Another girl grabbed ice cubes, stuffing them into Tanner's athletic shorts' back waistband, making him jump like he'd been electrocuted with an exaggerated howl. More alcohol was splashed out, the air thick with malty sweetness and salty sweat scents.
Her hands were no longer satisfied with tentative touches. They boldly roamed these young bodies soaked in alcohol and adrenaline. Fingers traced over wet abs, kneaded solid chests, some even sliding to Jensen's soaked underwear edge, feeling through fabric his shame and fear-induced persistent hardness.
"More intense!" a girl shouted, her voice hoarse from excitement, "Make them get tangled up!"
Adrian, hell's director, showed a satisfied smile. He knew it was time for the final act.
He grabbed Jensen's shoulders, irresistibly pushing him down face-up on the messy floor. Beer's stickiness made Jensen's skin cling tightly to the ground—he lay like a lamb for slaughter, eyes full of tears and terror.
Then Adrian grabbed Blake, who'd been holding Jensen, using his knee against Blake's leg bend, forcing him to kneel beside Jensen's body.
"My bunny is hungry," Adrian's voice rang clearly in the noise, carrying cruel mockery, "feed him something."
He pointed at Jensen's beer-soaked, flat, firm abs. Much of the beer splashed on Blake's back had also splattered on Jensen.
Blake looked at Adrian, hesitation flashing in his eyes, but that hesitation was quickly replaced by deeper, self-destructive submission. He knew this was a command and his due "performance."
In the room's deathly silence followed by unbelievable gasps, Blake leaned down. He buried his face in Jensen's abs, extending his tongue like a kitten, beginning to lick those sticky liquids mixed with sweat and beer.
His tongue's warmth and roughness, combined with cold beer stimulation, made Jensen's body tremble violently. Jensen let out a thin, strangled moan, hands helplessly clawing at the floor. He felt himself pinned down, being worshipped by his most trusted, most dependable friend in the most degrading way.
"My God..." a girl covered her mouth, but her eyes flashed with sick excitement.
Teammates were also stunned, then erupted in even crazier cheering. They rushed forward, forming a circle like ancient Roman Colosseum audiences, stamping feet, clapping hands. Someone poured more beer on the two tangled together, making the scene even more slippery and chaotic. Tanner and Nolan even began imitating their actions, rolling around on the nearby floor like two puppies wrestling in mud.
Adrian became the sun again, with girls as planets orbiting him. His naked torso gleamed with sweat and alcohol, deliberately tensing muscles, posing like a bodybuilder, displaying his bulging biceps and spread latissimus dorsi like wings. He enjoyed girls' hands exploring his body, their amazement at his muscle hardness, like touching a living artwork. Adrian responded to every compliment with a kingly smile.
Blake displayed completely different but equally deadly charm from Adrian. He didn't deliberately pose but wore a seductive, almost dangerous smile, actively guiding girls' hands. He'd grab a girl's wrist, pressing her palm against his breathing abs, then lead her fingertips slowly down, sliding over his V-line edge, finally stopping at his black jockstrap's tight waistband. He'd look directly into her eyes with pure provocation, making the girl blush and heartbeat, letting out a soft gasp.
And Jensen, this poor sacrifice, was surrounded by several girls on the couch. He sat bewildered like a rabbit surrounded by pythons. The girls didn't treat him with desire like they did Adrian and Blake, but like playing with a cute, blushing doll. They arranged his ridiculous bunny ears, curled his soft hair with fingers, giggling.
This scene finally drew other boys' jealousy.
"Hey! This isn't fair!" Tanner protested loudly, tired of fooling around with Nolan, "Why do only those three get bunny ears?"
Half-joking, half-serious, he rushed to the couch, grabbing the bunny ears from Jensen's head and putting them on himself. Then he boldly stripped off his clothes again, showing girls his assets, trying to get a share.
Jensen saw this sudden "liberator," hope flashing in his eyes. He seized the opportunity, quickly removing the silk bow tie from his neck and stuffing it into Tanner's hands like passing a relay baton.
"Here! Now you're a bunny too!" he said urgently.
Taking advantage of Tanner becoming the new focus and girls curiously surrounding him, Jensen slipped out from behind the couch like an eel. He just wanted to quickly put on clothes and end this nightmare.
But he soon discovered a new problem—his pants were missing, probably kicked somewhere during the earlier chaos. Worse, his white underwear, soaked with beer and sweat, was wet and sticky against his skin, cold and uncomfortable. He was essentially naked.
Just as he stood helplessly in the corner, Adrian beckoned him over. Jensen stiffened, resignedly walking over. Adrian had already extracted himself from the girls' encirclement. He pulled something from what seemed to be his own sports bag and handed it to Jensen.
"Put this on. Wearing wet clothes will make you sick," Adrian's tone was as flat as caring for a teammate, but his eyes carried undeniable meaning.
Jensen took the item, unfolding it to see his heart sink to rock bottom. It was a brand-new, stylishly designed Calvin Klein jockstrap, white wide waistband and minimalist design pouch, full of mature male sexiness, worlds apart from his childish cartoon underwear.
He knew he had no choice.
"We'll block you," Mike appeared at some point with Nolan and one or two other boys behind him. They quickly formed a semicircle like a human wall, separating Jensen from the party's main area.
Jensen looked gratefully at Mike, then turned around. Under his brothers' cover, he resignedly, quickly removed his soaked underwear and tremblingly put on Adrian's jockstrap. The fabric's fit and the almost complete exposure behind made him feel new, unfamiliar shame.
Despite Blake and new "bunny" Tanner attracting most girls' attention, a few sharp-eyed ones noticed the corner activity.
"What are they doing?" Chloe squinted curiously, trying to see past the human wall.
"Hey guys, move aside, let us see the shy bunny's new 'uniform'!" another girl joined the teasing.
They laughed, made noise, tried to peek through the boys' gaps like curious children wanting to see bird chicks in a nest. And Jensen, behind this fragile barrier formed by brotherhood, was frantically adjusting his new, more humiliating outfit.
That human wall of boys' bodies became a new, temporary arena at the party. Outside were curious, excited, pressing "hunters," inside was the newly skinned, re-dressed, panicked "prey."
The human wall was about to collapse when Blake moved.
He shoved the bunny-eared, posing Tanner toward those girls like feeding hungry wolves. Tanner let out a yelp, enthusiastically surrounded by girls. Then Blake jumped onto a sturdy coffee table himself.
"Hey!" he shouted, successfully drawing everyone's attention. He began wildly dancing to the music, movements full of power and wild beauty. He deliberately brought his wet body close to the table edge, letting those looking up at him touch him. This was perfect, self-sacrificial heroism—using his more dazzling light to cover that nearly extinguished star in the corner.
In the chaos, Mike finally found Jensen's missing jeans in the couch cushion cracks. He quickly handed them to Jensen.
Jensen grabbed them like a lifeline, messily putting his legs through without even feeling the rough denim rubbing against his exposed skin behind. He zipped up, fastened the button, as if this denim layer could give him armor-like protection.
Adrian watched all this, smiling with satisfaction. He walked over, naturally placing his hand on the newly dressed Jensen's shoulder, then putting his other hand on Blake, who'd just jumped down from the table, gasping.
"Alright, ladies," he announced in a host's tone, ending this farce, "bunnies need rest too. Party continues, drinks are flowing."
He pulled his two most prized "works"—one completely conquered, one willingly submissive—toward the bar, leaving behind a meaningful image: the king and his two knights, having just finished an unequal but mutually enjoyed game.
Jensen walked between them, every step feeling the existence of that jockstrap that didn't belong to him, like a permanent, sweet yet humiliating tattoo.
Adrian's arms were like iron clamps on Blake and Jensen's shoulders, leading them from the party's vortex center toward the stairs to the second floor. The music and noise downstairs were diluted by the increasing distance behind them, the stairwell echoing only their three footsteps and the sticky, beer-scented liquid dripping from their bodies. The air carried a tense, post-disaster quiet.
Jensen walked like a soulless puppet, mechanically taking steps, staring blankly at the floor. Blake tensed his jaw, chest churning with suppressed rage and humiliation.
"What the fuck was that supposed to be, Adrian?" he finally couldn't help but demand in a low, angry voice, "Why did we have to perform down there like two strippers? That's not what you said this would be!"
He felt used, treated as a tool to please the audience rather than a respected teammate. This was far from his understanding of a "morale-boosting" party.
Adrian didn't stop, just increased his arm pressure, making both Blake and Jensen grunt in pain. He brought them to a dimly lit corner of the second-floor hallway before releasing them and turning to face them. His face no longer held the party smile, only cold, emotionless scrutiny.
"Not the same?" Adrian's voice was low like a sharp ice blade, easily cutting through Blake's pathetic anger, "Then what did you imagine, Blake?"
He stepped forward aggressively, his powerful aura making Blake instinctively retreat.
"Get those girls drunk senseless, then drag them to rooms like those losers, turn this into a rape orgy party?" Adrian's words were full of contempt and venom, "You think that's what 'jocks' should do? That's what scumbags do. Look at those girls—you really think they're random prostitutes or naive bimbos looking for thrills?"
He paused, letting the words' weight settle and crash on Blake and Jensen's hearts. Jensen trembled hearing the word "rape," his face going even paler.
"Listen, Blake, use that brain of yours for something other than hockey," Adrian's voice slowed, becoming more aggressively instructive, "Nolan's dad is a plumber, Tanner's parents are struggling to sell their unprofitable vacation home. They might never get a chance to speak to a girl like Winslow—her father is a law partner for a state congressman."
He pointed downstairs as if indicating a gold mine.
"What we did tonight wasn't stripping. We were selling a dream, a dream about victory, power, and charm. In return, we got tickets to another world. For many average-income boys, connecting with any of those girls means entering life's fast track early—that's networking, understand?"
Blake was stunned speechless by these cold, realistic words—he'd never considered the problem from this angle.
"Blake, you think you were a stripper tonight?" Adrian's gaze locked on him, "No, you were a beautiful, dangerous beast in a cage. Those girls—whose fathers are judges, mothers fund managers—their lives are safe, boring, overprotected. They'd never dare go into the wild, but they crave seeing a beast's fangs up close, feeling its body heat, even daring to touch its fur."
Adrian's gaze turned to the nearly invisible Jensen at the side, his tone softening somewhat: "And you, Jensen, you were scared tonight, I know. But don't fucking think you're just some shy goalie. Look at this face," he unceremoniously pointed at Jensen's cheek, "this is an innocent face that makes people want to protect. But under this face is a hunk body. For girls, this is like catnip to cats. You weren't humiliated tonight—you became a star. Now girls won't remember you as some forgettable goalie, but as 'that shy, sexy bunny boy.'"
"And Jensen, how did it feel when Mike and the others blocked for you while you were changing?" Adrian continued pressing Jensen aggressively. This made Jensen hesitate, then stammer: "It felt... safe..."
"Exactly. We're a team, Jensen. You're not a lone wolf anymore. We'll all stand beside you when you need help, like that."
Adrian patted Jensen's shoulder, then looked at Blake again, eyes sharp as a hawk's. Adrian leaned forward, his voice becoming more seductive: "What we gave them was absolutely safe thrills. They could touch us, pour beer on us, watch us do crazy, outrageous things, then return unharmed to their million-dollar dorms, excitedly bragging to friends: 'God, the hockey team's party was fucking amazing!' We became the most exciting topic in their boring lives. We gave them fantasies—safe fantasies about sexiness and power."
He reached out, patting Blake's cheek like calming a spirited horse.
"Now let's talk about payback," Adrian's tone became colder and more practical, "Are you stupid enough to think this was all just to get you laid? Just sleeping with them is meaningless."
"Listen clearly," he held up a finger, tapping like striking a blackboard, "maybe you'll never get to date Winslow—she'll end up marrying some Yale graduate who matches her status. But two years from now, when you need summer internship experience to pad that resume with nothing but hockey, you can 'casually' mention it to her. For her, making a phone call asking her dad for a recommendation letter, getting you into their law firm's file room, is effortless."
"Jensen, maybe Betty isn't interested in you. But when you want to apply for graduate school or medical school, and her aunt happens to be on the admissions committee, an email from her saying 'I know Jensen, he's a very reliable good person' might be more useful than your perfect GPA. Because you gave her an unforgettable, braggable night!"
"You understand? We weren't strippers tonight—we were building credit! Using experiences they can never get to trade for real value in networking. So put away your pathetic self-respect—there are more valuable things here."
Finishing, he turned and opened the door to a bedroom at the hallway's end. "Get in, change out of those wet clothes. My closet has clean ones. Don't ask such stupid questions again."
Blake and Jensen numbly entered the room. Blake felt completely defeated—Adrian's logic was flawless, like a beautiful cage that trapped his pathetic anger and self-respect.
When Blake and Jensen came back downstairs, their world had completely changed. No longer a chaotic sea of hedonism, but a precisely structured hunting ground full of potential transactions. Adrian's teaching was like cold developer fluid, letting them see the real texture hidden beneath music and laughter.
Jensen no longer hid. Though wearing Adrian's jockstrap under his jeans felt strange like a secret, he sat quietly in a corner. When girls came to chat, he no longer panicked but tried clumsily, seriously to respond, eyes carrying resigned calm.
Blake actively returned to the storm center. He, Mike, Tanner and several girls gathered again, but this time's conversation content subtly shifted.
"Professor Albright's class is really torture," Betty laughed, holding a soda—obviously also entering "stay sober" social mode, "but I'm more curious how you guys make those split-second decisions on ice? Like Blake, that assist last week's game—you seemed to know Mike would be in that position before you even got the ball."
"That's muscle memory, and trust," Blake answered, his tone calm and confident, completely without previous irritation. He glanced at Mike beside him, "Mike and I have been playing on frozen ponds since we were kids. We don't need to look to feel where the other person is." As he spoke, he made a very natural movement—reaching out to casually unbutton the top two buttons of Mike's shirt, exposing his friend's solid chest and collarbone.
"Don't be nervous, Mike," Blake winked at him, using a joking tone: "Academic questions won't eat you. Breathe."
This action was incredibly smooth, both intimate and controlling. He wasn't just answering questions but actively, skillfully creating a more attractive, sexy atmosphere for his "product"—his friend, his team. He'd begun using what Adrian taught him. Mike was stunned, then understood Blake's intention, relaxing with a smile, appearing more confident and charming. The girls' eyes also flashed with appreciation.
"So who's the most underrated player on your team?" Chloe asked curiously, her gaze sweeping across everyone present.
Blake didn't rush to answer but threw the question to Tanner. "Tanner, you say it. Your observations are most acute."
He was imperceptibly sharing the spotlight with teammates, giving each a chance to showcase themselves. This subtle change marked his transformation from a passive performer to an active controller.
Above it all, on the balcony, Adrian stood like a monarch overlooking his kingdom, quietly watching everything happening inside. The night breeze dispersed the alcohol smell from his body and cooled his overheated brain.
The glass door gently opened. Winslow came out carrying two glasses of whiskey, handing him one. She'd also put her clothes back on, returning to that elegant, confident image.
"Your boys," she leaned against the railing, sipping her drink, her voice carrying a hint of amusement, "after tonight, will become hot topics among all the campus girls."
"That's the minimum return I wanted," Adrian said. He didn't look at her, his gaze still locked on Blake inside. They were fuck buddies, a relationship based on mutual attraction and benefit exchange that both understood. They both knew this relationship had no future. Adrian's ambition and ability were already privileges for ordinary boys, but facing the vast family network of generations of lawyers, doctors, and bankers behind Winslow, he still seemed somewhat... "inadequate."
"Don't say that," Winslow seemed to see through his thoughts, chuckling, "someone's already asking about Blake's major, whether his GPA is high. She seems to think a man who's both physically gifted and mentally sharp would be perfect 'counter-example' to her Ivy League cousin who just coasts."
Adrian's lips curved in a barely visible arc.
"Also," Charlotte continued, turning to look at Adrian's profile, "my naive friend Avery, one of those surrounding your little goalie earlier. She just texted asking if Jensen has summer plans. Her dad has a summer job at the golf club for college students—easy work, good money. She says Jensen looks like he 'really needs taking care of.'"
Adrian finally turned to look at Winslow. This was exactly the result he wanted, even faster than expected. Recommendation letters, internships, summer jobs... these were effortless acts of kindness for them, but life-changing things for his boys.
"Looks like tonight was a successful party," Adrian raised his glass.
"For me too," Charlotte clinked glasses with him, making a crisp sound. She looked at Adrian, eyes bold and direct, "tonight you and those two little bunnies... inspired some ideas in me."
Adrian drained his glass, the spicy liquid sliding down his throat. He looked at the glowing empire embryo downstairs that belonged to him, then turned back, showing a predator's emotionless smile.
"My pleasure," he said.
Adrian leaned against the cold railing, Chloe's warm body pressed against him, but his attention had long since penetrated the glass door, returning to that carefully arranged ecosystem inside belonging to him. He saw Blake imperceptibly dominating the freshman social circle, saw Jensen still somewhat reserved but no longer the transparent invisible man.
His gaze continued surveying, passing those still laughing core members, finally stopping at the room's other end, a quieter, more restrained corner.
That was Eric's "little kingdom."
Eric Morris, like a silent black granite sculpture, leaned against the bookshelf. Around him gathered several backup teammates who also didn't belong to the mainstream white circle. There was sophomore forward Jamal, a black boy with excellent physical abilities but slightly weak tactical awareness who always carried barely concealed restlessness from too little playing time; there was Asian-mixed defender Nurlan, a compact, sharp-eyed kid from a Central Asian immigrant family—Adrian wasn't clear whether he came from Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, or Russia, but Nurlan was quiet like a grassland wolf ready to strike, showing his potential; and there was Onas, a defenseman with indigenous heritage.
They weren't flirting with girls or loudly discussing professors. They spoke in low voices about hockey, about proving themselves in limited playing time. For them, Eric wasn't just a starter—he was their lighthouse and role model.
Adrian quietly observed this small group. This was a crucial component in his blueprint—stable, loyal, and full of hunger for success. He needed them.
Winslow whispered something in his ear, then left an emotionless kiss on his cheek before turning back to the indoor crowd. Adrian didn't move. He lifted his wrist, checking the Richard Mille. This luxury watch was purchased by his parents with part of the education fund originally saved for Adrian after he got his D1 scholarship, as an investment in their son's social aspects.
Twelve-thirty, about time.
The party had achieved its purpose. Networks were established, fantasies were sold, hierarchies were confirmed. Continuing would only turn this carefully planned social activity into a messy situation full of potential risks. He absolutely wouldn't allow any accidental incidents to taint tonight's perfect results. Any potential private matters between boys and girls should happen on their own turf, in a more private, controllable way, not under his watch.
He made an almost imperceptible chin-lifting gesture toward Eric.
Eric saw Adrian, who'd been the party king, now alone on the balcony looking at the indoor lights through the window. Eric nodded to those kids who looked up to him and left them, walking straight toward Adrian like an icebreaker.
"What's with drinking alone here? Where's Winslow, did you get dumped?"
"How could that be? She just said she's coming to my room tonight."
Adrian chuckled lightly, swirling his glass.
"Wow, you tell us to be gentlemen to girls, then you go accept the queen's favor yourself," Eric lounged against the railing, using his deep voice to sound exaggeratedly dramatic. Adrian playfully kicked his calf in response.
"Charlotte and I aren't exactly first-time bedmates."
"Then tonight I can only sleep in Tanner's bed," Eric said, making Adrian find it absurdly funny, and both men laughed heartily. After the laughter hung in the air briefly, Adrian's slightly drunk eyes became sharp.
"Eric, you really won't come with me? I know your draft position wasn't great, but if we win the championship next year, some teams will want to talk to you."
"Adrian, my talent ends here, you know that," party lights painted Eric's skin as a black canvas, constantly rendering colors. Eric's eyes were unusually bright in the changing light.
"You could be an enforcer—you can skate, you're strong enough to fight, audiences would cheer for you."
"Bullshit," Eric laughed, treating Adrian's suggestion as a joke. "If we're talking about who can fight here, that's you, Adrian. You were a star in high school not just in hockey but wrestling too, right? Hmm... maybe Blake too."
"Ha, you noticed too. That kid definitely has training," Adrian took another sip, saying: "So what are your plans after graduation? Your GPA's decent too."
"Sports management—if an athlete can't get good grades majoring in that, then I'm a hopeless idiot," Eric paused, seeing Adrian still waiting for his response: "Maybe Brennan will keep me as assistant coach."
"Hey, that's a good idea. Brennan definitely likes you—you're calm and disciplined. But really not considering it? Being an enforcer?"
"You overestimate me. I just go to the boxing gym with my brother sometimes."
"Brother? The white one or the black one?"
"Adrian, even you can't joke about my family," Eric smiled with warning, unclear how much was joking versus serious. "I have a great relationship with my stepfather and his sons. He loves my mom and me. My brother with no blood relation and I go to the boxing gym together, while my little brother doesn't like this stuff."
"Hey, I still remember the fraternity recruiter asking 'where's Morris's brother?' and your expression when you stood up."
"Yeah, I remember too. Quite memorable."
The two men laughed again. After the laughter subsided, Adrian checked his wrist watch again.
"Time's up," Adrian said concisely.
"Got it," Eric's voice was low and reliable.
"Start with the ladies," Adrian instructed like a CEO giving orders to department heads, "make sure they all get their coats, call cars. Give everyone getting in a bottle of water. I want them leaving safely, respectably, with perfect impressions of tonight."
"Then what?"
"Then clean up our people. I don't want to see anyone passed out on couches tomorrow morning or creating situations I don't want to handle in some room," Adrian's eyes became sharp, "tonight was an investment, not a bacchanal. Don't let investment become liability."
"Understood," Eric nodded without unnecessary words. He was Adrian's will's perfect executor.
He turned back inside, without shouting, just walked to the sound system and lowered the music volume by two-thirds.
This action was more effective than any words. The party's heat wave seemed instantly drained of part of its intensity.
"Alright, ladies," Eric's voice wasn't loud but clearly reached every corner, "party's about wrapping up. Who needs help calling rides?"
His presence and words were like an elegant but firm period, ending this crazy night. Though girls felt somewhat unsatisfied, no one would challenge Eric's expressionless face. The boys also wisely stopped their horseplay.
A carefully planned feast full of desire, power, and transactions was being safely, orderly shut down with equally careful planning. The king on his balcony watched his general efficiently clean the battlefield with satisfaction.
The party downstairs was being systematically dismantled under its host's invisible will like stage sets efficiently removed after a play's curtain call. Girls left with satisfied smiles and alcohol on their breath, most boys were also persuaded to leave, and the noise gradually receded.
Adrian stood on the balcony, taking a final sip of whiskey, ice already melted, liquid somewhat tepid. He watched the tamed world below, then turned to see Winslow leaning against the doorframe, eyes carrying clear invitation. Time for the night's next phase.
He pulled his Macan keys from his pocket, casually tossing them toward Eric, who was directing final cleanup. The keys traced a perfect arc through the air.
"Eric," his voice rang in the nearly empty room, "bring my car around back."
Eric effortlessly caught the keys one-handed, the keyring's metal collision making a crisp sound.
Adrian leaned against the railing, making a joke only they understood: "Be gentle—my car payments aren't done yet."
Eric's mouth twitched in a rare, nearly invisible smile, nodding. He turned toward the main door, night wind blowing through the open entrance with a hint of coolness. He glanced at a jacket hanging on a nearby rack—Adrian's, an almost-new flight jacket he'd worn earlier that evening. Without thinking, Eric casually threw the jacket over his broad shoulders, a behavior belonging to close friends.
He walked into the night.
The fraternity house parking lot was the edge of this carefully groomed world. Lighting here was poor—several old sodium lamps struggled to shine, casting large patches of ink-black shadows and sickly yellow light spots. The air was thick with dew's dampness and fermented beer smell from garbage bins.
A dark, unlicensed van crouched like a dormant beast in the darkest corner, side door ajar.
Inside, Marcus, Colton, and Terry—whose eyes always carried sick malice—waited breathlessly. They'd already gotten intelligence from a marginalized teammate that Adrian would be taking the cheerleader back to his apartment tonight. This was their trap, tailor-made for the king.
Footsteps approached from far to near.
Marcus peered through the window crack. A figure emerged from the fraternity's lights into the parking lot's dim domain.
They saw everything they wanted to see: a tall, strong athletic silhouette belonging to a top-tier athlete; confident, steady steps belonging to someone in power; most crucially, that recognizable, iconic flight jacket.
In such mottled light and shadow, skin color was an abstract concept swallowed by darkness. Here was just a moving figure matching all their expectations, the perfect target.
The figure raised his hand, pressing the car key. Nearby, a black Porsche Cayenne's lights flashed twice with an unlocking "beep."
It was him. Colton's eyes flashed with cruel excitement. Marcus made a cold gesture.
Move.
In the second before Eric opened the car door, his keen instincts finally sensed danger. Air flow changed—he heard suppressed, rapid footsteps behind him.
He spun around, but too late. Three black shadows pounced from different directions. No shouting, just pure, targeted violence. Terry kneed his leg bend from the side while Colton used a cloth-wrapped short rod to strike his neck.
"Thud!"
That dull, teeth-grinding sound of flesh and bone collision. Eric's vision went black, intense pain making him instantly lose balance, but his beast-like instincts still let him swing a punch, hitting an attacker's face squarely. But it was futile struggle.
Marcus locked his arms from behind. Next second, a rough, hemp-scented black hood was yanked over his head, stripping away all vision and sense of direction.
He didn't even get to let out a complete shout before being roughly shoved into the van's cold floor by multiple hands.
**TBC**
