"Oh God, it's hard to believe this isn't our room anymore." Mike opened the door and looked at the room, sighing involuntarily. "Blake, do you remember the days we spent here?"
Blake nodded: "I remember. Every single day."
Blake walked into the room, his fingers gently brushing over the bed frame by the window—the one he'd slept in last summer.
That summer, when he woke up every morning, the first thing he saw was the sunlight through the window and Mike still fast asleep. Back then, they were just two high school graduates full of dreams about college, not knowing what they would face.
"I didn't even know Adrian found us this room, taking care of us before we were even members." Mike started making the bed, but soon seemed to notice a problem: "We didn't bring clothes, right? I mean, these are someone else's beds—"
Mike suddenly leaned close to Blake and sniffed, continuing: "We both reek of alcohol."
"Just one night," Blake paused and corrected himself: "Two nights. Don't you have clothes in the locker room?"
"I'm not Adrian, leaving my clothes there would piss off the laundry staff." Mike rolled his eyes.
"Then wear the team jerseys. We'll change in the morning. It's just one night."
"You mean we're going to lie naked in someone else's bed?"
Blake hadn't expected Mike's thoughts to jump around so much, but it seemed they really had no other choice.
"Hey, during the summer, didn't we sleep naked in these two beds?"
"But Blake, these are someone else's beds now, with someone else's stuff left behind—"
Mike laughed oddly as he picked up a hair from the bed. Blake couldn't help but laugh too. He grabbed a pillow and swatted Mike's head, telling Mike to go shower. Soon the two were lying naked in bed. Mike had been hesitant about using someone else's blankets, but after Blake said "Haven't you ever stayed in a hotel?" he seemed to accept it.
Only an old lamp on the wall cast a soft glow in the room. The two lay quietly in their respective beds, facing each other, just like they had done half a year ago that summer. Back then, they would talk about the NHL draft, the future, all their fantasies about college life.
"Feels like we're back to last summer," Mike murmured, breaking the silence. "Remember when we first moved into this room? You said it was better than anywhere in your shitty hometown."
Blake stared at the ceiling, a slight smile on his lips: "I said that?"
"You did. You also said it was the first time you had a place that truly belonged to you." Mike paused. "Back then, we thought we could conquer the world. Now..." He smiled bitterly. "Now the world feels a hell of a lot more complicated."
"That summer," Blake broke in, "was the first time in my life I felt... I might actually have a future."
Mike scoffed: "Are you kidding? Of course you have a future. Or are you saying your future only exists in Beverly Hills?"
"Fuck off!" Blake smiled bitterly: "That's because you don't know what I was like back then..."
He stopped. He couldn't tell Mike those things—what he did to survive. A sudden silence hung between them.
"I want to talk about Ruth." Mike spoke up, though his tone still suggested hesitation.
Blake's body visibly stiffened. "Mike..."
"Let me finish," Mike interrupted. "I know you don't want to talk about this. But Blake, she really cares about you."
Blake closed his eyes: "She shouldn't waste any more time on me."
"Why?" Mike sounded genuinely confused. "You two seemed so perfect together. She's beautiful, kind, from a good family. You're the most compatible couple I've ever seen. Why did you suddenly just..."
"Because I don't deserve her," Blake declared, his voice quiet but firm.
Mike froze: "What?"
Blake opened his eyes, turning to look at Mike. The streetlight outside made his face look pale: "Do you know what kind of person Ruth is? She's pure, kind, believes in the goodness of humanity. When she took me to her house, her mother asked about my family, my future plans. They looked at me with complete trust, thinking I was a good boy worth investing in."
"You are." Mike said.
Blake smiled bitterly: "I'm not, Mike. I never was."
"Blake, what are you saying? You never told me why you broke up. You say you don't deserve her, but what does that mean? You're a big guy, handsome, an athlete, smart, and you always help others, can't stand people who do bad things, and you're the most talented player I've ever seen. Who's more deserving of Ruth than you?"
"I—" Blake fell silent. He looked at the ceiling. There were too many things he couldn't tell Mike—what he did on some of those nights out, what he did in those penthouse hotel suites.
"Hey, Blake," Mike whispered. "I know you have secrets. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Whatever you've been through, you're still my best friend, my most reliable teammate."
Blake's throat tightened.
"But," Mike continued, "about Ruth... aren't you going to explain things to her? Even if you don't tell her specifics, at least let her know the breakup wasn't her fault?"
Blake thought for a long time: "I... I don't know what to say to her. And if you like her, Mike, I won't stop you. She deserves someone who's truly good."
"Fuck you," Mike burst out, but there was no malice in his tone, just complex emotion. "I sat in the library chatting with her, and half the time we were basically talking about you, about hockey. The whole time I was telling her you're doing fine, just busy with training. I made excuses for you, explained why you weren't returning her messages. I even said you just need time, maybe you two still have a chance..." He paused. "We talked for nearly an entire afternoon. I never thought I'd talk that long."
Blake looked straight at Mike. Mike wasn't looking at him, but covering his eyes with his arm: "Talking to her is really comfortable. Ruth has faith, but nothing pushy about her. She genuinely cares about you." He paused. "Blake, I enjoy talking about you. You're the friend I'm most proud of. Ruth knows way more about hockey than I expected. She basically learned it all to understand your games, but now she feels like she's become a hockey fan herself."
Blake's throat tightened: "Mike..."
Mike finally turned to look at him: "I enjoy talking about you, and I enjoy chatting with Ruth. I want you two to be happy together. But if you're going to break up, I still hope to keep seeing Ruth and chatting with her anywhere. I... I can't bear to disappoint her. And also because..." He paused for a long time. "Also because I don't fucking know what I'm thinking myself."
The air in the room grew heavy.
"That night when I got back to the dorm," Mike went on, "I was thinking, if you're really not going back, if she really needs to move forward... should I..." He shook his head. "But that feels too fucked up. She's your ex-girlfriend. She's waiting for you, Blake!"
Ruth's smiling face and red hair burst into Blake's mind—so gentle, like morning mist dissolving in sunlight. Ruth's voice, her smooth skin, the touch of her lips—then the memory shattered like a dropped glass. Blake felt himself fumbling in the darkness to pick up the pieces, and then someone grabbed his hand—it was Ethan.
The emotions in his heart were gradually occupied by Ethan. Blake hadn't forgotten Ruth's warmth, but Ethan was different. In their cramped dorm room, when he exposed his unspeakable shame completely bare, that sense of liberation filled Blake's heart.
It was time to put a period on it.
"She shouldn't wait for me," Blake said, with quiet conviction.
"Why?"
"I... I don't know how to say it, but Mike, you're so much better than you think. I don't care if you want to date Ruth. She and I have broken up. If people want to gossip about our relationship, let them. You're my best friend! And, and you can definitely bring Ruth more happiness than I can."
With a small grunt, Mike let out a soft laugh: "I'm not sure what I really think about Ruth... and maybe I just like what she represents—stability, normalcy, not so many complicated things. Maybe I'm just jealous of what you once had..."
"Mike, don't put yourself down like that."
The two fell quiet again for a while.
"That summer," Blake interjected, "living in this room, training with you, talking with you... back then I had almost escaped from hell. Life here was like climbing to the top of Mount Purgatory and seeing Eden. Real life."
"Blake, that's not how the Bible goes."
"I know."
Blake replied gently. Mike didn't understand what Blake was saying, but Blake didn't care.
"Well, I remember you saying you're not religious, that sacraments and holidays are just traditions to you," after a quiet complaint, Mike's throat tightened as he spoke: "But you'll always have a future, Blake. No matter what happened."
"I hope you're right," Blake murmured.
Outside the window, the campus lights still flickered, just like every night last summer. But this time, both boys carried their own secrets and confusion—Blake's unspeakable past, Mike's tangled feelings.
"Blake?" Mike said in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"No matter what happens, I'll support you. You know that, right?"
Blake's lips finally formed a genuine smile: "I know. Thank you, Mike. I'll support all your decisions too, including things with Ruth."
"Well, brothers are for supporting each other," Mike said. "Now let's sleep. Our battle isn't over yet."
"Yeah, goodnight."
"Goodnight, Blake."
However, the silence before sleep only lasted a few minutes. Soon Blake noticed movement from Mike's bed. Mike's legs began to move restlessly—first slight trembling, then more obvious tossing and turning.
Blake knew why. They'd both experienced this kind of adrenaline spike tonight—training, games, or crises like tonight. The body stays excited for a long time, even when the brain says it's time to relax.
"What's wrong?" Blake asked, his voice tinged with amusement.
Mike sighed, somewhat embarrassed: "Fuck, I... I can't calm down. Tonight was like a damn movie. Surrounded by girls at the party, then the rescue operation, and..." He paused. "My brain keeps spinning, and my body too."
Blake chuckled: "Your body too?"
"Don't play dumb," Mike's tone hinted at embarrassment. "I know you know what I'm talking about. The adrenaline won't go down, and then..." He paused. "Then I'm fucking hard as hell, but I'm not thinking about anything. I just lie down and I'm hard."
Blake rolled over in the darkness to face Mike: "Mike, we're twenty-year-old athletes. This is normal."
"I know, but..." Mike sounded frustrated. "But we're sleeping in someone else's beds, naked, and you're right next to me..."
Blake couldn't help but laugh: "Oh fuck, Mike. Do you remember last summer? We lived in this room for almost two months."
"I remember..." Mike's voice got smaller.
"It's not like we haven't caught each other jerking off," Blake said bluntly. "And there was that beach party with those two girls..."
"Don't bring up that night," Mike said quickly, but his voice carried a trace of embarrassed laughter.
"Why not?" Blake sat up, leaning against the headboard. "We both saw each other with girls. You were over there giving me hand signals saying 'she swallows.'"
Mike couldn't help but laugh: "Fuck, that was because you looked like you needed encouragement."
"I didn't need encouragement, I needed you to stop fucking staring," Blake said, but his tone was joking.
"You were staring at me too!" Mike shot back.
"That's because you were too damn loud, the whole beach could hear you," Blake said. "'Oh yeah baby, just like that'—dude, you sounded like a porn star."
Both of them burst out laughing, the tension breaking.
"So," Blake said, his tone more casual, "don't pretend, Mike. This isn't the first time we've shared a room."
Mike was silent for a few seconds, then said quietly: "Still feels a bit... weird."
"Weird how?" Blake asked. "We're both adults with needs. And tonight was intense enough." He paused. "If you're uncomfortable, I can go to the bathroom."
"No... no need," Mike said quickly. "Just... forget it."
Blake heard Mike moving, then the glow of his phone screen lighting up.
"What are you doing?" Blake asked.
"I... I'm watching videos," Mike's voice was nervous. "Porn."
Blake chuckled: "Alright then. Go ahead and take care of it. Don't hold back."
"You don't mind?" Mike asked.
"Mike, we've already seen each other's dicks."
A few more seconds of silence, then Blake heard the sound of a zipper.
"Fuck," Mike said softly. "This still feels fucking weird."
"You'll get used to it," Blake said, rolling over with his back to Mike, giving him some psychological privacy. "Just keep it down. I want to sleep."
"Fuck off," Mike said quietly, but with laughter in his tone.
The room fell quiet for a while, only the low moans from Mike's phone—clearly he'd turned the volume way down. Then there was the rhythmic, soft sound of friction.
Blake closed his eyes, trying not to notice, but his body was starting to react too. Tonight really had been too intense—Adrian's injured face, Eric's trauma, the violence in that warehouse, the conversation about Ruth... and the call to Ethan. All the adrenaline hadn't fully dissipated yet.
"Fuck," Mike suddenly whispered. "Blake... are you asleep?"
"Not yet," Blake said. "What's up?"
"This video... damn, this girl looks a bit like Ruth," Mike's voice held a trace of guilt.
Blake opened his eyes, staring at the wall: "Then don't watch it."
"I... I tried to switch to another one," Mike said. "But... fuck, I keep thinking about her."
Blake was silent for a few seconds, then said: "Mike, if you like her, you like her. Don't suppress yourself because of me."
"It's not because of you..." Mike paused. "Okay, maybe a little. But more that... I'm not sure if this is really liking her, or just... you know, hormones."
"Right now it's obviously hormones," Blake said dryly. "I can hear you jerking off."
"Fuck you," Mike said quietly, but couldn't help laughing.
A few more minutes of quiet, just those low, rhythmic sounds.
"Blake?" Mike spoke again, his voice tight.
"What?"
"Thanks," Mike said. "Thanks for... you know. Not judging me."
"We're brothers," Blake said simply. "Brothers don't need that formality."
"Right," Mike's tone became more relaxed. "Brothers."
Then the room fell quiet again, leaving only Mike's attempts to suppress his breathing and the faint moans from the phone. Blake stared at the wall, feeling the hardness in his own pants, but he didn't move.
This wasn't about sex or desire. This was just two young athletes trying to release pressure in the most primitive way after a long, chaotic night.
Everything was normal. Everything was just the understanding between brothers.
At least that's what Blake told himself.
"I still feel... kind of weird," Mike said, but his fingers were already sliding across the screen, clearly looking for some website.
"I said it's fine," Blake said, still with his back to him.
"Wait," Mike suddenly said, his tone tinged with playfulness. "Blake, stop fucking pretending."
"What?" Blake turned his head.
Mike lifted his chin, gesturing at Blake's sheets: "Your sheets are tenting up, bro. You're obviously hard too."
Blake looked down at the obvious bulge under his athletic pants, then cursed: "Fuck."
"So," Mike said, a somewhat awkward but challenging smile on his face, "why should I be the only one embarrassed? How about... we both take care of it? Just like last summer."
Blake froze for a moment: "You sure?"
"We're both hard anyway," Mike shrugged. "And it feels more fucking awkward with me jerking off alone while you're listening. Might as well do it together. Fair."
Blake was silent for a few seconds, then shook his head with a bitter smile: "Alright. You win."
Almost simultaneously, both sat up, sheets sliding off their bodies. Blake revealed his well-defined chest and abs from training. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the curtains onto his skin, making the muscle contours even more pronounced. His shoulders were broad, trapezius muscles bulging from years of training, collarbones deeply defined.
Mike's physique was similar to Blake's—typical hockey player build. His chest was a bit thinner, nipples slightly erect from the cold air. His abs weren't as defined as Blake's, but you could still see six clear blocks. Both had that V-line characteristic of young athletes, disappearing beneath their waistbands.
Blake's penis was fully erect. Mike's was slightly longer but thinner than Blake's, the head a deep pink, the entire shaft curving slightly upward.
The two made eye contact, then both burst out laughing.
"This is fucking ridiculous," Mike said, but his hand was already gripping his penis.
"Yeah," Blake also gripped his own. "But we've seen each other's before anyway."
Mike opened his phone, searched for a porn site, and placed the phone on the nightstand between the two beds so both could see the screen. The video started playing—a blonde girl with two men on a bed.
Both began slowly stroking their penises, their movements a bit stiff.
"This... this is still kind of weird," Mike said, eyes on the screen but peripheral vision catching Blake's movements.
"Don't overthink it," Blake said, though his voice was also nervous.
Just then, Mike's gaze fell on a small bottle on the nightstand.
"Wait," Mike stopped, reaching for the bottle. "This is..."
Blake looked over, recognizing it as a bottle of lubricant.
"Fuck," Mike laughed. "The owner of this room is pretty... direct."
Blake couldn't help but laugh too: "Just sitting right there on the nightstand."
"What do you think they usually do in here?" Mike asked, his voice curious and with a mischievous smile.
"Obviously not just sleeping," Blake said.
"You think... they use it themselves, or..." Mike raised an eyebrow. "Bring girls back to use it?"
Blake shrugged: "Who knows. Maybe they use it together."
"Together?" Mike froze for a moment, then understood what Blake meant. "Fuck, you mean they might have threesomes?"
"This is a fraternity, Mike," Blake reminded him. "Anything could happen."
Mike looked at the lube bottle, thoughtful: "So... should we use it?"
"Use someone else's stuff?" Blake hesitated.
"But... I mean, they just left it here, like they don't mind," Mike said. "And... fuck, we could use some lube..."
Blake looked at Mike, then laughed: "Alright. It's already ridiculous enough anyway."
Mike squeezed some onto his palm, the transparent liquid glistening. He applied it to his penis, and the six-plus inches immediately became slick and shiny. Blake took the bottle and squeezed some out too, applying it to his cock. The cold sensation made him gasp, but it quickly became warm and smooth.
"Much better," Mike resumed stroking, his eyes on the phone screen.
In the video, the girl was riding a man, her moans coming from the speaker.
"She... she looks kind of like Ruth," Mike suddenly said, his voice tight.
Blake looked at him sideways: "You're still thinking about Ruth?"
"I... I'm just saying she looks like her..." Mike defended himself.
"Fine," Blake's tone carried a trace of challenge. "But don't pretend to be some 'pure good boy' in front of me, Mike. You're not a virgin."
Mike's face reddened: "I'm not pretending..."
"Not pretending?" Blake scoffed. "Tonight at the party, what were you telling those girls? 'Traditional values,' 'abstinence before marriage'? Fuck, last summer at the beach when you were banging that girl you weren't so particular."
"That... that was different..." Mike said, but his voice was clearly guilty.
"How is it different?" Blake continued challenging, his hand not stopping. "You were the one who took off her pants first. Remember? You said 'baby, let me see how wet you are.'"
"Fuck you, Blake!" Mike's face burned redder. "You weren't any better! That girl on your side was nearly crying from you fucking her!"
"At least I didn't pretend to be some chastity knight," Blake said.
Mike was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed: "Okay, you win."
"Not just a bit," Blake said, but his tone lightened.
Both continued stroking, the wet sounds of the lube mixing with the moans from the video. Mike's breathing grew heavier, his six-inch penis rapidly sliding through his fist, the tip constantly oozing clear fluid. Blake's rhythm was slower; his thicker cock needed a firmer grip to fully encompass it.
"Do you think Ruth... would she accept premarital sex?" Mike suddenly asked, eyes still on the screen.
Blake's hand paused: "Why are you asking that?"
"Just... if I actually pursue her..." Mike's voice was uncertain.
"She would," Blake said briefly. "She's not that rigid."
"But her family is very traditional..."
"Family being traditional doesn't mean she is," Blake said. "Trust me, Mike. She's very... open. With the right person."
Mike's breathing grew more rapid: "Fuck..."
Blake could feel the atmosphere becoming more tense. His gaze unconsciously fell on Mike—that muscular chest rising and falling with his breath, sweat beginning to gather on his lower abdomen, sliding down the muscle contours. Mike's hand gripped his penis, stroking rapidly, the image having a kind of primal allure.
Blake shook his head hard. No, he shouldn't think like that. Mike was straight, his best friend. This was just normal between brothers...
"What about you?" Mike suddenly asked, interrupting Blake's thoughts.
"What?"
"When was your best time?" Mike asked, his face wearing that expression of boys sharing secrets.
Blake thought about it, deciding to tell the truth—at least partial truth: "One time Ruth was riding me. She was really tight, every time she moved she'd clench me. Her breasts were bouncing in front of me, I could hear every gasp." He paused. "Finally she was crying and begging me to cum inside her."
"Fuck," Mike's hand moved faster. "Did you?"
"Uh, that day was her safe period," Blake said. "We happened to be out of condoms too, so we... fuck, that's a perverted question!"
Mike looked a bit embarrassed and turned his face away. His own penis was now hard and red, constantly oozing precum.
"What about the beach?" Blake asked. "Was that your best time?"
"Maybe," Mike admitted. "Doing it in the water was fucking difficult, but... that thrill. People around us, we had to stay quiet, but she kept moaning in my ear."
Both continued their own stroking, the room filled only with the wet sounds of lube and suppressed panting. Blake could feel the climax approaching, his lower abdomen beginning to tighten. He glanced at Mike—Mike's body was already trembling, muscles tensed, face flushed red.
"I... I'm close..." Mike said quietly.
"Me too," Blake responded, speeding up the rhythm of his hand. His thick penis slid through his fist, the head oozing more fluid each time it emerged.
Mike reached the threshold first. His body suddenly stiffened, a suppressed moan escaping his throat, then white semen shot from the tip of his penis, the first spurt shooting far and landing on his chest, subsequent spurts landing on his lower abdomen, flowing down the grooves of his abs.
Seeing Mike ejaculate, Blake couldn't control himself either. He clenched his teeth, feeling that hot rush break through the last barrier. Because of its thickness, his semen shot even more forcefully, thick white fluid splashing on his hand, his lower abdomen, even a few drops falling on the sheets.
Both collapsed onto their respective beds, breathing heavily.
"Fuck," Mike finally said. "This is too... this is too fucking ridiculous."
"Yeah," Blake agreed, staring at the ceiling.
His heartbeat hadn't fully calmed down yet, not just because of the climax just now, but because of that secret deep in his heart that he didn't dare admit—
"I'll get tissues," Mike said, getting up and walking to the bathroom, his naked body glistening in the moonlight.
Blake watched his back—broad shoulders, firm buttocks, the long legs characteristic of athletes. Then he closed his eyes, telling himself this was just normal observation, like seeing teammates in the locker room.
It didn't mean anything.
At least, he hoped it didn't mean anything. He would hate for people to think he had desire for Mike. This was just appreciation.
When Mike came back with a roll of tissues, he tossed some to Blake. The two silently cleaned themselves, then lay back in bed.
"Goodnight," Mike said, his voice tired.
"Goodnight," Blake responded.
Darkness descended again. Blake lay in bed, eyes open, watching the faint light and shadow on the ceiling. Occasionally a car passed outside, lights briefly sweeping through the room, then disappearing.
He thought about Ruth, about Mike, about those secrets he couldn't speak.
If Mike knew the truth—knew Blake wasn't exclusively straight, knew about Blake and Ethan, knew what Blake had done in the past—would he still mess around with Blake like tonight?
So Blake could only keep these secrets.
In the darkness, Blake finally closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.
Tomorrow there would be more battles to fight. Tonight's events... let them be as if they never happened.
Deep into the night, only two beds and freshly wiped floors remained in the room, the air still carrying the faint salty residue of semen and sweat mixed together. Blake lay on the bed by the window, the dim hallway light filtering through curtain gaps casting mottled shadows. They'd just confirmed they hadn't soiled the furniture, but neither dared be certain whether the room's owner could detect this unique scent upon returning to campus.
In his mind, Blake's thoughts ran wild like untamed horses, galloping toward the past few days. Ruth's shadow weighed heavier. Blake saw himself in Ruth's soft embrace, her warmth like summer afternoon sunlight. He was no longer the highly anticipated rookie, but that small-town boy longing to be loved, to be accepted. She kissed his lips, caressed his chest, softly said "I love you," letting him briefly forget his filthy past: the sordid hotel transactions, his father's rejection. He once thought Ruth could bring him real security, but feared he wasn't worthy of her purity, so chose to break up. Looking back now, it was his most pathetic escape.
And Ethan—his other secret. On the phone, Ethan's angry, jealous roar—Blake heard it clearly. Ethan viciously humiliated him, yet his tongue burned hot, breath rapid. Blake knew this was an intimate relationship sharing darkness: dirty desire and the trust behind desire sprouting between them, both sinful and sweet.
He rolled over, face against the pillow, rubbing his lower abdomen. Tonight's secrets, desires, jealousy, and escapes all surged forth—yet ultimately everything transformed into pristine ice. Games, rinks, cheers. The battle wasn't over, the filth didn't matter. Blake's dream wasn't finished. Harboring desire for the ice and victory, Blake fell into deep sleep.
Daytime, the third-floor café in the student center was a forgotten corner, far from the bustle of the main Starbucks below. The air smelled of over-extracted coffee and fresh pastries, with soft jazz humming from hidden speakers. A handful of grad students guarded their laptops in the corners, oblivious to the world. Adrian had chosen this place on purpose—no teammates, no eavesdroppers, just enough ambient noise to cover a tense conversation.
He sat at a window table facing the door, a steaming black coffee in front of him, untouched. A faint bruise shaded his left cheekbone, partially covered with concealer, but visible enough to sell last night’s Instagram Live “assault recovery” narrative. He wore a well-made polo and chinos, the fitted polo tracing his solid muscle lines.
Marcus arrived on time, his wary eyes sweeping the room. He saw Adrian, nodded, and came over without a word. No one noticed them. He slid into the seat opposite, his team jacket zipped halfway, a T-shirt showing beneath.
“Coffee?” Adrian pushed the second cup over—plain Americano, black, no sugar. A calculated gesture, neutral ground.
Marcus ignored it, leaned back, arms crossed. His lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. “Still so polite, Captain. After last night, you’re really playing house?”
Adrian met his gaze steadily, eyes unblinking. “Basic courtesy, Marcus. Like us sitting here, talking like adults instead of letting this escalate.”
“Adults,” Marcus echoed, voice low enough to melt into the jazz, but barbed. He glanced around—no one close enough to hear—then leaned in. “Funny word, coming from a guy who was inside his own teammate twelve hours ago.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened a fraction, but his expression stayed even. He knew Marcus was probing, searching for cracks. “We both know what happened last night. The question is what comes next.”
“What’s next?” Marcus’s smile deepened, sarcasm dripping. “What’s next depends on you, Adrian. Those videos are still on my phone—your little ‘brotherly bonding’ with Eric. Crystal clear. I can drop them anywhere. Reddit threads, anonymous campus forums, even feed them to that sports blogger who keeps hyping your team. Imagine the headline: ‘Hockey Captain’s Secret Playbook—Off the Ice.’”
Adrian took a sip of coffee, buying a second to compose himself. Heat surged in his chest, but he kept it leashed. “Blackmail only works while it stays unspoken, Marcus. You send them out, and your leverage evaporates. Poof.”
“Maybe,” Marcus conceded, now a whisper, malice in his eyes. “But think about the fallout. You and Eric won’t be expelled—not outright. Schools aren’t that binary. But this season? Done. Your precious regionals run? Forget it. And you, Mr. NHL Golden Boy… scouts don’t touch scandals. Victim or not, that footage sticks. Sponsors pull back, agents ghost you. Your whole ‘future star’ narrative collapses.”
Adrian set the cup down carefully, fingers steady. Marcus was right, and they both knew it. Exposure meant investigations, whispers in the locker room, questions Coach Brennan didn’t want. Eric would be shredded by rumors that attacked his manhood. And Adrian’s pro dream? Tarnished at best, derailed at worst.
Worse, Marcus could edit the clips. Cut out the ropes, the threats, the coercion. Leave only the raw explicit acts: Adrian on top of Eric, grunts, release—pure sex scandal.
“You’re enjoying this,” Adrian said flatly, not a question.
Marcus shrugged, voice still low. “A little. Watching the unbreakable Adrian Whitmore squirm? Priceless. And Eric—poor, innocent Eric. The way he took you, Captain? Like he was made for it. Begging without words, flushed and desperate. Bet that haunts your dreams.”
“Shut up,” Adrian growled under his breath, steel under the restraint. A glance around—still no ears nearby—but the words hit like punches. Eric’s fragility last night, the trust they’d built over years, twisted into this. Adrian’s fist tightened under the table. “This isn’t about humiliation. It’s about control. What do you want?”
Marcus paused, savoring the moment. He wasn’t rushing; he knew Adrian was cornered. “Smart question. Last night’s Live was a masterstroke, I’ll give you that. ‘We got jumped, but we’re tough, we’ll play Friday.’ Sympathy points everywhere. Campus buzzing about your ‘resilience.’ But it complicated things for me.”
Adrian’s brow creased slightly. He hadn’t expected that angle.
“How complicated?” Adrian asked, keeping his tone level.
Marcus leaned closer, breath almost audible over the music. “Let’s put it this way. I had arrangements that depended on a specific… outcome, and your PR trick cost me.” He let the words hang. “It wrecked my plan.”
Adrian’s mind raced. Arrangements. Marcus always operated in the gray—everyone knew he had channels, ways of getting people what they wanted. Adrian suspected the usual campus contraband: weed, maybe pills for desperate midterm crammers. But this sounded bigger, more calculated. “What kind of arrangements?” Adrian asked carefully.
Marcus’s smile turned cold. “Nothing that concerns you directly. Let’s just say some people were counting on a particular result, and your hero performance flipped the board.”
“You’re dealing,” Adrian said quietly, more a statement than a question.
Marcus laughed, low and dismissive. “Dealing? Christ, Adrian, you sound like a cop. Yeah, I hook people up with weed sometimes. Half the campus smokes. Administration doesn’t even care anymore—it’s basically legal. You think I’m worried about that?” He flicked his hand.
Adrian studied him, trying to piece it together. The confidence, the precision of the attack—it pointed to something organized, a risk worth taking. But what? “So what is it? What’s worth all this?”
“That,” Marcus leaned back, “is none of your business. Your business is making sure I recover what your stunt cost me. And what I need is ice time. Friday’s starting lineup. Defense, where I belong.”
Adrian blinked. “You want to start?”
“I’ve been riding the bench too long,” Marcus said, voice flat. “Give me the spot—prime minutes. I prove myself, maybe we call it even.”
“That’s it?” Adrian scoffed softly. “You orchestrated all this for playing time?”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t underestimate what I can do with the right opportunity, Adrian. On the ice, I control the tempo. I see everything. That’s valuable.” He paused. “If you’re smart, you’ll convince Brennan to give me what I’m asking for. Otherwise, those videos start moving. Your choice.”
Adrian felt the trap tighten. Marcus wasn’t just asking for minutes—he wanted control, positioning to influence the flow in ways Adrian couldn’t easily monitor. But refusing meant exposure, Eric’s destruction, and his own career sinking before it started.
The café door chimed as a student walked in, cracking the tension for a beat. Both men fell quiet, postures casual, until the newcomer settled far away.
“You’re delusional if you think I hand you the lineup,” Adrian murmured once it was safe. “Brennan decides that.”
“Then convince him,” Marcus shot back. “Tell him I’m ‘turning it around.’ You’re great at spinning narratives, Captain. Or remind yourself of the stakes—Eric’s face when you were inside him. How he unraveled. One click, and that’s everywhere.”
Adrian’s grip tightened around his cup. Images flashed: Eric’s trust, his pain, the violation. Exposure would destroy him—not just the team, but the kid’s spirit. And Adrian’s path to the pros? Scouts whispered about “character issues” for less.
“Fine,” Adrian said at last, voice measured. “I’ll talk to Brennan. You get your shot Friday. But no games, Marcus. You play straight, or this deal is dead. And the videos stay buried. No leaks, no threats.”
Marcus tilted his head, calculating. Not total victory, but it gave him what he needed: positioning to steer outcomes, leverage to protect his interests. The videos? His insurance, hanging over Adrian’s head.
“Eighteen minutes a game,” Marcus countered. “Guaranteed. I deliver, you forget last night.”
“Fifteen,” Adrian pushed back. “Performance-based. You shine, you stay. But Marcus—if this blows up, I drag you with me. Whatever you’re really into, I make sure it comes out. Cops, deans, the works.”
The sax solo swelled, filling the silence. Marcus drummed his fingers against the table, then extended his hand. “Deal. Temporary truce.”
Adrian looked at the hand like poison, then clasped it firmly. The shake was brief, cold—no warmth, only mutual wariness.
“Temporary,” Adrian echoed, letting go. “Play it straight, Marcus. Or we both lose.”
Adrian stood first, grabbed his coffee, and gave a curt nod. Without another word, he walked toward the door, the chime echoing behind him. The sunlit quad waited outside, full of oblivious students, but Adrian’s mind churned around the fragile truce he’d just forged.
Marcus sat alone, staring at the cooling Americano. The jazz played on, mocking his simmering rage. He waited a beat, then lashed out with his foot, kicking the fixed table leg hard. The metal base thudded dully—the table didn’t budge, bolted to the floor—but the cups rattled. No one looked up; the grad students stayed buried in their screens. “Cocky bastard,” he muttered, jaw tight.
That fucking Live. Adrian’s little performance torched everything. The team had been riding a wave, momentum building, expectations rising—the perfect setup for Marcus’s arrangements to work. He’d spent weeks positioning the board: inside reads on player condition, whispers about line changes, just enough leverage to nudge the margins. The people he worked with—the ones who handled real flows through the underground—paid well for reliability. And Marcus was reliable, feeding them just enough to keep the percentages tilted, taking a cut on every clean play.
But Adrian flipped the script. By broadcasting the assault, by framing the team as injured but unbowed, he shifted public perception, wrecking carefully calibrated expectations. The numbers moved wrong, margins collapsed, and Marcus’s contacts were not pleased. He’d already eaten a back-end loss—commission gone, a warning to bring better intel next time. This wasn’t nickel-and-dime weed. This was real money, the kind that comes with consequences if you don’t deliver.
He gripped the edge of the table, eyes narrowing on the door Adrian had vanished through. The truce was temporary—it had to be. Sooner or later, Adrian would pay for this. The thought coiled dark and satisfying in his gut: turning the unbreakable captain into something broken, obedient. Just like Eric under duress—desperate, flushed, utterly undone.
*TBC*
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
