The world was tilting like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The cold wind slapped against Mike's cheeks; the cool air sobered his drunk brain just a fraction, but his stomach was still sloshing with the warm, fuzzy weight of too much alcohol.
He stumbled, nearly tripping over the curb. He caught himself on the lamppost with the graceful elegance of a newborn fawn, then dry-heaved a few times, his breath puffing out into the darkness like white clouds.
"Whoa, easy there, tiger," he muttered to himself with a low giggle.
The campus was quiet. The roar of earlier celebration had faded, leaving only a distant, low hum. He staggered down the path toward the hockey arena, the streetlights stretching his shadow out long, like the slender man from some urban legend. Mike let out a goofy laugh. He was still replaying the moment Blake had carried him into the car—at Coach Brennan's championship after-party, Mike had drunk way too much. He'd been blackout drunk, babbling nonsense. It was Blake who had hauled him up, folded him into the car, driven him back to the dorms, and laid him down on his bed.
He hadn't said a single word to Blake all day. Even though nothing had explicitly happened on the ice, Mike had been quietly terrified that their friendship was over. Half-drunk and half-awake, he had wandered out of his dorm, letting muscle memory guide him through the night wind.
*He doesn't hate me,* Mike thought, relief washing over him like a tide. *Saint Mary be praised, he didn't drop me.*
Mike felt like he could still sense the phantom warmth of Blake's solid arms—that brotherly heat that lingered on his body. And with that came the memory of the punch.
The memory of his fist connecting with Blake's stomach made the alcohol in his gut churn all over again. He had played the righteous friend, standing up for Ruth, yelling at Blake for being heartless. "She comes all this way, crying her eyes out for you, and you give her the 'I need space' speech?" He had shouted it with such conviction, like a crusader defending true love.
He had meant it. But not entirely.
The truth was something he kept endlessly confessing to himself in the darker corners of his mind. After the semi-finals, when Blake had firmly and completely told Ruth it was over—Mike had felt it. The genuine anger, the real sympathy, and beneath all the righteousness he told himself he possessed—a tiny, undeniable spark of joy.
The space next to Ruth had opened up. He actually had a shot at beating Blake.
Mike wiped a hand across his face, his white breath dissipating under the dim yellow streetlights. He was a classic corn-fed kid raised on the Bible, built solid from cornfields and ice time, with the kind of boy-next-door face that people just liked. He wasn't the most popular guy at his high school, but easily a top three.
He followed his faith's traditions, more or less—more or less meaning he didn't make it to church every single Sunday, and he'd been having his share of fun with girls since junior high in ways the local priest definitely would not have approved of. But everyone in town liked him, and the girls always said he was reliable.
He'd known Blake since the summer. Early training camp, two small-town boys assigned to the same room—or so Mike had thought at the time. He had arrived at this university clutching his scholarship like a golden ticket, the best player his county had seen in a decade, ready to conquer the world. Then the city happened. In this trendy metropolis full of elites, the reality landed fast and quietly: back home, he was the hockey star, the hope of his family; here, he was just another perfectly average college athlete. Nobody looked twice at him. His future was probably scraping together a business degree and using alumni connections to land a sales job somewhere.
But Blake was something else entirely.
Mike O'Brien was a good hockey player. Blake was the kind of player NHL scouts would notice soon, the kind coaches carefully nurtured and protected.
A supernova.
A dopey grin spread across Mike's face as his unsteady feet carried him toward the rink, his mind entirely filled with Blake.
Mike had already made peace with his place in the universe. Actually, he was proud of it. He was witnessing a supernova explode in real time, watching a guy destined to be a pro star grow up, and *he* was that guy's friend. That alone was enough glory to last a lifetime. Blake was righteous, hardworking, built like a Greek sculpture, and genuinely decent. He was the benchmark against which Mike measured his own manhood—a standard Mike knew he could never quite reach.
*Honest, solid, handsome... he's so much better than me,* Mike thought, kicking a loose pebble. *And here I am, secretly lusting after his ex-girlfriend, while he's probably out there praying or watching game tape.*
Mike remembered driving Ruth home that night, her tears soaking his passenger seat. He remembered offering his shoulder, whispering comforts, the way she had leaned into him, so vulnerable and hurt. For weeks, he had played the mediator, the nice guy, the bridge between the two lovers.
He used to be their biggest supporter—had been the loudest champion of Ruth and Blake's relationship, had watched them come together from the very beginning.
Blake used to be a player, never wanting to stop for one woman. But after he started dating Ruth, he stopped going on the hunt with Mike entirely. Mike wasn't hurt by that. He was genuinely thrilled his friend had found the right person. Sometimes he even found himself repenting, wondering if all that previous chasing around with Blake had accumulated too much sin—though they'd never done anything to make a girl cry, and nobody had ever been deceived. It was just two young boys having easy, consensual fun with girls who were into it.
Mike could see it in the way Blake looked at Ruth, like she was everything. So Mike became their biggest supporter with no strings attached. He liked Ruth—she was smart, warm, the kind of girl who laughed genuinely at things that were actually funny, never faking it. He liked the version of Blake that existed when she was around.
So when Blake and Ruth broke up a few weeks ago, Mike was completely blindsided. Like Ruth, he assumed it was just Blake hitting a rough patch— the pressure of the season winding down, not knowing how to handle his own stress. So Mike adjusted his role: honest broker, running back and forth for weeks, trying to close a gap he genuinely believed could be closed.
Mike really believed that at first. But he kept spending time with Ruth—kind, sweet Ruth, lost and hurting and looking for comfort from whoever was nearby— and in that seemingly ordinary closeness, something quietly shifted. And Mike could no longer clear the fog from his own head.
Mike felt like a despicable clown, maneuvering between them under the guise of "getting them back together" while greedily soaking up Ruth's reliance on him. He felt like a thief looting a burning house, constantly terrified that Blake—with those eyes that seemed to see through everything—would spot his dirty little ulterior motive and kick him to the curb in disgust.
But tonight, when Mike was at his most pathetically drunk and wrecked, Blake hadn't abandoned him.
No scolding. No cold distance of someone who had seen through a betrayal. Just that unspoken tolerance between boys that doesn't need words.
*Brother...* Mike sniffled, so moved that tears almost mixed with the snot running from his nose. Blake either hadn't seen through his pathetic jealousy, or he had and simply didn't care. That tracks, Mike thought. Why would a lion hold a grudge against a mouse for stealing a grain of rice? For that forgiveness alone, Mike decided he would let the guilt of that punch rot in his stomach forever. Even if Ruth ended up with someone else, he was going to stand by Blake.
---
Mike stumbled drunkenly to the back entrance of the arena. The old security guard was snoring in his booth. Mike slipped past without a sound. The door was open, but Mike didn't register anything strange about that—the alcohol had dulled his thinking. The familiar cold air and the smell of sweat washed over him, making him feel instantly grounded.
A conspicuous strip of light cut across the dark hallway from the locker room door.
Someone forgot to turn the lights off. He walked over to flip the switch.
Then he heard it—
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
A wet, rhythmic slapping sound. Heavy breathing. The bench creaking underneath.
Mike told himself it was probably nothing. Old buildings make sounds like that at night. His science teacher used to say it was thermal expansion; the older aunties back home would have said it was brownies doing it.
He walked over unprepared, and then he heard a voice, unmistakably clear:
"Now ride me. Show me how much you need this."
Like something out of a porno, but that was Blake's voice. Mike would know it anywhere. Blake was in the locker room... having sex? With a girl? Not Ruth—couldn't be. Then who?
Filled with surprise and a stupid, helpless curiosity, Mike's hand found the door, and he peered through the gap—
There was Blake. Right there.
His best friend was sitting on the locker room bench, head thrown back, blond hair soaked through with sweat, handsome face twisted with an expression Mike had never seen on him before. Blake's legs were spread wide, his white jockstrap yanked to one side but still tangled around his muscular thighs. Sweat flew from his golden hair as his head fell back. His powerful thighs were corded like steel cables, the white light sculpting every muscle line like they'd been oiled, and he was driving upward with full force. Blake's cock had disappeared into the pale figure straddling him—buried deep in that slight, pale person's ass.
That was... Blake's roommate. The one called Ethan. The quiet, skinny, always-coding type.
Mike could not comprehend it. His best friend—the embodiment of masculine ideals, the supernova that the whole world was watching—was absolutely wrecking his roommate.
And Ethan was riding Blake's cock on his lap like a hesitant cowboy finding his rhythm. What hit Mike even harder was that this scrawny little guy was hung. Mike's brain involuntarily cycled through names—Adrian, Jamal, Dmitri—boys whose size made other boys envious in the showers. And Ethan's thing, bouncing right there, was at least as big as any of theirs. Maybe longer.
Mike's brain crashed. He should leave. That was the obvious move. Turn around, sleep it off, wake up tomorrow and leave all of this exactly where it belonged—behind that door. This had to be the booze. Hallucinations. Or some kind of wrestling drill he was misreading. But his feet wouldn't move. Instead, he pushed the door open a little wider. The thick, musky smell in the air and the wet, relentless rhythm of skin on skin confirmed that this was absolutely real.
*Blake is fucking Ethan. Blake is fucking Ethan.*
Mike stared, wide-eyed, at Blake's hands gripping the bench and at the place where they were locked together. Blake's movements were fierce and possessive, his cock buried deep inside Ethan, each thrust pushing a hot rope of cum deeper. Blake was pounding forward with desperate intensity, sweat dripping down his chest, the bench groaning beneath them—a shameless, head-spinning slap after slap.
*Okay. At least he's on top. Blake's doing the skinny guy, he's in control, effortlessly possessing him—he's the "man" in this scenario. Some athletes do use boys who are less masculine as a power thing, to assert their alpha dominance. That's messed up, but at least it's not that... gay?*
The scene was scrambling Mike's brain, the concepts of "friendship," "brotherhood," and "masculinity" being ripped apart and desperately rearranged. But then Mike noticed—Ethan's slender fingers were pressing into the cleft between Blake's solid ass cheeks, probing into that opening—
*That is NOT ALLOWED,* Mike's brain roared, and he heard Blake hiss "Fuck—"
But the fingers didn't stop. They pushed deeper into Blake.
"Boss... FUCK! Don't—that's—"
Mike had never heard Blake make a sound like that. And Boss? What did that mean? Wasn't Blake supposed to be the one in control here?
Mike stood completely frozen. Blake was charging like a wild animal— unmistakably alpha—but his voice was so desperate, like he was surrendering. Mike could not make sense of it. The panic, the shock, the disgust, the curiosity, the concern, the complete inability to figure out what to say—all of it mixed with the alcohol until Mike's brain fully short-circuited.
"Please let me cum, Boss, I can't take it—"
With a choked, strained cry, Blake filled Ethan completely—but Ethan's fingers were still inside Blake. They collapsed together, and Mike stood frozen in the doorway, staring, until a dazed and triumphant Blake turned his gaze toward the door.
Their eyes met.
Blake looked—drenched in sweat, completely wrecked, covered in fluids, and yet radiating an undeniable, unsettling masculine energy. Blake pulled away from Ethan with a slick, wet pop, his cock pulling free, cum spilling from Ethan's ass. Blake staggered to his feet, grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from his chest, and looked at Mike, his chest heaving.
"Mike?" Blake's voice was completely wrecked, barely a rasp.
"I..." Mike's voice came out small and drunk in the wide open room. "I... the door was open."
Mike stood frozen in the doorway.
*This isn't real. It's the alcohol. It has to be.*
Mike told himself he was just way too drunk. Blame the booze. Because Blake Banks—the guy who could hook up with three nursing girls in one night—could not possibly be...
"Mike?" Blake's face had gone white as paper. "Mike, how long have you—"
"I'm dreaming," Mike announced, his words thick and slurred. He lifted one shaking finger, pointing at both of them. "This is a drunk dream. A very, very gay drunk dream. I'm gonna... I'm gonna go back to the dorms and sleep and when I wake up you'll be hooking up with some girl like normal."
"Mike, wait!" Blake's voice rose, desperate.
But Mike was already stumbling down the hallway, ricocheting off the walls like a pinball. Behind him came rapid footsteps, bare feet slapping against the concrete.
"Mike, stop! Please!"
A strong hand caught his shoulder and spun him around. Blake stood there, completely naked, barely managing to keep a towel around his waist, his hair still wrecked from sex in a way that almost made Mike want to laugh.
"Let go," Mike mumbled, trying to shrug him off. "Gotta sleep. Gotta sober up. Maybe call an exorcist..."
"You're not dreaming," Blake said, voice tight. "Mike, I am so sorry. I am so fucking sorry you had to see that, but it's real."
---
Mike stared at Blake's face—his best friend's face—feeling his drunk brain desperately trying to process information he absolutely did not want to process. "But you... you like girls. I've seen you with girls. That wasn't fake."
"It wasn't fake," Blake said quickly. "Mike, I do like girls. I like girls a lot. Ruth... Ruth is amazing. But I also..." He swallowed. "I also like guys. Both. I like both."
Mike blinked slowly, his vodka-soaked brain parsing the data. "So you're gay."
"But you sleep with guys." Mike's drunk logic was airtight. "Guys who sleep with guys equals gay."
"That's not how it—"
"What about Ruth?" Mike cut in, his voice rising with drunken indignation. "You dumped Ruth for *this*?" He gestured vaguely toward the locker room, nearly losing his balance.
Blake flinched. "Mike—"
"Ruth is perfect!" Mike's voice cracked, getting louder and sloppier. "She's pretty and smart and she has her shit together. She smells like vanilla and she laughs at jokes even when they aren't that funny. She's... she's Ruth. And you dumped her for..." He squinted toward the locker room. "Your roommate?"
"I didn't dump her because—"
"You literally did!" Mike was on a roll, fueled by alcohol and a weird, displaced sense of loyalty. "Blake, you had the perfect girl. And you threw that away to hook up with a scrawny computer nerd who probably can't bench half his own body weight!"
Blake's jaw tightened. "Don't talk about Ethan like that."
"Why not?" Mike threw his hands up, swaying badly. "Look—if you just wanted to... use him, like..." His drunk brain hunted for the right words. "Like a cum dump or whatever. Fine. That's just alpha dominance stuff. I saw you on top. At least you're not the..." He made a vague gesture. "You know. The catcher."
"Mike—"
A brief flash of involuntary relief crossed Blake's mind—*thank god Mike hadn't seen the part where Ethan had split him open*—but that didn't help with the situation at hand.
"But you chose him. Over Ruth. You actually chose him. If you're gonna be into guys—" Mike's voice kept climbing, getting more confused by the second. "—at least pick someone who makes sense! An athletic guy. Someone who knows hockey. Someone at least in your league!"
Then, like a drunk truck hitting a sudden wall of consciousness, Mike's brain made a connection it absolutely should not have made.
*Someone like me.*
Mike's eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open. He went completely rigid.
"Oh my god," Mike whispered, his voice catching. "Oh my god."
Blake's face shifted from panic to confusion. "What? Mike, what—"
"We slept in the same bed!" Mike shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Blake. "Last summer! Back in the frat dorms, we'd sometimes cram into one bed just talking and crash there!"
"Mike—"
"We watched porn together!" Mike's voice edged into hysteria. "At the same time! In the same room! We were jerking off together!"
"That was—"
"You kissed me!" Mike backed up against the wall, hands raised like Blake was a wild animal. "At a party! You kissed me! I thought it was just a joke, to mess around with the girls!"
"That was—"
"And the touching!" Mike was now in full spiral, his drunk mind replaying years of physical closeness that had suddenly become extremely, extremely suspect. "You're always touching me! You put your arm around my shoulders, mess up my hair, smack my ass in the locker room—god, the locker room! We shower together! I've seen your dick a hundred times!"
"Mike, everyone showers together—"
"Have you seen mine?!" Mike demanded, voice cracking. "In the showers, you... you've been looking at mine?!"
"No!" Blake shouted, the sound echoing down the hallway. "Jesus, Mike, no!"
"How would I know?!" Mike's hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. Or maybe that was just the alcohol. "You like guys! You fuck guys! We've been naked together! We've touched each other! We—we—" His brain snagged on another memory. "You gave me a massage last week!"
"Your muscles were wrecked, *you* asked me to!"
"Your hands were all over me!" Mike's voice jumped another octave.
"I was helping you!" Blake's face had gone red, somewhere between embarrassed and exasperated.
Mike stared at Blake, breathing hard, his drunk brain trying to work out whether their entire friendship had been one long con, and whether at the end of it he had almost been... he didn't even want to finish that thought.
"Just now when I was drunk you carried me."
"You were wasted, you couldn't get in the car."
"—and that was because you wanted to—"
"I just wanted to get you home!"
They stood staring at each other, both breathing hard. Mike's panic had hit its peak, his drunk brain catastrophizing every innocent interaction they'd ever had. Blake looked like he was teetering between wanting to shake Mike and wanting to cry.
"Mike," Blake said, voice slow and deliberate, like he was talking to a particularly drunk kid. "Listen to me. I have never—not once—had a sexual thought about you. Not one time. Not ever. You are my brother. You understand that? My *brother*."
"But you like guys—"
"I love *Ethan*!" Blake grabbed Mike's shoulders, forcing eye contact. "I'm Ethan's boyfriend. And you are my brother. Going there with a brother—no. That's disgusting. That would never happen."
Mike blinked slowly, his vodka-soaked brain trying to absorb this. "So... when we shared that bed..."
"I was sleeping. Just sleeping."
"And when we watched porn..."
"No!" Blake snapped, throwing his hands out. "Jesus, no! Mike, listen—"
"I feel violated!" Mike announced dramatically, clutching his chest. "I thought that was brotherhood but apparently it was... foreplay! Did you ever touch my underwear? Were you—"
"Mike, shut up." Blake grabbed his shoulders again, giving him a light shake. He looked Mike dead in the eye, expression serious, bordering on offended. "I have never—not once—looked at you like that. You are my best friend. You are basically my brother. The idea of... us? That's just. Gross. I have zero sexual attraction to you. None. Zero."
Mike stared at him. The panic slowly settled, replaced by the process of actually digesting what Blake had said.
*Zero attraction.*
Gross.
*Like a brother.*
"Wait," Mike said, his voice taking on a new, distinctly offended tone. "Zero?"
Blake paused, clearly not expecting that pivot. "What?"
"You think I'm gross?" Mike asked, poking himself in the chest. "What's wrong with me? I'm hot. I work out just as much as you do."
Blake looked baffled. "That's not what I meant—Mike, you're straight. And you're my best friend."
"So?" Mike crossed his arms, leaning heavily against the wall for balance.
He blinked. He straightened up slightly, swaying. His forehead creased. "If you're into guys, I should be on the list! I'm a hottie guy, I've been hit on by gay guys before, they said I was jacked and my face was solid!"
Blake rubbed his temple. "Okay yes, you're objectively—"
"But not your type?" Mike narrowed his eyes. "Ethan? You went with Ethan? Skinny, sarcastic, 'I hate all sports' Ethan?" He gestured grandly at himself, nearly losing his balance again. "I'm right here! We have chemistry! We finish each other's sentences! But no—'Mike's like a brother, Mike's gross.'"
Blake actually laughed. A short, strained laugh, but a real one. He looked at Mike with an expression of complete disbelief mixed with overwhelming relief. "Are you seriously jealous that I don't want to fuck you?"
"I'm not jealous!" Mike said hotly, hiccupping. "I'm insulted! It's a respect thing! You should at least want to, so I can turn you down because I'm straight. That's how the hierarchy works!"
Blake shook his head. The tension in the hallway finally broke.
"You're an idiot," Blake said quietly. "You're a drunk, narcissistic idiot."
"Yeah, okay," Mike muttered, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. The world was spinning too fast. "But why him though? Your taste in guys is genuinely terrible. I'm not trying to be a dick, but... really?"
Blake's expression softened instantly. Despite everything, something almost like a smile crossed his face. "You wouldn't get it."
"Try me."
"He..." Blake searched for the right words. "He knows me. All of me. The good parts, the bad parts, the parts I'm scared of. He didn't run. He just... stayed."
Mike sat with that for a moment, swaying slightly. His drunk brain worked hard to understand it, but kept getting stuck at one thing.
"But Ruth—"
"I know," Blake said, his voice catching. "God, I know. Mike, I love Ruth. I still love Ruth. But I can't keep lying to her. She deserves someone who can be completely honest with her—someone who doesn't have to hide half of who he is. And I can't give her that."
"Because you want to fuck your roommate," Mike said flatly.
"Because I fell in love with my roommate," Blake corrected, and the word love nearly made Mike's drunk brain blue-screen entirely.
They stood in silence for a moment. Mike's head was spinning—alcohol, shock, information overload. He looked at Blake. Really looked at him. And he saw something he'd missed before.
Blake was scared. Not because Mike had hit him. Not because Mike was disgusted. Blake was scared that Mike was going to walk away.
And suddenly, through all the drunken chaos and panic, through all the misplaced terror that Blake had secretly been feeling him up (okay, apparently not), Mike saw what was actually happening here.
Blake was asking for help. Blake was standing here—vulnerable, scared, desperate—asking Mike not to leave him.
Mike thought about that night at Adrian's frat house. After that disastrous Instagram livestream, Mike had told Blake about his thing for Ruth, and they'd sat in that bedroom and said they'd have each other's backs no matter what.
*"No matter what happens, I'll support you. You know that, right?"*
Mike heard his own voice.
"Okay," Mike said, his voice slurry but steady. "Okay."
Blake blinked. "Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay." Mike ran a hand through his hair and nearly toppled over. "I need to... I need time to process all of this. All of it. The whole guy thing. The Ethan thing. The Ruth thing. The..." He made a vague gesture at nothing in particular. "All of it."
"Of course—"
"I need you to not touch me for like... a week. Maybe two. Until my brain stops seeing a secret gay agenda in every high-five."
Blake's face fell. "Mike—"
"You were scared," Mike said. It wasn't a question.
"Scared," Blake said quietly. "I thought... if you knew, if anyone knew... I'd lose everything. The team. You."
Mike snorted. "You can't lose me. I'm like a tick. I'm already in there." He reached out and clumsily punched Blake's arm. "Even if you're a bisexual disaster who broke Ruth's heart and insulted my attractiveness. I mean I need time to... recalibrate. To know that when you put your arm around me, you're not secretly..." He trailed off. "I don't know. Pulling a move or something."
"I would never—"
"I know," Mike said, louder than intended. "I know. You said. But my brain is drunk and extremely confused right now, and I need space to figure out how to be okay with all of this."
"But," Mike continued, holding up one unsteady finger, "that promise still stands. Brother, no matter what. Even if 'no matter what' turns out to be you falling in love with a nerd whose dick is probably bigger than everything I've accidentally seen combined."
Blake made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"I'm not telling anyone," Mike went on. "Your secret's safe. But Blake?"
"Yeah?"
"You better be absolutely fucking sure about this Ethan guy," Mike said gravely, his drunk eyes trying to focus on Blake's face. "Because you gave up Ruth. *Ruth*. For him. So he better be worth it."
"He is," Blake said quietly. "Mike, he really is."
Mike studied his best friend's face and saw the truth in it. Blake genuinely believed it. And Blake was standing right here, scared and exposed, asking Mike to believe it too.
*He needs me,* Mike's drunk brain registered. *Right now he needs me to not walk away.*
"Alright," Mike said finally. He pushed off the wall, swayed, nearly went down, then steadied himself. "I'm going... somewhere. Maybe to pray. Or throw up. Probably both. Tomorrow, when I'm sober and can think straight—ha, 'think straight,' that's funny—we'll talk."
And then Mike's body gave one full-body lurch, and he threw up—a gust of alcohol-soaked vomit, directly onto Blake.
"Jesus!" Blake yelped, but still reached out and caught him.
Several more heaves later, Mike lifted his head and looked at Blake with an absolutely wrecked expression.
"Sorry... thanks, man."
"Alright, get out of here and go sleep. I'll clean up."
Mike nodded. He pressed one hand against the wall, steadied himself, and slowly made his way toward the exit.
Behind him, Blake turned.
Ethan was standing in the locker room doorway. His arms crossed over his pale chest, his eyes were unreadable.
He had heard everything.
When Blake had said the word love, when he had firmly declared, "I am Ethan's boyfriend," Ethan's chest had seized. A violent, chaotic fluttering had erupted behind his ribs, something terrifyingly close to joy. For a skinny, antisocial nerd who spent his life analyzing code, being openly claimed by the golden boy of the campus in front of his best friend was intoxicating.
But almost instantly, that joy mutated into a toxic, defensive panic.
Boyfriend? Ethan's mind raced. He remembered the dark confession in their dorm room. Blake was an escort. Blake had let rich, faceless men use his body for money. Before tonight, Ethan had compartmentalized that fact, he had treated it like a twisted kink, a dirty little roleplay to fuel his own dominance. But now? Now that Blake had invoked the word love, the reality of those other men suddenly burned like battery acid in Ethan's veins. Jealousy—sharp, ugly, and entirely foreign—clawed at his throat.
Ethan's walls slammed down. If he was vulnerable, he would be destroyed.
"Boyfriend?" Ethan sneered, his voice dripping with condescension as he pushed off the doorframe. "Since when does a high-priced slut get to claim me like that?"
Blake froze, the exhaustion on his face hardening. "Ethan—"
"I mean, it's hilarious," Ethan continued, his tone turning self-deprecating and vicious all at once. He walked closer, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the vomit splattered across Blake's sculpted abs. "You really played the perfect, protective alpha top out there. Did you forget to mention to your little hockey-bro that I literally just split your virgin asshole open one hour ago? That you were sobbing on my dick?"
"Stop," Blake warned, his voice dropping.
"Why?" Ethan tilted his head, his eyes flashing with manufactured disdain. "Are you mad he didn't want to fuck you? Is that why you let him puke all over you like a fucking doormat? Tell me, Blake, how much would you charge Mike for a session? Or do you just want to get on your knees for him for free—"
In a fraction of a second, the submissive jock vanished, replaced by the elite, 195-pound D1 athlete. Blake moved with terrifying speed. His massive hands shot out, grabbing Ethan by the throat and waist, lifting the scrawny programmer completely off his feet.
"Hey—fuck! Put me—!"
Blake didn't say a word. He carried Ethan effortlessly across the locker room and shoved him violently into the nearest shower stall. Ethan's back slammed against the cold tiles, knocking the breath from his lungs. Before Ethan could recover, Blake reached up and slapped the shower handle.
A torrential downpour of warm water blasted over them, instantly soaking Ethan's hair, washing the stench of vomit and stale sweat down the drain.
"We need to clean up," Blake growled over the roar of the water.
He didn't give Ethan time to process. Blake's large, calloused hands gripped Ethan's hips, spinning him around and slamming him chest-first into the wet tiles. Blake forcefully spread Ethan's legs with his knee.
Without a drop of lube, using only the running water, Blake shoved two thick fingers directly into Ethan's tight hole.
"FUCK!" Ethan screamed, his hips bucking wildly against the sudden, brutal intrusion.
Blake's grip on Ethan's hip was like an iron vise, pinning him in place as he brutally pumped his fingers in and out of Ethan's tight ass. "Boss," Blake sneered, his hot breath hitting the shell of Ethan's ear. "No. Ethan. Do you think it's fun to make a fool out of me?"
Ethan gasped, his hands slipping against the wet tiles, completely overpowered.
"I have absolutely no reason to submit to you," Blake's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, his fingers curling inside Ethan, hitting his prostate with merciless accuracy. Ethan let out a high, broken whine, his cock instantly hardening against the wall. "I let you top me because I choose to. If you ever degrade my friend again, if you ever degrade my feelings for you like that again... I think I need to reconsider our power dynamic."
Blake thrust harder, making Ethan's knees buckle, holding him up entirely by his waist.
"I'll turn you into nothing but a hole beneath me," Blake threatened darkly, his alpha dominance fully unleashed. "I'll hold you down and make you take my cum every single day. That big, useless dick of yours will just be a toy for me to play with while I wreck your ass. You know damn well I can do it."
The absolute violence of the threat, the undeniable physical reality that Blake could completely overpower him at any given second, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated adrenaline straight to Ethan's groin. He was terrified, but he was incredibly, sickeningly aroused. His massive cock throbbed against the cold tile, leaking pre-cum into the rushing water.
Ethan was panting, his chest heaving as Blake's fingers ruthlessly worked his hole. But slowly, Ethan turned his head, looking over his shoulder through the curtain of wet hair.
"You won't," Ethan whispered, his voice shaking but laced with a perceptive certainty.
Blake's movements stuttered. "Excuse me?"
"You won't do that," Ethan breathed out, leaning back slightly against Blake's broad, wet chest. "Because you crave the punishment. You need to be ruined. And I..." Ethan swallowed hard, a triumphant smirk ghosting across his lips. "...I am the executioner you chose."
For a long, heavy moment, the only sound was the water crashing down on them. Blake stared down into Ethan's defiant eyes, his fingers still buried deep inside Ethan's ass. The tension between them was electric, a dangerous wire pulled taut to the point of snapping.
Then, Blake's chest hitched. He pulled his fingers out, turning Ethan around.
"You're right," Blake murmured.
He crashed his lips down onto Ethan's. It was a brutal, desperate kiss, tasting of water and adrenaline. Ethan kissed back just as fiercely, his arms wrapping around Blake's thick neck, pulling the jock down to his level. They devoured each other under the spray, tongues wrestling, teeth clashing, washing away the insecurity, the jealousy, and the lingering scent of the hallway.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were gasping for air, their foreheads resting against each other.
Blake wiped a streak of wet hair out of Ethan's eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We still have to clean up Mike's puke in the hallway. And Jenkins is going to do his rounds in an hour. We have to hurry."
Ethan let out a sudden, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the entire night crashing down on him. "Fuck my life."
Blake chuckled, his chest vibrating against Ethan's. He reached down, catching Ethan's hand in the cascading water. Slowly, deliberately, Blake intertwined his fingers with Ethan's, squeezing tightly. Ethan looked down at their locked hands, then back up at the golden boy who had just thrown his entire world away for him.
The warm water continued to cascade over them, washing the last of the tension down the drain. Ethan broke their gaze first. He cleared his throat.
"For the record," Ethan muttered, refusing to look at Blake, focusing instead on the wet tiles. "The actual mechanical labor of thrusting... grunting and sweating like some mindless farm animal... it's completely beneath me."
Blake blinked, wiping the water from his own face. A slow, knowing smirk began to form on his lips. "Is it?"
"Yeah," Ethan said smoothly, slipping back into his arrogant, detached cadence. "I am the Boss. And fundamentally, a boss does not do the heavy lifting. I delegate. Manual labor is what I have you for."
To emphasize his point, Ethan reached down beneath the rushing water. He clamped his thumb and forefinger tightly around the base of Blake's flaccid cock. With a firm, ruthless grip, he pulled upward along the shaft, the Arab milking technique. Blake hissed as Ethan forcefully milked his shaft, the sensation hovering right on the borderline of pleasure and clinical discomfort.
"The lengthening training will continue," Ethan sneered, staring down at his hand working the jock's dick. "I'm not letting you slack off just because you managed to declare yourself my boyfriend tonight. It is still woefully short."
Blake leaned a massive arm against the wall above Ethan's head, trapping him there. The jock's blue eyes were dancing with intense amusement. He saw right through the labyrinth of Ethan's bullshit.
"So, what you're saying in your weird way," Blake teased, his voice a low rumble, "is that you actually just prefer being my bottom."
"I said no such thing!" Ethan snapped defensively, glaring up at him. "Don't get cocky, muscular slut. I still own that hole. I retain full territorial rights to your ass, and I will use it whenever I feel the need to remind you of your place. I just... prefer to limit my cardiovascular exertion."
Not stopping his hand, Ethan reached his other arm around Blake's thick, muscular thigh. He grabbed one cheek of Blake's perky, perfectly sculpted ass and ruthlessly pulled it aside, exposing the swollen, used hole he had just wrecked tonight.
SMACK.
Ethan brought his hand down hard against the heavy glute muscle.
"Watch your tone, jock," Ethan warned haughtily. "I still own this ass, and clearly, you need to be punished for your insubordinate attitude."
The sharp sound of the slap echoed in the shower stall, instantly sparking a shared memory between them. The air grew thicker as they both remembered the last punishment session—the vicious snap of the heavy rubber resistance band biting into Blake's bare skin.
"My slutty jock submissive," Ethan purred, his fingers digging possessively into Blake's ass cheek. "You're supposed to be a perfect piece of livestock on the ice, and a perfect, obedient hole for me here."
Blake leaned his massive frame into Ethan's touch, a heavy, ragged breath escaping his chest. The degradation was acting like a direct override switch to his nervous system.
"You don't have the arm strength to handle real leather belts or whips yet, Boss," Blake murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, desperate register, completely eating up the humiliation. "You can't control the force. We'll have to find... something else to break me with."
Just talking about his own punishment and degradation was all it took. Inside Ethan's tight, milking grip, Blake's cock betrayed him. The thick meat rapidly surged with heat, swelling and hardening aggressively as blood flooded the shaft, twitching upward against Ethan's palm.
Ethan looked down at the throbbing, fully aroused cock filling his hand. He curled his lip in exaggerated disgust. Letting go of his jelqing grip, Ethan delivered a sharp, stinging slap right across the sensitive head of Blake's dick.
"Pathetic," Ethan sneered, wiping his hand on Blake's wet chest. "Completely uncooperative."
Blake let out a sharp bark of laughter, his broad chest heaving under the water. The sheer absurdity of Ethan scolding his dick for getting hard over being humiliated was entirely too much. He grabbed Ethan's chin, crashing their lips together in a wet, bruising, deeply passionate kiss. Ethan tasted like water, dominance, and everything Blake had ever wanted.
"Fair enough, Boss. We can keep doing the stretching," Blake said, his tone dripping with athletic challenge."But if we're talking about physical improvement... tomorrow, you're coming to the weight room with me."
Ethan's eyes widened in horror. "Absolutely not. I don't do gyms. The air quality is abhorrent and it smells like Axe body spray and stupidity."
"Too bad," Blake said, his voice leaving no room for argument, "Because if you're going to walk around with this absolute monster between your legs, you need the cardio to actually back it up. You passed out on top of me after ten minutes, Ethan. It's tragic."
Blake leaned in, his wet lips brushing against Ethan's ear, whispering with a smirk. "We're going to build up your stamina. I'm not letting my boyfriend walk around with a massive dick that's too useless to even finish a fuck without having an asthma attack."
Ethan's jaw dropped in sheer, indignant outrage, but before he could formulate a suitably vicious comeback, Blake kissed him again—hard, fast, and entirely unapologetic.
"Now come on," Blake said, pulling back and grabbing the soap. "Wash up. We've got a hallway to mop."
---
By the time they finished mopping the hallway and dragged themselves back into the room, it was past one in the morning.
Blake locked the door. Ethan dropped face-first onto his own bed, then immediately rolled over and stared at the ceiling like a man who had been run over by something heavy.
Not the adrenaline, not the way Blake had moved without thinking, not the particular quality of silence that had followed. They didn't need to. It sat between them like something already understood.
Ethan's hand found Blake's chest in the dark.
He wasn't gentle about it. He never was. His palm pressed flat against Blake's sternum like he was checking for something—checking that the heartbeat was still there, maybe, or just satisfying a curiosity he'd never admit to having. Then his fingers spread, and he started to move.
Blake stayed still and let him.
Ethan propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes dark and heavy with undisguised lust as his hand traced the topography of Blake's body. He couldn't get enough of it. His palm flattened against Blake's broad chest, feeling the solid, dense muscle beneath the warm, damp skin. He dragged his fingers down the deep groove between Blake's abs, fascinated by the way the athlete's body reacted to his touch—the slight hitch in Blake's breathing, the involuntary twitch of those perfectly sculpted V-lines disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
Ethan's grip tightened slightly on Blake's hip, a surge of possessive desire pooling in his groin. He was touching the star of the hockey team, tracing the hard, powerful lines of a body built for violence on the ice, and right now, this incredible physique was pliant and shivering right under his hand. He leaned down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the juncture of Blake's neck and shoulder, feeling Blake's pulse hammering against his lips.
Blake let out a low, breathy groan, his hands coming up to grip Ethan's waist. But before Ethan could move his mouth lower to taste the hard peak of Blake's nipple, a harsh buzz vibrated against the wooden nightstand.
Blake's phone screen lit up the dark room, casting a pale glow over their faces.
Ethan sighed, annoyed, his hand still resting possessively on Blake's stomach. "Ignore it."
But Blake squinted at the bright screen, his expression immediately shifting from hazy lust to sharp focus. He reached over and grabbed the device. "It's Adrian."
"What does the captain want at two AM?" Ethan muttered, trailing his fingers lower down Blake's abdomen, purposely trying to test the jock's focus.
Blake caught Ethan's wrist, gently but firmly stopping his descending hand. "He's asking if my roommate got the program working. He says they need to prep the plan. The window is closing, and he needs to know if we have the weapon ready."
Ethan rolled his eyes at being referred to as just 'the roommate', but he sat up a bit, the technical challenge overriding his annoyance. "I wrote the script," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a serious, analytical register. "I spent the last two days scrubbing GitHub, watching obscure Russian YouTube tutorials, and digging through underground forums to stitch this payload together. It's an automated wipe command triggered by a hidden link. If he clicks it, it executes a background wipe of the specific media files matching the video's metadata."
Blake looked up at him, eyes searching in the dim light. "Will it work?"
"I don't know," Ethan admitted, a raw edge of frustration bleeding into his voice. "I don't know what OS version he's running, if he clicks random links, or if he's using some third-party cloud backup I can't breach. I wrote the best localized wipe script I could, but without having his physical device to test it on, or knowing his digital habits... it's a massive gamble, Blake."
Blake didn't flinch. He didn't question Ethan's skills, didn't demand absolute guarantees like Adrian probably would have. Instead, Blake reached up, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the back of Ethan's neck, pulling him down just enough so their foreheads rested against each other.
"I trust you," Blake said, his voice a low, steady rumble in the quiet room. "If you built it, it's the best shot we have. I believe in you, Boss."
Ethan's breath hitched. That simple, absolute validation from Blake hit him harder than any physical touch in the shower had. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, trying to maintain his cynical, controlling exterior. "Whatever, jock. Just... make sure your idiot friends do their part right to get him to click it."
Blake smiled, a soft, genuine curve of his lips that made Ethan's heart skip a beat. Blake unlocked his phone, his thumb flying across the keyboard as he typed out a response to Adrian.
He hit send, tossed the phone face-down onto the floor, and pulled Ethan back down against his chest, sliding his hands under Ethan's shirt. "Now," Blake whispered, his voice rough and demanding, "where were we?"
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
