As always, I live for your feedback: good, bad, or confused. Drop me a line at [email protected]. Just please don't ask me to explain the Colgate-Palmolive corporate structure again. Hayden already did that.
Home Opener
Next Tuesday afternoon at the REC is slow. The post-weekend rush has faded, and the after-class crowd hasn't trickled in yet. I'm safety-checking carabiners when I hear footsteps approaching the outdoor desk.
"Hey, Mr. Eagle Scout."
I look up. Hayden is leaning against the counter, wearing a gray CU hoodie and black corduroy pants. His smile is easy, but there's something behind it: a nervous energy I've learned to recognize in the few weeks I’ve known him personally.
"What are you up to?" I ask, slipping the carabiners into a drawer.
"Came to see you." He glances around the nearly empty REC lobby, then lowers his voice. "And to ask you something."
I raise an eyebrow. "That clandestine tone makes me nervous."
He grins, but it falters slightly. "Saturday afternoon. Brendan's home opener. You're usually off Saturdays, right ?"
"Yeah, I think so. Why?"
"I want you to come." He says it simply, like it's obvious. Then he adds, "And... I might need your help with something."
My stomach does a tiny flip, smaller than when I first met him here. "What kind of help?"
Hayden pulls out his phone, scrolls for a second, then turns the screen toward me. It's an email from a Hello marketing coordinator. The subject line reads: "Game Day Activation - CU Men’s Basketball Home Opener - Sample Distribution."
"Hello wants me to hand out travel-sized toothpaste at the entrance," he says, watching my face. "Before the game. It's part of the campaign. They loved the engagement on the video I posted on the weekend, so they gave the green light on this."
I scan the email. It's professional, detailed, and mentions a "brand ambassador" position at the arena doors.
"So you're working the game?" I ask.
"I'm at the game," he corrects. "But before tip-off, I need to stand by the entrance and hand out travel-size toothpaste." He looks at me and pockets the phone. "And I was hoping... you'd stand with me?"
I stare at him. "You want me to hand out toothpaste samples?"
"It's not glamorous," he admits. “But it’s less awkward in front of the doors with two people. And…” he hesitates, “it gives me someone I actually want to talk to while I’m doing it. You can invite some people to the game if you want. I have access to more tickets.”
I should say no. I haven’t even used that brand. I'm not an influencer. But the way he's looking at me: hopeful, slightly vulnerable, like he's asking for something real beneath the surface request, makes it impossible.
I picture Brendan on the court for his first-ever college game.
I picture Hayden at the doors, decked out in Hello-branded gear.
I picture myself somewhere in between.
"Fine," I sigh. "But I’m not really a basketball fan."
His smile returns, full and genuine. "You’d be there for Brendan AND me. After the game, we can hang out with him in the locker room. It'll be fun."
Fun. I'm not sure that's the word I'd use for watching my secret boyfriend work a brand activation while my best friends sit in the student section. But I nod because that’s the only answer.
"Saturday," I confirm.
He reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand once, quickly, before anyone can see. Then he's gone, pushing through the REC doors and back into the October afternoon.
I stand there for a full minute, the climbing gear long forgotten.
What on Earth have I signed up for?
Wednesday night, I’m back with Alex and Aisha for our regular game night in Alex’s dorm lounge.
The Ticket to Ride board is a mess of pastel trains and scattered routes when I finally look up from my cards. Alex is grinning at me across the table, and I already know I don't like that look.
"You're distracted," he announces, sliding a tiny yellow train car onto the Tokyo–Osaka corridor.
"I'm contemplating how we build this first Shinkansen route." I counter.
Aisha snorts, not looking up from her hand. "You've been holding those same three cards for four turns. That's not a strategy. That's avoidance."
I open my mouth to argue, but she's not wrong. My mind keeps drifting back to yesterday afternoon: Hayden leaning against the REC counter, the email on his phone, the way his hand felt on mine before he disappeared through the doors.
You'd be there for me AND Brendan.
Alex's grin widens. He's been dying to say something since we sat down.
"So," he says, drawing out the word like salt water taffy. "How are things?"
"Fine," I say abruptly.
Aisha finally looks up, curiosity lighting up her face. "Alex mentioned you're seeing someone new?"
I shoot Alex a look. He shrugs, utterly unrepentant. "What? She asked why you've been so weird lately."
"I haven't been weird."
"You came to game night in a hoodie that doesn’t smell like gym mats for once," Aisha says. "That's weird."
I sigh, setting my cards down. There's no winning this. Alex is watching me with that insufferable, knowing grin, and Aisha is genuinely interested, no agenda, just being supportive.
"It's... new," I say carefully. "I don't really want to talk about it yet."
Aisha nods, respecting the boundary. Alex, predictably, does not.
"Is he hot?" he asks.
"Alex!" Aisha warns.
"What? It's a valid question. Joey is an 8/10. Can’t have anyone lower than a 7 dating him."
I grab a new card from the pile just to have something to do with my hands. "I'm not answering that."
"He's hot," Alex tells Aisha, like it's confirmed. "Definitely hot."
Aisha rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. Then her expression shifts: thoughtful, finally piecing something together.
"Wait," she says slowly. "Is it... someone we know?"
I freeze. My hand hovers over my train cards.
Alex's grin could power Boulder County.
"I—" I start.
"Oh my God," Aisha breathes. Her eyes go wide. "It's Hayden Latimer, isn't it?"
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the people on the next couch look up.
"How did you…" I manage.
"The way you two were standing together at the lake in the pictures he posted," she says, like it's obvious. "And the TikTok video in his dorm. And the way he looked at you when he was teaching me that dance." She shakes her head. "I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now..."
She trails off, waiting for me to confirm or deny.
I glance at Alex. He's no longer grinning. He's watching me carefully, waiting to see how I'll handle this.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It's Hayden."
Aisha sits back in her chair, processing. Then she just laughs.
"Okay," she says finally. "But does he treat you right? He’s a Freshman, and an influencer."
The question catches me off guard. "I... yeah. I think so."
"You think so?" She looks back at Alex.
“He’s… in the middle of stuff. With his girlfriend. It’s no…” I stop. “It’s not simple.” But yeah. He's been nothing but honest to me."
Aisha nods slowly, then reaches for her cards. "Then that's what matters. The rest... you'll figure it out."
Alex exhales like it's finally off his chest. "See? I told you she'd be cool," he says to me.
"You told him no such thing," Aisha says, but she's smiling. She reaches for a blue train car, then pauses.
"He also asked me to go with him to Brendan's home opener on Saturday," I say.
"Wait. You're going to Brendan's game with him?" Aisha perks up.
I nod. "Hayden asked me to help him with something. He's... handing out samples beforehand. Some brand thing."
Aisha's eyebrows rise. "Samples? Like, free stuff?"
"Toothpaste," I say.
Alex snorts. "Romantic."
"It's not a date," I say quickly. Too quickly. "He just needed help."
"Uh-huh." Alex's grin is back. "Is he trying to win everyone over with free toothpaste?"
I hesitate. "Actually... do you guys want to come? Hayden said he could probably get more tickets."
Aisha's face lights up. "To the home opener? Against Eastern Washington? I wanted to see Hammond play, but it's a non-conference game. I haven't put my name in for it yet."
"That's why I'm asking now."
Alex leans back, pretending to consider. "I don't know. Watching basketball with Aisha while you make heart eyes at a mouthwash influencer? Sounds exhausting."
"Then don't come," I shrug.
"I'll be there, but we’ll use our passes," he says immediately. "Someone has to document this for the CU Independent."
Aisha laughs and lays down a string of blue train cars. "We'll both be there. Now, are we going to finish this game or what? I'm about to take the longest route, and there's nothing either of you Yanks can do about it."
Saturday afternoon, the arena is still waking up when I arrive. A few early birds mill near the main entrance, but most of the crowd hasn't materialized yet. The energy is anticipatory, not loud. I smooth the front of my American Eagle black polo shirt: dress smart, Hayden had said, which apparently means "don't show up in a hoodie” and scan the mostly empty plaza.
Hayden is already there, standing near a side door, talking to someone in an arena polo. He's wearing dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The look is casual but polished: influencer casual, the kind of outfit that looks effortless but absolutely isn't.
He spots me and excuses himself.
"Joey. Hey." He closes the distance between us, and for a second, I think he might hug me, but he doesn't. We're still in public. But his hand finds my elbow for just a moment, a brief squeeze that says everything.
"You're early," he says.
"You said 45 minutes before tip-off."
"I said I had to be here 45 minutes before tip-off." He grins. "I didn't think you'd actually show up that early."
"I thought about staying home," I admit.
"And yet here you are."
"Here I am."
His smile widens. "Thanks for coming, Joey. Really. I owe you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
He leads me inside, past the empty ticket scanners and silent concession stands, through a door marked "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." The building is cavernous without the crowd: echoing footsteps, the smell of floor wax, and fresh popcorn. Brendan might already be out there, warming up.
We walk down a fluorescent-lit corridor, past storage closets and utility rooms, until we stop in front of an office that looks like it hasn't been used in months.
Hayden produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the door.
"How did you get a key?" I ask.
"I know people, or they know me," he says, which is not an answer.
The room is small, musty, and dominated by two large FedEx boxes stacked on a folding table. Hayden crosses the room and slices open the top box with his thumbnail.
"Okay," he says, pulling out folded fabric. "Hello overnighted these."
He shakes it open.
It's an apron. Black, with the Hello logo stitched in bright cyan above the pocket.
I stare at it. "You want me to wear that?"
"They want us to wear them," he corrects. He pulls a second one from the box and holds it out to me. "Brand synergy."
I take the apron. The fabric is stiff, new. I hold it up, and Hayden watches me with that hopeful, slightly nervous expression again.
"Just for the handout," he says. "Then they come off."
I sigh and slip the apron over my head. The strap settles across my polo shirt. I feel ridiculous, like I work anywhere but a REC counter.
Hayden puts his on too, and when he looks at me, he bursts out laughing.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says, still laughing. "You just... You look like that barista who didn’t know how to spell Hayden."
I glance down at myself. The apron. The polo. The khakis. He's not wrong.
"I hate you," I say.
He grins, reaching out to adjust the strap on my shoulder. His fingers linger there for a moment longer than necessary.
"You look great," he says, quieter now. Then he glances at the open box, still half-full of toothpaste tubes. "Oh, and remember to save some for yourself."
I frown. "What do you mean by that?"
He shrugs, but there's a glint in his eye. "Just saying. You might need it."
I stare at him. "Are you suggesting I have bad breath?"
"No," he says, too quickly. Then, with a smirk: "I'm just saying I've smelled your morning breath."
"We’ve slept together maybe three times."
"And every time, I've considered calling a Hazmat team."
I grab a sample from the box and toss it at him. He catches it, laughing.
"I'm not taking dental hygiene advice from someone who eats dining hall pizza at 11 PM," I say.
"Hey," he says, pocketing the tube. "That's athlete fuel."
"That's a crime against humanity."
He's still grinning as he grabs one of the FedEx boxes, heavy, full of hundreds of tiny toothpaste tubes, and nods at the other.
"Come on. Let's go set up before the hordes arrive. And maybe brush your teeth first."
"I'm not brushing my teeth in Brendan’s locker room."
"Your loss."
I hoist the second box, still muttering, and follow him out of the office.
The first few minutes outside are awkward. I stand there holding a tube, watching people walk past. A guy in a CU hoodie glances at me, then at the apron, then keeps walking. A group of girls giggle and grab samples from Hayden's side of the doors, not even looking my way.
Hayden is a natural. "Free Hello! Get your game-day smile ready!" His voice is warm, easy, like he's inviting them to a party. People naturally gravitate toward him. They take his tubes, they smile back, they recognize him.
I hold out a tube to a middle-aged woman with a Broncos cap on. She squints at the logo, then at me.
"Is this fluoride-free, sir?"
"I... think so?" I say.
She frowns, looking at my apron. "You don't know?"
Hayden appears at my elbow. "It's fluoride-free and vegan," he says smoothly, handing her a tube. "No artificial sweeteners, either. Great for sensitive teeth."
She nods, satisfied, and walks away.
Hayden bumps my shoulder. "You'll get the hang of it."
"I didn't study for this," I mutter.
He grins. "There's no quiz."
Twenty minutes later, a woman in a sharp blazer approaches us. She's holding a clipboard and wearing a Colgate-Palmolive lanyard. My stomach drops.
Colgate.
I glance at Hayden. He's still smiling, but I see the slight straightening of his shoulders.
The woman scans the apron, the remaining tubes, and the flow of people. Her eyes land on me.
"Hayden! Great energy out here. I'm Dana, from the Aurora office."
Hayden's hand finds my elbow for a moment. "Thanks for coming. We're almost through the first box."
Dana nods, then looks at me. "And who's this?"
"This is Joey. He's a friend from school. He volunteered to help."
Volunteered. I bite my tongue.
Dana extends her hand. "Nice to meet you, Joey."
I shake it, but my mind is racing. Colgate is here. Watching. Evaluating. I try to remember if Hello is a Colgate brand. I don't think so. I thought Hello is independent. Natural. Hipster. The opposite of corporate toothpaste.
Which means Dana is here to poach Hayden or interfere.
I lean toward Hayden after she steps away to answer a phone call. "Colgate?" I hiss. "Isn't that the competition?"
Hayden blinks at me. Then his face cracks into a grin.
"Joey," he says slowly, like he's explaining something to a child. "Colgate owns Hello."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Bought them a few years ago. Hello is a subsidiary. Same company."
I look at one of the miniature tubes. It clearly says "Colgate-Palmolive" near the bottom.
"So she's not... she's not here to sabotage us?"
Hayden laughs. "She's here to make sure we don't embarrass the brand, which is the same brand. Because they're the same company."
I feel stupid. "I didn't know that."
"Clearly." He's still grinning. "But don't worry. I won't tell anyone you tried to start a toothpaste war at a basketball game."
"You better not."
He bumps my shoulder again. "Come on. Let's finish this box before she comes back."
Dana returns twenty minutes later, phone in hand, clipboard tucked under her arm. Her eyes sweep over the empty box, then us, then the dwindling crowd trickling through the doors.
"Great work, you two," she says, her professional smile softening into something almost warm. "Head office is going to love these numbers."
Hayden straightens his apron. "Happy to help. Tell them I'm available for more."
She laughs, a real one, not the clipped marketing version. "I'll pass that along." Then she glances between us. "Actually, could we get a quick photo? For the internal recap. Just holding up the product."
I freeze. "Us?"
"Brand ambassadors," Dana says, like it's obvious.
Hayden's hand finds my elbow again. "Come on. It'll take two seconds."
Before I can argue, he's pressed a tube into my hand and positioned himself beside me. Dana steps back, phone raised.
"Say 'Thank you, Hello!'"
"Thank you, Hello!" Hayden says, bright and automatic.
I manage a mumbled version of the same, holding up the tube as if it were radioactive.
"One more. With energy!"
"Sko Buffs!" Hayden adds this time.
Dana lowers her phone, clearly satisfied. "Perfect. You're all set." She tucks her phone away and gives us a final nod. "Enjoy the game boys."
She disappears into the crowd. The moment she's gone, Hayden exhales.
"That was..." I start.
"Terrifying," he finishes. "But we survived."
He reaches for his apron strap and pulls it over his head. "Okay. These come off now."
I do the same, folding the stiff fabric and handing it to him. He stuffs both aprons into the empty box and shoves it behind the courtesy desk.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go find our seats."
Our seats are mid-court, maybe four rows up. Hayden gestures for me to sit, and I sink into the cushioned chair, suddenly aware of how visible we are. From here, I can see the student section across the court. A sea of gold and black. A thousand faces.
I scan for Alex and Aisha, but it's impossible. Too many people. Too much movement. The band is warming up, the crowd is buzzing, and somewhere under there, Brendan is probably in the tunnel, waiting for his first college game to start.
I pull out my phone.
Me: Where are you guys?
A few seconds pass. Then a photo appears. Alex, grinning, Aisha giving a thumbs up, surrounded by students in a packed section. The angle is high. Nosebleeds.
Alex: The cheap seats. Living the dream.
Alex: Where are YOU?
I glance around. Cushioned seats. Sightlines. Mid-court.
Me: Don't hate me.
Alex: Too late.
Alex: Don’t forget to send pics of Brendan all sweaty.
I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket.
Hayden glances over. "Everything okay?"
"Alex wants pictures of Brendan."
He grins. "Gabriel is taking pictures for Brendan; you don’t have to.”
The lights dim. The crowd roars. The starting lineups are about to be announced.
I don't get to respond. But I'm still smiling.
The game moves fast. Faster than football. Eastern Washington isn't supposed to be a challenge, but they come out swinging: hitting threes, forcing turnovers, building a lead that shocks the crowd. Every missed shot draws a collective groan. Every Buffs mistake makes the silence louder.
I'm not really watching the ball. I'm watching the bench.
Brendan is there, second from the end, knees bouncing, hands wrapped around his thighs. He's wearing his warmups, hood up, looking like every other freshman who hasn't seen the court yet.
Hayden leans over. "He'll get in. Coach likes to play deep in these early games."
"How do you know?"
"I asked Jakimovski in the dining hall." He pauses. "He'll get in today."
The first half ends with CU down by six. The band plays. The dance team does a routine. I check my phone. Alex has sent three more photos from the nosebleeds, each one grainier than the last.
Alex: Can you see us?
Alex: Wave.
Alex: I can't see anything from over here. I think I'm in a different zip code.
I don't wave.
The second half starts. CU opens with a run, cutting the lead to four. But Eastern Washington answers back, pushing it to nine again. Coach Boyle calls a timeout.
And then it happens.
Brendan stands up. Strips off his warmups. Jogs to the scorer's table.
The crowd doesn't roar: it's not that kind of moment. But there's a ripple. A freshman getting his first minutes. People clap. Someone behind me yells, "Let's go, Maryland boy!"
He checks in during a dead ball. Runs onto the court. Takes his position on the wing.
I watch him. Really study him.
He's moving differently than he did in the tent, the Bronco, or his dorm. There's a focus there, a narrowing of everything down to the floor, the ball, the player in front of him. He looks small out there. Then he doesn't.
He sets a screen. Rolls to the basket. Someone finds him.
He shoots.
The ball rattles around the rim and falls out.
"Dang," Hayden mutters.
But Brendan doesn't hang his head. He runs back on defense, gets in a stance, and slaps the floor. He wants it back.
He plays for two minutes. Maybe two and a half. He doesn't score. He commits a foul. He grabs a rebound, his first collegiate rebound, and outlets it to the point guard.
When he comes out, the coach pats his back. One of the assistants says something in his ear. Brendan nods, pulls his warmups back on, and takes his seat at the end of the bench.
He's smiling.
I don't realize I haven’t exhaled until Hayden bumps my shoulder.
"You're staring."
"I'm watching the game."
"Same thing."
Brendan looks up at the clock, then down at his hands. The camera above the court pans past him. For a second, he's on the Jumbotron. The crowd claps. He doesn't look up.
And that's when I see it.
His shorts have ridden up slightly as he sits. Just above the knee. And there, peeking out from under the hem, is the logo of his boxer briefs.
Black. Nike.
The exact same pair he was wearing that night at Diamond Lake. The night we all shared the tent. The day everything changed again.
My stomach drops.
Hayden follows my gaze. His body goes still beside me.
"You saw him?" I ask, voice low.
"Yeah."
Neither of us says anything else. The game continues. The crowd cheers. But I'm not watching the ball anymore.
I'm watching one specific player and wondering why he wore those tonight. Of all nights.
On the court, CU mounts a serious comeback: a 17-2 run, the announcer says, but it barely registers in my ears.
The final buzzer sounds. 76-56, Buffs. The crowd doesn't storm the court: it's Eastern Washington, not Kansas, but there's a relieved energy, the kind that comes with a win that feels closer than the scoreboard suggests. People file toward the exits, already talking about the next game
Hayden stands. "Come on, let’s go."
"Where?"
"Locker room. I told you, I can get in."
He's already moving, weaving through the crowd, and I have no choice but to follow. We slip past a security guard who nods at Hayden as if he knows him, because of course he does, and suddenly we're in a different world.
The corridor is fluorescent and loud. Not crowd-loud. Echo-loud. Footsteps on concrete, distant shouting, the slam of a door somewhere ahead. The air smells like bleach and sweat and something else, victory, maybe, or just the particular musk of a locker room after a game.
Hayden pulls out his phone. "Text Alex. Tell them we'll meet them outside. I don't want them waiting forever."
I hesitate. "Can I at least see them off?"
He looks at me, and something in his expression softens. "Yeah. Of course. I'll wait here."
I find Alex and Aisha near the main concourse, standing off to the side where the crowd thins. Alex is still wearing his stupid CU foam finger. Aisha is scrolling through photos on her phone.
"You're abandoning us now, Brand Ambassador?" Alex says, but he's grinning.
"I'm not abandoning you. I'm... accompanying him."
"To the sacred inner sanctum," Aisha says dryly. "Where the athletes go to glisten."
I laugh despite myself. "Something like that."
Alex throws an arm around my shoulder. "Go. We'll survive. But you owe us details. I heard Trevor Baskin’s got a chest to die for."
Aisha elbows him. "Ignore him. Go. We'll see you back at the dorm."
I nod, grateful for them, for their willingness to be left behind without making it a thing. "Text me when you get home."
"Text you?" Alex scoffs. "You text us when you're done doing whatever it is you're about to do."
I don't dignify that with a response.
Hayden is waiting where I left him, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as I approach.
"All good?"
"Yeah. They're heading out."
He pushes off the wall. "Okay. Let's go."
The locker room is louder than the corridor. Music thumping from someone's portable speaker, voices overlapping, the sound of shower water running somewhere in the back. Steam curls from the far end of the room. It smells like victory, if victory smells like chlorine and Dr. Squatch body spray.
The main room opens up, and it's not what I expected. Sleek, black lockers, more like individual pods, glow with backlit nameplates. A few are open, revealing organized gear and charging phones. It's cleaner and more luxurious than I thought a locker room could be.
Hayden walks in like he’s at home. Track athlete. Influencer. Friend of the team. No one kicks us out.
I follow, trying not to stare at the bodies around me. Failing.
Brendan is in another room, near the training area. He's already stripped down to his black Nike boxer briefs, still the same pair, my stomach tightening, and he's standing beside a large plastic tub filled with ice water. His skin is flushed, hair still damp from the game, chest heaving slightly like he hasn't quite caught his breath.
"Yo," Hayden calls out.
Brendan looks up. His face breaks into a grin: tired, still catching up with the adrenaline.
"You guys came," Brendan says, toeing off his Nike slides.
"Told you we would." Hayden counters.
Brendan's eyes flick to me, then back to Hayden. The grin doesn't falter, but something shifts. A question why, maybe. Or an acknowledgment.
"Joey." He nods at me. "Thanks for coming."
"Wouldn't have missed it," I say, and I mean it.
He gestures at the tub. "First ice bath of the season. The coach swears by them."
"That looks uncomfortable," I say.
"It is." He grins. "Want to use the other one?"
"Hard pass."
Hayden laughs. Brendan steps into the tub, his breath hissing through his teeth as the ice water hits his skin. He sinks down until the water laps at his waist, then leans his head back against the rim of the tub.
"Oh," he exhales. "That's... something."
The three of us are alone in this room. The rest of the team is scattered, celebrating, showering, ignoring us. It feels private. Intimate. Like the tent, but brighter, colder, riskier.
Hayden sits on a bench across from Brendan. I hesitate, then sit next to him.
Brendan closes his eyes. The ice clinks against the side of the tub. Water drips from his chest.
"So," he says, not opening his eyes. "Did I look like I knew what I was doing out there?"
Hayden snorts. "You looked like a freshman."
"That’s accurate."
"You grabbed a rebound," I offer. "That counts for something."
Brendan opens one eye, peering at me. "You were counting?"
"I was watching."
Something passes between all of us. The tent. All the sleeping bags. The morning after.
Hayden clears his throat. "First game's in the books. Now you know what it feels like."
"Yeah," Brendan says, closing his eyes again. "Now I know."
Brendan shifts in the tub, water sloshing against the brim. His eyes are still closed, but there's a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"You guys should test the water. Make sure it's cold enough."
Hayden snorts. "No thanks."
"Scared?" Brendan scoffs.
"Of hypothermia? Yes." Hayden grins. “I need to keep my hands perfect for the product reveals.”
I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's the tension. Maybe it's wanting to break it. Maybe it's something else entirely, something I haven't admitted to myself.
I stand up. Walk over to the circular tub and kneel beside it.
Brendan opens his eyes as my hand approaches the water. He watches me, that smirk still there, curious now.
I plunge my hand in.
The cold hits immediately: sharp, biting, electric. I hiss through my teeth.
"That's freezing," I say.
"Told you." Brendan's voice is low. Almost private.
Beneath the surface, distorted by the water and the shifting ice, Brendan's hands move. Toward his lap. Toward the dark shape of his boxer briefs, soaking and clinging.
He's not adjusting. He's not repositioning.
He's drawing my attention.
I pull my hand out. Shake off the freezing water and stand up.
"Cold enough," I say, my voice steadier than my brain.
Brendan looks up at me. Not at Hayden. At me. His eyes are dark, still slightly glazed from the bone-cold tub, but there's something else there now. Something unspoken.
I don't know how to sit with that, so I look away.
Hayden is watching both of us. I can feel his gaze. When I glance at him, his expression is still unguarded.
Brendan leans his head back against the rim of the tub, shutting his eyes again.
"Good," he says. "Just making sure."
He shifts in the tub, then looks at Hayden, then at me.
"You guys want to come back to my dorm? Help me pick out what pictures I should use for my first game post."
Hayden glances at me. I glance at Hayden.
"Gabe took some," Brendan adds. "He's got a decent camera. Figured I'd want documentation. Even if I only played two minutes."
Hayden nods. "Yeah. We'll come."
Brendan stands up, water dropping off his body. He's still in his wet black Nike boxer briefs, skin flushed from the cold. He grabs a towel from a nearby rack, quickly changes into a fresh pair of gray Nike boxer briefs, then reaches for the rest of his gear.
His game-worn jersey is hanging on a hook near the tub. Black and gold. Number #32. He pulls it over his head before anything else, before his hoodie, before his warmups. The damp fabric clings to his built chest.
I watch him do everything. I can’t explain why he puts the jersey on first. Maybe he's not ready to wash it. Maybe he wants to feel the win a little longer on his skin.
He pulls on his warmups over his boxer briefs, then his hoodie over the jersey. The jersey is hidden now. But we know it's still there.
"Ready," he says.
The walk from the Events Center to Libby Hall is silent. The late October air is cold enough to see our breath, and the campus is mostly empty, everyone still filtering out of the arena, heading to cars or dorms for dinner or a night out.
Hayden walks between us, close enough that his elbow brushes mine every few steps. Brendan is on his other side, hair still damp from the ice bath, curling at the edges.
Brendan's room is exactly how I remember it from weeks ago. Basketball posters. Clothes on the chair. The toy hoop over the door. But something feels different. More inviting, maybe. Or maybe I'm just seeing it differently now that we’re starting to become closer friends.
Hayden walks to Brendan's desk and starts emptying his pockets. Keys, including the one to the Events Center storage room, his wallet, and two travel-sized Hello toothpaste tubes. They land on the desk with soft thunks.
"Carrying around too much crap," he mutters.
Brendan tosses his gym bag onto the floor, kicks off his shoes, and drops into his desk chair. He's stripped off his hoodie on the walk over, so the jersey is visible again. Black and gold. Number 32. Still slightly damp at the collar.
"Okay," he says, pulling out his phone. "Let me message Gabe. He said he'd send the photos over right after..."
He trails off, then frowns at the screen.
"What is it?" Hayden asks as he slips off his shoes.
Brendan stares at his phone. "He says his cloud is full. He can't send them until he clears space."
"So..." I start.
"So we can't look at the photos," Brendan finishes. He sets his phone down on the desk. "He says maybe tomorrow."
He sighs and glances at the toothpaste on his desk, then at Hayden.
"You got your brand deal at the Events Center," he says to Hayden. "I got to play in my first game. But I can't even see the pictures tonight." He exhales like he’s more frustrated at himself than us. "This blows."
The room goes quiet. Brendan's phone sits on the desk, screen dark, Gabe's message invisible now. The toothpaste tubes Hayden emptied from his pockets are still there: two bright spots of cyan and magenta on the wooden surface. A reminder of the brand deal. A reminder of what worked out tonight.
Hayden shifts his weight. "Gabe'll clear his cloud. You'll see them tomorrow."
"I know." Brendan's voice is flat. He's not looking at us. He’s looking at the poster of Shai Gilgeous-Alexander on his wall.
"But I wanted to see them tonight," he adds.
Seeing him like this, I say, "I saw you play. You grabbed a rebound. You looked like you belonged out there."
Brendan looks at me. Then at Hayden. Then down at his hands.
"Do I even belong here?" He traces a finger through the air between us.
Hayden is still. Brendan doesn't look away. And for a second, it feels like the second night at Diamond Lake again, except this time, no one's pretending. The question hangs in the air. It's not about the court. It's not about the team. It's about this room. This moment. The two of us standing right by Brendan.
Hayden moves first. He steps closer to Brendan's chair, reaches out, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah," he says. "You do."
Brendan doesn't pull away. He doesn't lean in either. He just sits there in his chair, waiting.
I shake off my shoes and kneel down in front of him. My knees hit the carpet. I'm eye level with his thighs, his hips, the drawstring of his sweatpants.
"Joey…" he starts.
"Shut up," I say, but it's not mean. It's gentle. "You belong here."
My hands find Brendan’s knees. Then his thighs. Then the waistband of his sweatpants. He lifts his hips, and I pull them down. He's wearing the fresh gray Nike boxer briefs underneath.
I lean in and mouth his prominent bulge through the elastane fabric.
His breath catches. His hand comes up to the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there.
I hear movement behind me. Fabric shifting. A zipper.
I glance to my side. Hayden is unbuttoning his jeans, shimmying out of them. They fall to his ankles, and he steps out of them, one foot then the other. His shirt follows, unbuttoned, shrugged off, dropped somewhere on Brendan's floor.
He's standing there in black Calvin Klein boxer briefs. His cock is already half hard, pressing against the pouch. He doesn't touch himself. Not yet. He just observes.
I turn back to Brendan.
His gray boxer briefs are damp at the waistband from my saliva. I hook my fingers into the elastic and pull down. He lifts his hips. The fabric slides over his thighs, his knees, pooling around his ankles.
He's hard. In the daylight, I can see he’s thick. Curved slightly to the left.
I lean in.
Before I take him into my mouth, I look up at Hayden. He's stroking himself now, slow, through his boxer briefs. His eyes are dark. He nods.
I wrap my lips around Brendan and sink down as he settles back. As I reach up and press my palm flat against his chest, the jersey is damp: sweat from the game, still not dried, still clinging to him. The black mesh is rough under my fingers, the number 32, the Nike jocktag in the bottom corner of the jersey. I can feel his heartbeat through the fabric. Fast. Or maybe that's mine.
Beside us, I hear Hayden's breath catch. The soft sound of him stroking himself. He's turned on by this. I can feel his eyes on my lips, on my hand on Brendan's chest, on the way Brendan's thighs are spreading slightly apart.
Brendan's hand finds my hair. His fingers tangle in it, not pushing, just holding. His breathing is heavier now.
"Joey," he says. My name. That's all.
I move my tongue. Slow at first, then firmer. Brendan groans, low, from somewhere deep in his chest. His hand tightens in my hair.
I bob my head, finding a rhythm. His hips start to move with me. Small thrusts at first, then deeper.
Beside us, Hayden's breathing is faster now. The slick sound of his hand. He's close. Or getting there.
Brendan's other hand grips the armrests of his chair. His knuckles are white.
"Oh God…" he warns.
I don't stop. I speed up.
His body goes rigid. His hand shoves my head back, not hard, just enough. He spasms before me, once, twice, and then I feel it. Hot across my cheek, my lips, my chin. He keeps coming, his hips jerking, his breath caught in his throat.
I stay there, kneeling, eyes half-closed, until he's finished.
When he finally slumps back in the chair, his chest heaving, the jersey damp with sweat and something else now, I open my eyes.
He's looking at me. His expression is wrecked. Grateful. Something else I can’t fathom the name for at this moment.
Beside me, Hayden groans. Not quiet this time. Low and strained, like he's been holding it in, letting Brendan have his moment.
I feel him move. His footsteps on the carpet. Then he's there, in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body.
"That was so hot," he says.
I look up. His eyes are focused. He's stroking himself fast now, his breath coming in short gasps.
"Joey…"
Hayden doesn't finish the sentence. His body tenses. His hand slows. Then he's coming, hot across my cheek, over my lips, layering on top of Brendan's. He keeps going, his hips jerking, until there's nothing left.
Then he exhales, shaky.
I stay there, kneeling between them, my face wet, my tongue tasting both of them on my lips.
As I finally catch my breath, Hayden is looking down at me, and a tired smile beams across his face. He pulls me up and kisses me, not caring about the mess.
When Hayden pulls back, he looks down at Brendan as he pulls his underwear back up. “Well, Meyer.” Hayden chuckles as he wipes a bead of cum from his cheek, “You better put pants back on and get us a towel.”
Brendan doesn't head to his closet. Instead, when he stands up, his black warmup pants are still around his ankles. He steps out of them and reaches for me.
"Over here," he says.
Before I can respond, he’s taking off my polo shirt, pushing me back onto the bed. I fall onto the mattress, and he's on me, unbuttoning my pants.
His hand finds my cock in my underwear. He doesn't ask. He just wraps his fingers around my already hardened length and starts stroking.
I can't protest. I'm already close.
Then the bed shifts. Hayden climbs in beside us. His hand finds my chest, fingers splaying across my ribs, then sliding up to my nipple.
He runs his hand through the thick hair between my pectorals.
"You're so warm," he mutters against my ear.
Brendan keeps stroking. Hayden keeps touching. I'm caught between them: one hand below, one hand above, both claiming me.
Brendan's hand is determined, almost reckless. He strokes me fast, not gentle, not trying to be.
"Come on," he says. "You earned it tonight too."
And I do. Against his hand. Against my own heaving stomach.
Brendan doesn't pull back. He watches me come, his hand still moving, slowing only when I'm done.
Then he looks at his fingers, slick, messy, and wipes them on the Nike jocktag at the bottom corner of his jersey.
"There," Brendan says, glancing down at the small white tag. "Now it's really a game-worn souvenir."
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