The sun sits low over the field. Orange light cuts across the grass. Adam and Carl walk off the practice turf together. Their jerseys are soaked through. The fabric clings to every muscle. Sweat rolls down Adam's neck and darkens the collar of his shirt.
Adam is 6'4". He has jet-black hair that sticks to his forehead in wet strips. His black eyes are sharp. His jaw is square and covered in stubble. His shoulders are so broad that his jersey stretches tight across them. His pecs are thick and square, dusted with black hair that curls out of the neckline. His abs look like cobblestones. Eight of them. Stacked tight. His arms are 18 inches around, with veins that snake across the surface like roads on a map. His legs are like tree trunks. His calves are diamond-shaped and hard.
Carl walks beside him. Carl is 6'0". He has blonde hair that sits in tousled waves on his head. His eyes are blue and bright. His body is lean and built for speed. His pecs are peaked and tight. His arms are 15 inches, corded with muscle. His stomach has a ripped six-pack with deep V-lines that point down into his shorts. His legs are long and powerful.
But there is one thing about Carl that everyone notices. Everyone talks about. Everyone stares at.
His ass.
Carl's ass is huge. Not just big for a guy. It is huge by any standard. Two round, firm, thick globes sit high on his frame. They are shaped like softballs. Full and heavy. They push out against his shorts like they are trying to escape the fabric. When he walks, they shift and bounce. When he runs, they jiggle. The motion is hypnotic. The shape is a perfect heart. The muscle is firm underneath, but the fat on top gives it a soft, full look that makes people stare. His shorts ride up into the crack every time he moves. The fabric stretches tight across each cheek. The seam sits right in the middle, splitting the two globes and showing off how round and full each one is.
Adam tosses a football to Carl in a perfect spiral. Carl catches it and fires it back. They laugh. The sound is easy and familiar. They have been best friends since freshman year. Two years of sharing a room. Two years of 6 a.m. alarms and late-night talks. Two years of having each other's backs.
Their teammates are still scattered around the field. Some are stretching. Some are grabbing water. Brad is the loudest one out there. He is a linebacker. Big. Mouth bigger. He is the kind of guy who says whatever pops into his head and never thinks twice.
"Yo, Carl!" Brad yells from across the field. His voice carries. Everyone turns. "Damn, bro, that ass of yours is better than any girl's on campus! I'm not even joking. I've seen girls with less cake than you."
A few guys laugh. One of them, Marcus, claps his hands together. "He's right, though. Carl, you got a fat ass. Like, a real fat ass. The kind that bounces when you walk."
Carl's face turns red. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His jaw tightens. "Shut up, Brad," he says. His voice is thin. "It's just my body."
Brad walks closer. He is grinning. "Just your body? Bro, that thing is a weapon. I bet if you bent over right now, the whole team would lose their minds." He looks at Marcus. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that ass don't look like two softballs stuffed in his shorts."
Marcus shakes his head. "You're not wrong. I bet it jiggles when you slap it. Like a girl's. No, better than a girl's. I bet you could bounce a quarter off that thing."
Another teammate, Derek, joins in. He is a tight end. Tall and lanky. "I'm just saying, if Carl was a girl, I'd be all over that. That ass is fat. Like, porn-star fat. The kind you grab with both hands and it still spills over."
Carl crosses his arms. His blue eyes drop to the ground. He can feel their stares on his back. On his ass. It happens every day. Every single practice. The comments. The looks. The jokes. He hates it.
Brad is not done. He steps up behind Carl. Before Carl can move, Brad brings his hand down hard on Carl's right cheek.
The sound is sharp. Loud. A crack that echoes across the field. It sounds like a whip. Carl's whole body jumps. The sting shoots through his shorts and into his skin. It burns. His eyes water. He grabs his ass and rubs it, but the sting stays.
Everyone laughs. Loud. Brad holds his hand up like he just scored a touchdown. "See?! Did you hear that? That's the sound of a fat ass, boys! That thing clapped back!"
Marcus is doubled over. "Bro, it jiggled! I saw it jiggle! The whole thing shook like Jell-O!"
Derek nods, still laughing. "That's a real ass right there. I'm telling you, Carl, you could make money with that thing."
Carl's face is burning. Not just from the slap. From the shame. His right cheek throbs. The sting is deep. He can feel the heat in his skin where Brad's hand landed. He wants to leave. He wants to disappear.
Adam steps in. He puts his hand on Carl's shoulder. "Alright, that's enough," he says. His voice is calm but firm. "Back off, Brad."
Brad holds up his hands. "I'm just playing. Damn. Can't take a joke?" He is still grinning. He looks at Carl one more time. "But for real, though. That ass is legendary. You should be proud."
Carl says nothing. He grabs his water bottle and walks toward the locker room entrance. His shorts are still tight on his ass. He can feel it bouncing with every step. He can feel the eyes on him. He keeps his head down.
Adam follows him. He catches up and walks beside him. He does not say anything. He just walks. That is what Adam does. He does not need to fill the silence. He just stays close.
They reach the locker room. The rest of the team files in. Guys start pulling off jerseys and grabbing towels. The showers are open stalls. No doors. No curtains. Just a row of showerheads along the wall.
Carl does not go in.
He grabs his bag from his locker and heads for the door. Adam watches him go. He knows why. Carl has not showered in the team stalls once in the last six months. Not since the comments got really bad. Not since the day three guys stood behind him in the shower and made comments about his ass the whole time. After that, Carl started showering in their dorm room. They have a small bathroom. Just a shower, a toilet, and a sink. It is private. It is safe. Carl locks the door every time.
Adam grabs his own bag and follows Carl out of the locker room. They walk across campus to their dorm. The evening air is warm. Sweat cools on their skin.
They reach their room on the second floor of the athlete dorm. Adam unlocks the door. The room is standard. Two beds. Two desks. A small fridge. Posters on the walls. A TV mounted on the wall opposite Adam's bed. The bathroom door is on the right side, closed.
Carl drops his bag and sits on his desk chair. Adam sits on his bed.
Carl leans back in the chair. He lets out a long breath. "Can you believe those guys?" he says. He shakes his head. "Every single day. Every practice. It's always the same thing."
Adam nods. "I know. Brad's the worst, but they all do it."
"'Fat ass.' 'Better than a girl's.' 'Porn-star fat.' That's what Derek said. Porn-star fat. What the hell does that even mean?" Carl's voice is tight. His hands grip the armrests of the chair.
"It means he's an idiot," Adam says. "They're all idiots."
Carl rubs his right cheek. The sting from Brad's slap is still there. A faint pink handprint is probably still visible on his skin. "He hit me so hard. I felt it in my teeth. And everyone just laughed."
Adam's jaw tightens. He did not like it either. He saw Carl's face. He saw the way his eyes watered. He saw the way his hand shook when he rubbed the spot. "I know," Adam says. "I should have said something sooner."
"You did say something," Carl says. "You told him to back off. He just doesn't listen."
Adam runs a hand through his wet black hair. He looks at the ceiling. There is something else on his mind. Something he has been thinking about for days. But he does not bring it up yet. Instead, he shifts the conversation.
"You talk to any girls lately?" Adam asks. He keeps his voice casual.
Carl shakes his head. "No. Not since Jessica." His voice goes quiet when he says her name. Jessica was his girlfriend. They dated for a year. Carl loved her. He really did. He thought she loved him too. But three months ago, he found out she had been sleeping with some guy from her chemistry class for two months. She did not even tell him. He found out because he saw a text pop up on her phone while she was in the bathroom. The message was graphic. It described things she had done with the other guy the night before. Things she had stopped doing with Carl months ago.
Carl was destroyed. He did not eat for two days. He did not leave the room for three. Adam was there the whole time. Adam brought him food. Adam sat on the edge of his bed and made him drink water. Adam put on dumb action movies and sat there with him in the dark, not saying anything, just being there. When Carl finally cried, Adam did not tell him to stop. He just put his hand on Carl's shoulder and let him get it out.
That was three months ago. Carl has not been on a date since. He has not talked to a girl. He has not tried. The trust is gone. The thought of opening up to someone and getting hurt again makes his stomach turn.
"What about you?" Carl asks. "You got any girls blowing up your phone?"
Adam lets out a breath. He sits up straight on the bed. His black eyes meet Carl's blue ones. "Actually, yeah. That's the thing. There's this girl. Sophia."
Carl frowns. "Sophia? The one who keeps texting you?"
"Yeah," Adam says. "Her. She's been out of control lately. It started two weeks ago. She got my number from somewhere. I don't even know how. She started texting me. At first, it was just 'hey' and 'what's up.' I texted back once because I thought she was just being friendly. Big mistake. Now she texts me fifty times a day. She sends me pictures. She shows up at my classes. She was sitting in the back row of my history class yesterday. Just sitting there. Staring at me. When class ended, I tried to leave fast, and she followed me halfway across campus."
Carl's eyes widen. "That's stalking, bro."
"I know," Adam says. He runs both hands through his hair. His biceps flex as he does. "I told her to stop. I told her I'm not interested. I told her a hundred times. She just laughs and says I'm playing hard to get. She showed up at our door at 2 a.m. last Thursday. You were asleep. I opened the door and she was just standing there. In a little dress. She tried to come in. I had to close the door on her."
Carl stares at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Adam shrugs. "I didn't want to bother you. You've been dealing with your own stuff."
"Adam, that's not bothering me. That's you needing help." Carl leans forward in his chair. "Have you told the RA?"
"I told him. He said he'd talk to her. He did. It didn't matter. She just switched to showing up at different times."
Carl sits back. He thinks for a moment. "What about the coach? Or campus security?"
Adam shakes his head. "I don't want to make it a big deal. If I report her officially, it goes on record. It could get her kicked out of school. I don't want that. I just want her to leave me alone."
"So what are you going to do?"
Adam is quiet for a moment. He looks at Carl. His black eyes are serious. There is something behind them. An idea. He has been turning it over in his head for days. He has not said it out loud yet. He takes a breath.
"What if I had a boyfriend?" Adam says.
Carl blinks. "What?"
"What if I had a boyfriend? If Sophia sees me with a guy, she'll back off. She'll think I'm not into girls. She'll stop."
Carl stares at him. His mouth opens, then closes. "Adam, you're straight."
"I know."
"So how would you have a boyfriend?"
Adam holds his gaze. "You."
Carl's chair creaks. He leans back hard. "Me? You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?"
"Yeah. Just for a little while. Just until she gets the message."
Carl stands up. He paces the room. His shorts are tight on his ass. It bounces with each step. He does not notice. His mind is racing. "Adam, I can't do that. I'm straight. You're straight. What happens when someone sees us? What happens when the team finds out? What about my family? My friends from high school?"
"No one has to know it's fake," Adam says. He stands up too. He is a full head taller than Carl. His body is massive compared to Carl's lean frame. "We just act like we're together in front of Sophia. We hold hands. We hang out where she can see us. We let her figure it out. That's it."
Carl shakes his head. "That's not it. People will talk. They already talk about me enough. You heard Brad today. You heard what they said about my ass. If they think I'm gay, it'll get worse. It'll be ten times worse."
"I'll be right there," Adam says. "I'll handle it."
"You can't handle everything, Adam." Carl's voice is sharp now. "You can't control what people say. You can't control what they think."
Adam sits back down on the bed. He puts his elbows on his knees. He looks at the floor. "I know," he says. His voice is quieter now. "I know you're right. But I don't know what else to do. I've tried everything. I've tried being nice. I've tried being mean. I've tried ignoring her. She won't stop. I can't sleep. I can't focus. She's everywhere."
Carl looks at him. He sees the tension in Adam's shoulders. He sees the way his jaw is clenched. He sees the dark circles under his black eyes. Adam has been dealing with this alone. Just like Carl dealt with Jessica alone. Except Adam was there for Carl. And Carl was not there for Adam.
But the idea still scares him.
"Let me think about it," Carl says.
Adam looks up. "Okay."
That was Monday.
Tuesday. Carl is at his desk. Adam is on his bed. They are both studying. The room is quiet. Carl's phone buzzes. It is a text from Brad. It is a meme. The meme shows a picture of a girl with a big butt. Underneath, it says: "When you realize Carl has a better ass than her." Brad has sent it to the whole team group chat.
Carl's face goes red. He locks his phone and puts it face down on the desk. Adam sees his expression. He does not ask. He already knows.
Later that day, Carl is at the water fountain outside the gym. Brad walks up behind him. Tyler is a safety on the team. He is not as big as Brad, but he is loud. He steps right up behind Carl. Close. Too close. Carl feels Brad’s hips press against his ass. Brad’s hands come around and grab Carl's chest. His palms press flat against Carl's pecs. He squeezes. His fingers dig in like he is holding a pair of breasts.
"Oh yeah," Brad says, moaning. His voice is low and mocking. "Baby, you feel so good. So soft. God, these are nice." He squeezes again. He rolls Carl's pecs under his hands. He pushes his hips forward, grinding into Carl's ass.
Carl freezes. His whole body goes stiff. He can feel Brad’s crotch against his ass. He can feel the hands on his chest. The mockery of it. The humiliation. It lasts three seconds, but it feels like an hour.
"Get off me!" Carl shoves Brad’s hands away and spins around. His face is bright red. His fists are clenched.
Brad steps back, laughing. "Relax, bro. I'm just playing." He holds his hands up. "But for real, your chest is nice too. You got the whole package. The ass, the chest, the abs. If you were a girl, I'd marry you."
Two other guys nearby are laughing. One of them says, "Brad, you're wild, bro." But they are not telling him to stop.
Carl walks away. His hands are shaking. He goes straight to the dorm room. Adam is not there yet. Carl locks the door and goes into the bathroom. He turns on the shower. He stands under the water and lets it run over him. He does not wash. He just stands there. The water is hot. It hits the spot on his chest where Brad grabbed him. It hits the spot on his ass where Brad slapped him yesterday. Both places still ache.
When Adam gets back, Carl is sitting on his bed in a towel. His hair is wet. His eyes are red.
Adam sits across from him on his own bed. He does not say anything for a moment. Then: "Brad?"
Carl nods. "He grabbed my chest. And he..." He does not finish. He does not need to.
Adam's hands are tight on his knees. "I'll talk to him."
"Don't," Carl says. "It'll just make it worse."
They sit in silence. Then Carl says, "Tell me more about this fake boyfriend idea."
Adam looks at him. "You're thinking about it?"
"I'm thinking about it. That doesn't mean I'm saying yes. I just want to understand how it would work."
Adam explains. They would act like a couple in public. Hold hands. Sit close. Let people see them together. They would not kiss. They would not do anything physical. It would just be an image. A message. Sophia would see it. She would realize Adam is with someone. A guy. She would back off.
"What if she doesn't believe it?" Carl asks.
"She will," Adam says. "Everyone already knows how close we are. We're always together. It wouldn't be a huge leap."
Carl pulls the towel tighter around his waist. His ass is still bare under the terrycloth. The fabric sits on top of the two round globes. He shifts on the bed. "I don't know, Adam. I'm straight. I like girls. What if this messes with my head? What if it messes with our friendship?"
"It won't," Adam says. "We're best friends. That's not going to change. This is just a thing we do to fix a problem. That's all."
Carl looks at the floor. "Let me keep thinking."
"Okay," Adam says.
Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Adam does not bring it up again. But Carl can see it in his face. The tiredness. The way he checks his phone and then puts it down quickly. The way he looks at the door like he is expecting someone to knock.
On Friday night, Carl finds Adam sitting on the edge of his bed. His phone is in his hand. The screen is lit up. There are dozens of messages. Carl can see them from across the room. They are all from Sophia. Some of them are long paragraphs. Some of them are just hearts. One of them says: "I know you want me. Stop pretending."
Adam puts the phone face down on the bed. He puts his head in his hands. His shoulders are tight. The muscles in his back are rigid.
Carl watches him from his desk. He thinks about three months ago. He thinks about sitting on this same bed, broken over Jessica. He thinks about how Adam brought him a sandwich and sat there and did not say a word. He thinks about how Adam put his hand on his shoulder and just held it there. How that hand was the only thing that felt steady in the whole world.
Carl stands up. He walks over to Adam's bed. He sits down next to him. The bed dips under their combined weight. Adam's massive frame takes up most of the space. Carl's lean body sits close. Their shoulders almost touch.
"Okay," Carl says.
Adam lifts his head. His black eyes are wet. Not crying. But close. "Okay what?"
"Okay. I'll do it. I'll be your fake boyfriend."
Adam stares at him. "Are you sure?"
"No," Carl says. "I'm not sure at all. But you need help. And you helped me when I needed it. So I'm doing this."
Adam's hand comes down on Carl's shoulder. It is big and warm and heavy. He squeezes once. "Thank you," he says. His voice is rough. "I mean it. Thank you."
Carl nods. He looks at the bathroom door. He thinks about how he showers in there because he is afraid to shower with the team. He thinks about Tyler's hands on his chest. He thinks about Brad's hand on his ass. He thinks about the sound it made. The sting. The laughter.
"We set rules," Carl says. "No kissing. No touching that we don't have to do. And if it gets weird, we stop. And if Sophia figures it out, we stop."
"Done," Adam says. "All of it. Done."
Carl looks at him. Adam's face is serious. His jaw is set. His black eyes are steady. Carl believes him. He believes that Adam means it. He believes that Adam would never push him somewhere he does not want to go.
But there is something else in Carl's gut. A small, tight knot. It is the feeling of stepping off a ledge. The feeling of agreeing to something that will change things. Not in a big, dramatic way. In a slow, quiet way. The kind of change that happens one day at a time, one small moment at a time, until you look back and realize you are somewhere you never planned to be.
Carl does not say any of this. He just sits there. Adam's hand is still on his shoulder. The room is quiet. The bathroom door is closed. The phone is face down on the bed. Somewhere across campus, Sophia is sending another text.
Adam squeezes Carl's shoulder one more time. "It's going to be fine," he says.
Carl nods. He wants to believe that too.
They sit there for a long time. The room gets dark around them. Neither one moves to turn on the light.
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The silence stretches between them, thick and warm in the dark room. Adam's hand stays on Carl's shoulder, his thumb pressing into the groove above Carl's collarbone. The terrycloth towel sits loose on Carl's hips, barely knotted, and the damp skin underneath cools in the air conditioning.
Adam pulls his hand back first. He clears his throat.
"So," he says. "Tomorrow, then."
Carl stares at the floor between his bare feet. His toes curl against the cold tile. "Yeah."
"We tell the guys first. Get ahead of it."
"Right."
Adam reaches for his phone, flips it over. The screen lights up with notification counts, fourteen unread messages from Sophia. He locks it again without reading any of them.
"Get some sleep," Adam says. He stands, pulls off his shirt, and tosses it toward the laundry basket in the corner. His chest expands as he stretches, arms overhead, muscles pulling tanned skin over slabs of muscle. He drops onto his bed in just his boxers.
Carl doesn't move. His fingers pick at the edge of the towel. His mind runs through scenarios, each one worse than the last. Brad's face when he finds out. Marcus and his loud mouth. Tyler, who already grabbed Carl's chest last week at practice, grinding his hips forward like it was a joke.
"Carl."
He looks up.
"It's going to be fine," Adam says again. He says it like he believes it.
Carl exhales through his nose. He pulls back the sheet on his bed and drops the towel. His bare ass hits the mattress, and he pulls the covers up to his waist. He stares at the ceiling.
Neither of them sleeps well.
Morning comes hard. Sunlight cuts through the gap in the blinds and lands across Carl's face. He squints, rolls over, and finds Adam already dressed, black t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, basketball shorts riding low on his hips, sneakers on.
"Up," Adam says. He tosses an apple at Carl's head. Carl catches it, takes a bite, and pulls on shorts and a tank top. His blonde hair sticks up in every direction. He doesn't bother fixing it.
They walk to the dining hall together. Same as every morning. Except today, Adam walks closer. His elbow bumps Carl's arm every few steps. Carl glances at him, and Adam gives a small nod.
This is it.
They push through the double doors of the dining hall. The football team's usual table sits near the back, eight guys already seated, trays piled with eggs and toast and protein shakes. Brad is in the middle, loud as always, retelling some story about a girl he took home last weekend. Marcus is next to him, laughing. Derek, Tyler, and a few others fill out the table.
Adam walks straight to the table. Carl follows. Adam pulls out a chair, sits, and then does something he has never done before. He grabs the empty chair next to him, drags it close, and pats the seat.
"Sit."
Carl sits. His thigh presses against Adam's. The contact is warm through the thin fabric of their shorts.
Brad slows mid-sentence. His eyes track the movement, the chair drag, the thigh contact, the way Adam's hand rests on the back of Carl's seat.
"What's up with you two?" Brad says, grinning. "You guys get married or something?"
Adam doesn't miss a beat. "Actually, yeah."
The table goes quiet. Forks stop. Marcus sets down his juice. Derek's mouth hangs open with half a chewed piece of egg visible.
"Excuse me?" Tyler says.
Adam's arm settles around the back of Carl's chair. His fingers rest on Carl's shoulder, casual, like they've done this a thousand times. "Me and Carl. We're together."
Carl stares at his plate. His jaw is tight. He can feel every pair of eyes on him.
"Together like—" Marcus starts.
"Together like boyfriends," Adam says.
Brad's grin has frozen on his face. He blinks. He looks at Carl, then back at Adam, then at Carl again. "You're shitting me."
"I'm not," Adam says.
"The fuck you mean you're not?" Derek says. "Since when?"
"Since a couple weeks," Adam says. "We kept it quiet."
The table erupts. Three guys talk at once. Tyler leans back in his chair like someone pushed him. Marcus keeps saying "no way, no way, no way" under his breath. One of the linemen, huge kid named Pat, just stares at his food with his mouth open.
Carl's face is burning. The tips of his ears are red. He can feel the heat spreading down his neck.
"No fucking way," Brad says. He's leaning forward now, studying them both. "Carl Hayes. The same Carl Hayes who dated Jessica for two years. That Carl Hayes?"
"People change," Adam says. He squeezes Carl's shoulder.
Carl forces himself to look up. He meets Brad's eyes. "It's real," he says. His voice comes out steadier than he expected.
Brad stares at him for a long moment. Then his face cracks into a massive grin. "Holy shit. Holy shit!" He slaps the table. "I called it! I fucking called it! Remember at the start of the year when I said you two were too close? Remember that?"
"You said they were gay for each other," Marcus says. "You literally used those words."
"And I was right!" Brad points at them. "Pay up, Derek. You owe me twenty bucks."
Derek shakes his head. "That bet was a joke. I'm not paying you shit."
The tension breaks. Guys start talking over each other. Pat reaches across the table and claps Adam on the back. "Good for you, man. Seriously."
Adam smiles. It's a real smile, relief loosening the tight lines around his mouth. "Thanks, Pat."
But then the comments start.
Brad leans back, arms crossed. He looks at Carl. "So wait. Let me get this straight." He grins. "Or not straight, I guess. Adam's the one pitching, and Carl's the one catching?"
Carl's stomach drops.
"Bro, look at them," Marcus says, gesturing. "Adam's like twice his size. Obviously Adam's the top."
"Obviously," Derek agrees. He turns to Carl. "No offense, Hayes, but there's no way you're topping that." He points at Adam. "Dude's a fucking tank."
Tyler leans forward, chin resting on his hand. "Makes sense, actually. Carl's got that ass on him. You seen it in those track shorts? Shit jiggles every time he runs."
Carl's hands are fists under the table. His knuckles are white.
Brad laughs. "Oh shit, you're right. Carl's got that dump truck. No wonder Adam wanted a piece." He looks at Adam. "How is it? That thing as soft as it looks?"
Adam laughs. He punches Brad in the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, man."
"I'm just saying! A man gets a piece of that bubble butt, he's gonna be happy. Adam's been walking around grinning all week. Now we know why." Brad holds up his hands. "Getting to clap those cheeks every night? I'd be grinning too."
"Bro, Carl's gonna be limping after practice," Marcus says. "Adam's built like a fucking horse. You know that thing's swinging."
"Marcus, what the fuck," Carl says.
"What? I'm just being real. Adam's a big dude. You know what they say about big dudes."
"They say he's gonna destroy that ass," Derek says, cackling. "Carl's gonna need a cushion for those bleachers."
"Already needs one," Tyler says. "Have you seen him sit down after workouts? Wincing and shit. Adam's been putting in work."
The table breaks into laughter. Carl sits rigid, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache. Adam is laughing too, shaking his head, punching Brad again.
"Alright, alright," Adam says. "You guys are ridiculous."
Carl doesn't laugh. He stares at his plate. The apple he bit into sits untouched, the flesh already browning.
The conversation shifts. People move on. But Carl doesn't. He sits there, Adam's arm still draped behind him, and he feels something sour crawling up his throat.
After breakfast, they walk to class. Adam's hand finds the small of Carl's back, guiding him through the door. Carl flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away.
"Why does everyone automatically assume I'm the bottom?" Carl says. He keeps his voice low. His eyes are straight ahead.
Adam glances at him. "What?"
"Back there. Everyone. Brad, Marcus, Tyler, all of them. First thing out of their mouths. 'Oh, Carl's the one getting fucked.' Like it's just a given."
Adam shrugs. His hand stays on Carl's back. "They're just talking shit. You know how they are."
"It's not just shit, Adam. They immediately put me in the, in the girl's role. Like I'm the one getting pinned down and—"
"It's jokes, Carl. Don't read into it."
Carl stops walking. Adam's hand falls away. "It's not jokes to me. Every single one of them just decided that I'm the bottom. That I'm the one taking it. Like there's no other option."
Adam looks at him. His expression is patient, maybe a little amused. "Dude. Look at us. Which one do you think people are gonna assume is topping?"
Carl's mouth opens. Then closes. He knows Adam's right. That's the worst part.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Adam says. "It's fake. None of this is real. Let them think what they want."
Carl stares at the pavement. A group of students walks past, paying them no attention.
"Yeah," Carl says. "Sure."
Adam's hand returns to his back. They keep walking.
Over the next few days, the news spreads like wildfire. By Monday afternoon, half the athletic department knows. By Tuesday, the other half. By Wednesday, people Carl has never met are congratulating him in the hallway.
Carl hears the whispers as he walks to class.
"I knew it. Those two were always together."
"Adam Blackwood is gay? No way. That guy's a machine."
"I heard it from Marcus. He said they've been dating for weeks."
"Carl Hayes? Didn't he date that Jessica girl?"
"Guess she wasn't enough for him. Needed real dick."
"Who's the top, though?"
"Are you kidding? Adam. Obviously. Have you seen the size of him?"
"Poor Carl. That's got to hurt."
Carl hears every word. He keeps his eyes forward and his jaw tight.
Some reactions surprise him. A few guys on the track team, guys Carl barely talked to before, come up and tell him they're happy for him. One of them, a hurdler named James, pulls Carl aside after practice.
"For what it's worth," James says, "I'm bi. Have been for a while. Never said anything because of the team. But seeing you and Adam just... be out? That helps."
Carl doesn't know what to say. He mumbles something about appreciating it and walks away with a knot of guilt sitting heavy in his stomach. Because none of this is real. James is finding courage in a lie.
But then there are the other reactions. The ones that make Carl's skin crawl.
He's at the gym, loading a barbell for squats, when two guys from the lacrosse team walk past. One of them nudges the other.
"That's him. That's Adam's boyfriend."
"The blonde one? Damn, look at his ass."
"I know, right? Adam's a lucky man. Get to come home to that every night."
"You think he lets Adam raw him? Little guy like that taking Adam's cock? Bet he screams."
Carl racks the barbell hard. The metal clangs through the gym. The lacrosse guys glance over, see his face, and move on.
He finds Adam in the weight room afterward. Adam is bench pressing 315, his massive arms pushing the weight up like it's nothing. Sweat rolls down the stubble on his jaw. Carl stands at the end of the bench and waits.
Adam racks the weight and sits up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Carl's voice is clipped. "Two guys from lacrosse just had a whole conversation about my ass. About how you fuck me."
Adam grabs his towel, wipes his face. "What'd they say?"
"Does it matter? It's the same shit. Everyone on this campus has decided that I'm your, that I'm the one who—"
"Carl."
"I'm not your bottom, Adam. I'm not your girlfriend. I'm not the one who—"
"Nobody's saying you are."
"Everyone is saying I am! Every single person! Brad, Marcus, Tyler, random guys at the gym, people I don't even know! They all think I'm just lying back and taking it from you!"
Adam stands. He's a full head taller than Carl, and the difference hits Carl like a wall. Adam's chest is broad and wet with sweat, his shoulders filling Carl's entire field of vision.
"It's an act," Adam says. His voice is calm. "We're pretending. In a few weeks, Sophia backs off, and we break up. None of this matters."
Carl exhales. His hands are shaking. He shoves them in his pockets.
"Just let it go," Adam says. He puts his hand on Carl's shoulder. The same gesture from that night in the dorm. "It'll blow over."
Carl lets it go. He doesn't want to. But he lets it go.
Friday night. A house party on Greek Row. The whole team is there, plus track athletes, lacrosse guys, girls from the softball team, random people Carl half-recognizes from lectures. The music is loud enough to feel in his chest. Red Solo cups everywhere. The smell of cheap beer and cheaper cologne.
Adam and Carl walk in together. Adam's arm is around Carl's waist. His hand sits on Carl's hip, fingers curling over the bone. Carl used to flinch at the contact. Used to stiffen up, his shoulder blades pulling together, his breath catching. That was a week ago. Now his body has adapted. He leans into the touch without thinking about it, his hip fitting against Adam's thigh as they navigate the crowd.
They find the team near the kitchen. Brad is already drunk, red-faced and loud, holding court with a group of guys. Marcus is doing shots with Derek. Tyler is leaning against the counter, talking to a girl Carl doesn't recognize.
"Hey! Lovebirds!" Brad shouts. He thrusts two cups at them. "Drink up!"
Adam takes both cups, hands one to Carl. Their fingers brush. Carl drinks. The beer is warm and cheap. He drinks faster.
An hour passes. Then two. Carl feels the alcohol settle into his limbs, loosening the tension he carries in his shoulders. Adam stays close, his arm a constant weight around Carl's waist. His thumb traces small circles on Carl's hip bone through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Carl is used to it now. The touching. The proximity. He doesn't think about it anymore. Adam's hand on his waist feels like background noise, always there, barely noticed.
Brad is telling a story about a girl he hooked up with last weekend. Something about her roommate walking in. Everyone is laughing. Carl laughs too, his head tipped back against Adam's shoulder. He can feel Adam's laugh through his chest, a deep vibration against Carl's spine.
And then Sophia walks in.
Carl sees her before Adam does. She's standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her dark hair straightened and sharp around her face. Her eyes scan the room. They land on Adam. They narrow.
She crosses the kitchen in ten steps. People move out of her way. The energy shifts, something about her stride, the set of her jaw, makes the air feel different.
"Adam." Her voice cuts through the noise. Brad stops talking. Marcus turns.
Adam's arm tightens on Carl's waist. Just slightly. "Hey, Sophia."
"Don't 'hey Sophia' me." She stops three feet away. Her eyes flick to Carl, then back to Adam. "I've been trying to talk to you for two weeks. You won't answer my texts. You won't answer my calls. And now I find out you're—" she gestures between Adam and Carl— "this?"
"I told you, Sophia. I'm with Carl."
"You're not with Carl." She says it flatly. Like she's correcting a math error. "You're not gay. You were flirting with me at the library three weeks ago."
"I was being polite. There's a difference."
"Polite doesn't involve walking me to my car and asking about my weekend."
Adam's jaw tightens. His fingers press harder into Carl's hip. "I'm with Carl. That's it. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"
"You didn't give me any impression. You gave me exactly the right one, and now you're hiding behind—" she looks at Carl again, "him."
The kitchen is quiet. Everyone is watching. Brad has his cup frozen halfway to his mouth. Marcus and Derek are openly staring. Tyler has turned away from the girl he was talking to.
"Sophia," Adam says. His voice is measured. "I'm not hiding behind anyone. Carl is my boyfriend."
"Your boyfriend." She crosses her arms. "Prove it."
"What?"
"Prove it. Kiss him. Right now."
The words hit Carl like cold water. His spine straightens. His hand tightens on his cup, the plastic crinkling.
Adam looks at Carl. Carl looks at Adam. The silence stretches.
"You heard me," Sophia says. "If you two are actually together, kiss. Right here, right now. Show me."
Brad sets his cup down. "Holy shit."
Marcus whispers to Derek. Carl can't hear what he says.
Adam turns to Carl. His eyes are asking something. Carl stares back. The rules. No kissing. That was the first rule. The very first one. No kissing, no unnecessary touching, and an immediate end if things go wrong.
But if they don't kiss, Sophia wins. She'll know it's fake. She'll tell everyone. The whole thing falls apart.
Adam's black eyes hold Carl's blue ones. He's asking. Without words, he's asking.
Carl swallows. The beer taste is sour in his mouth. He nods.
Adam turns back to Sophia. "Fine."
He leans down. Carl's heart is slamming against his ribs. Adam's face comes closer, and Carl closes his eyes. He feels Adam's lips press against his, brief, dry, barely there. A peck. It lasts half a second.
Adam pulls back. Carl opens his eyes.
"There," Adam says to Sophia. "Happy?"
Sophia stares at them. Then she laughs. It's a sharp, bright sound that cuts through the silence of the kitchen.
"That's not a kiss," she says. "That's a peck. My grandma kisses me like that. You're boyfriends? Kiss like you mean it. Kiss like you actually want each other."
The kitchen is dead silent. Carl can hear the music from the other room, some bass-heavy track that feels wrong for this moment. Every single person in the kitchen is looking at them. Brad. Marcus. Derek. Tyler. People Carl doesn't even know. And Sophia, standing there with her arms crossed and her chin raised, daring them.
Adam looks at Carl again. This time his eyes aren't asking. They're pleading. There's something raw in them, something that Carl has never seen before. Adam, who never asks for help, who never shows weakness, is begging.
Carl's chest is tight. His hands are numb. He thinks about the last three weeks. The texts. The following. The showing up at Adam's classes. The way Adam's jaw has been clenched, the way he hasn't been sleeping, the dark circles under his eyes that he tries to hide.
Carl nods.
Adam moves slowly. His hand comes up and cups the side of Carl's face. His palm is warm and rough, calloused from years of gripping a football. Carl's jaw fits inside it like it was made to sit there.
Carl closes his eyes.
Adam's lips touch his.
It's hesitant at first. Just a press of lips, soft against soft. Adam's mouth is slightly chapped from the cold air. Carl's mouth is still, frozen, barely participating. He stands there with his arms at his sides, his fingers curled into fists, and lets Adam's mouth rest against his.
Then Adam tilts his head. Just slightly. Just enough to change the angle. And his lips move.
Carl feels it. The shift. Adam's mouth opens a fraction, and his top lip slides between Carl's, and suddenly it's not a peck anymore. It's a real kiss. Adam's hand slides from Carl's jaw to the back of his neck, his fingers threading into blonde hair, and he pulls Carl closer.
Carl stands rigid. His eyes are closed. He feels Adam's mouth working against his, slow, exploring, the way someone kisses when they're learning the shape of another person's lips. Adam's bottom lip drags across Carl's, and there's moisture now, the faint slickness of beer and spit, and Adam presses in deeper.
The alcohol hums in Carl's blood. His head is fuzzy. He feels Adam's chest against his, the solid mass of muscle and the heartbeat underneath, and Adam's hand cradling his head, and Adam's mouth—
Adam is kissing him. Really kissing him. Not a peck. Not a joke. Adam's lips are moving against Carl's with intention, with direction, the way a guy kisses a girl when he wants her. Adam's tongue traces the seam of Carl's mouth, not pushing in, just tracing, and Carl feels a jolt, something electric and wrong that snaps through his chest.
Adam makes a sound. Low, quiet, barely audible over the music. A hum. A sound of approval. His fingers tighten in Carl's hair, and he angles Carl's head back, and the kiss deepens. Adam's mouth is insistent now, his lips working with a rhythm, and Carl can taste the beer on his tongue, can feel the heat of Adam's breath against his cheek.
Carl isn't kissing back. His mouth is passive, his body is stiff, his fists are clenched at his sides. But he doesn't pull away. He can't. If he pulls away, the act breaks. Sophia wins. Everyone knows.
So he stands there and lets Adam kiss him.
And Adam is lost. His eyes are closed, his brow is furrowed, and he's kissing Carl with a focus that goes beyond performance. His hand cradles the back of Carl's skull, his thumb stroking the soft hair behind Carl's ear, and his mouth moves with increasing hunger. He sucks Carl's bottom lip between his teeth, tugs gently, releases. His tongue flicks out and traces the outline of Carl's mouth. He tilts his head the other way and presses in deeper, and a breath escapes him, something between a sigh and a groan.
Carl's eyes snap open.
He sees Adam's face from an inch away. The closed eyes. The furrowed brow. The concentration. The way Adam's jaw is working, the muscles in his cheeks flexing as he moves his mouth. The way his eyelashes flutter.
And Carl realizes something.
In this moment, Adam is the one kissing. Adam is the one leading. Adam's hand is in Carl's hair, tilting his head back. Adam's mouth is on Carl's, taking what it wants. And Carl is the one standing still, passive, being kissed. Being held. Being—
Carl pulls back.
The separation is sharp. He steps back, and Adam's hand falls from his hair. The air hits Carl's lips, wet and cool.
Adam's eyes open. They're hazy for a moment, unfocused, the pupils blown wide. Then clarity returns. He blinks. Looks at Carl. Looks at Sophia. Looks at the room full of people staring at them.
Something passes across Adam's face. A flicker. Gone before Carl can name it.
Then Adam grins. He turns to Sophia and spreads his hands. "That enough for you?"
Sophia's mouth is open. Her arms have uncrossed. She looks between Adam and Carl, searching for something, some crack in the facade. She doesn't find it. Not because the act is perfect, but because the kiss was too real, too deep, too hungry to be faked.
"That—" Sophia starts. She stops. Her jaw works. "Fine."
She turns and walks out of the kitchen. The crowd parts for her. She doesn't look back.
The room exhales.
"Holy shit!" Brad yells. He slaps the counter. "That was fucking intense!"
The tension shatters. People start talking at once. Marcus is shaking his head, laughing. Derek is saying something to Tyler about how Adam "went in." Pat is clapping.
Adam is laughing. He claps Brad on the shoulder, takes a long drink of his beer, and says something about Brad being jealous. His voice is normal. His posture is relaxed. His face is open and easy, the same Adam he always is, confident, in control, unbothered.
Carl stands three feet away. His lips are still wet. His heart is still racing. His hands are still fists.
He looks at Adam, laughing, drinking, joking with Brad, and he feels the gap between them like a physical distance. Like Adam is on one side of something and Carl is on the other, and the kiss just pushed them further apart.
Because Carl didn't feel what Adam felt. Carl stood still and let it happen. But Adam, Adam was somewhere else. Adam's eyes were closed, and his hand was in Carl's hair, and he was kissing Carl like he meant it. Like he wanted it. Like he forgot where he was and who he was with and why he was doing it.
And Carl stood there and took it. The way a girl takes it when a guy kisses her.
The thought sits in Carl's chest like a stone.
Adam glances over. His smile reaches his eyes, easy and warm. He extends his arm, an invitation for Carl to step back into his side.
Carl does. He steps forward, lets Adam's arm settle around his waist, feels the familiar weight of that hand on his hip. Adam's thumb resumes its small circles on his hip bone.
"You good?" Adam says, leaning close so Carl can hear him over the music.
Carl nods. He picks up his cup and drinks. The beer is flat and warm.
"I'm good," he says.
He isn't.
