Chapter 2: The Depth Chart
Character Dossiers: Lone Star University (“LSU”)
Brad "The Blueprint" Montgomery
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Origins: Born and raised in Highland Park, Dallas (the "Old Money" bubble). His father is a high-powered corporate litigator and Omicron Pi Epsilon alum; his mother is a former pageant queen.
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High School: Star Quarterback at a private prep academy. He was the guy who could get away with anything because he brought home state championships.
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History: Brad has had a string of "status" girlfriends—cheer captains and influencers. He has zero history with guys, not even on the down low. To Brad, sexuality is a hierarchy, and he is at the top. He doesn't see Gabe’s attraction mainly as a "gay thing"; he sees it as a "Brad thing." He shares a suite-style dorm room in Heaton Hall with fellow freshman Gabe.
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Why LSU/OPE: It was his birthright. He came to LSU to rule the social scene and eventually use the OPE alumni network to slide into a six-figure job without trying.
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Physical Appearance: 6’2”, 210 lbs of functional muscle. Broad shoulders, a "fashy" undercut hairstyle, blue eyes and a permanent smirk. He smells like expensive sandalwood and pre-workout.
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The "Specimen": As he told Gabe, he is a "specimen." He is well-endowed (7.5 inches, thick/heavy, cut), a fact he is pathologically proud of. He treats his own body like a luxury brand that Gabe was "lucky" to even sample.
Gabe "G-Man" Sterling
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Origins: From a comfortable, upper-middle-class suburb of Austin. His dad sells medical software; his mom is a high school principal.
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High School: All-District Soccer player and "Class Favorite." Gabe was the guy who got along with every clique. He was well-liked but never felt "dominant."
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History: He’s dated girls to fit in, but always felt a sense of revulsion toward the performative nature of it. He’s known he was into guys since junior year but suppressed it to keep his "dudebro" status. Brad is the first person he’s ever truly "craved," which is why the rejection stung so deep.
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Why LSU/OPE: He wanted the "big school" experience. He joined OPE because he met Brad during rush and was instantly eclipsed by Brad’s charisma. He wanted to be Brad, then he wanted to be with Brad.
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Physical Appearance: 5’11”, 185 lbs. Lean, athletic build with "soccer legs"—defined quads and calves. He has a more approachable, boyish face with brown curls, hazel eyes and a stubble he tries (and fails) to make look as rugged as Brad’s.
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The ROTC Track: A Freshman (MS I) in the Army ROTC program. While Brad sees Gabe as a "sidekick," the Department of Military Science sees a high-performing Cadet. Gabe is known for his calm under pressure and his "soccer-leg" endurance during ruck marches.
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The "High Tier": As Brad noted in the shower, Gabe is surprisingly "built." He is 7 inches uncut and perfectly straight, aesthetically "classic." It’s the one area where he actually rivals Brad, which is why Brad felt the need to immediately shut him down with the "I’m not your boyfriend" line—he couldn't let Gabe feel like an equal for even a second.
"I... I'm not sure if I'm ready for a boyfriend, dude," Gabe stammered, his voice shaking. "And I could never neglect my... responsibilities to you. I promise."
Gabe was mortified. The word "responsibilities" felt heavy, like a contract he hadn't fully read but was desperate to sign. His sister, Isa, had gone to the store twenty minutes ago, leaving them a plate of milk and cookies that sat untouched on the mahogany coffee table. The cookies were soft, homemade, and smelled of vanilla—a domestic, innocent contrast to the predatory, jagged energy vibrating off Brad.
Brad studied Gabe’s face for a long, agonizing moment. His grip on Gabe’s wrist tightened, the heat of his palm seeping into Gabe’s skin until it was almost a shackle. Brad wasn’t just holding him; he was scouting him. To Brad, every guy in the house was either a starter or a bench-warmer. He was checking for a "soft" streak in Gabe, looking for any sign that his favorite wingman was trying to trade himself to another team. He looked around Isa's impeccably decorated living room, his eyes landing on the duffel bags they'd dropped in the corner. In two weeks, they’d be out of the linoleum hellhole of Heaton and into the penthouse suite at The Summit. They just had to survive the "Slumming Season" first. Then, he released him abruptly, the sudden loss of contact stinging worse than the pressure.
"Whatever, man. I'm just saying, if you're gonna do the gay thing, you should have someone to do it with. Can't have you moving like a total pussy about it," Brad said. His tone was a complex cocktail of boredom and something darker, something that tasted like iron. "I mean, look at you. You’re Varsity material, Gabe. If you go wandering into the dating scene without a game plan, you’re gonna end up with some community college scrub who doesn't know how to handle a guy with your stats."
He leaned back, propping his designer sneakers on the edge of the table, inches from the cookies. He turned to Gabe with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes—a practiced, "Blueprint" look that he usually reserved for freshmen he was about to haze.
"So c'mon, give me the scouting report. Who are the dudes you're into? I wanna see what kind of guys are your type."
Gabe blinked, his mind reeling from the whiplash of Brad’s moods. The Scouting Report. It was so typical of Brad to turn Gabe's feelings into a draft board. "What? Why do you wanna know that, man?"
Brad shrugged, his eyes glinting with a sharp, clinical intensity. "Just curious. I’m not letting you date some mid-tier random. You’re my roommate; if you look like a walk-on, I look like a walk-on. It’s a reputation thing, Gabe. Especially once we move into The Summit. Our status is going to be through the roof. And maybe... maybe I can help you pick the right guy. Someone who knows he's the backup to the MVP."
Gabe felt his stomach twist. The idea of Brad—the ultimate "straight" alpha of Omicron Pi Epsilon—acting as a matchmaker for a life he supposedly despised was a sick, perverse thrill. In Gabe’s head, the ROTC Cadet was trying to stay at attention, but the "G-Man" was already collapsing under Brad’s heavy, sandalwood-scented gravity.
"I don't know, man... It's not really something I've thought about," Gabe hedged, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "I've been grinding with the ROTC rucks. I haven't been looking at the 'free agents' on the LSU quad."
Brad rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. "Don’t be a girl, Gabe. Just give me a list. I'm not gonna judge. I just wanna make sure you don't settle for a bench-warmer and reflect badly on the O-Pi brand. You're on the starting roster now, man. Your 'stats' matter."
Brad leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees, invading Gabe’s personal space until the air between them was hot and shared. Gabe could smell the sandalwood of Brad’s cologne and the faint, metallic scent of the pre-workout he’d chugged earlier. He felt like a freshman being interrogated by the Team Captain in the back of the bus.
"C'mon, man. Don't leave me hanging. Names. Now," Brad demanded, his voice dropping into that "locker-room" growl he used when he was calling the shots.
Gabe took a shaky breath, his mind racing through the faces of the guys he’d noticed on campus. He knew he was about to give Brad ammunition, but he couldn't stop himself.
"Well... there's Logan Vance. I’m in ROTC with him. He’s always at the house, but he stays out of the drama. He's pretty chill, and he's in good shape... I guess he's kinda my type, looks-wise. He’s got that 'Special Ops' look."
Brad nodded slowly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Logan, huh? Standard-issue. High-school hero energy. A bit too 'yes-sir, no-sir' for you, isn't he? He’s a solid 8, I guess. Built like a brick shithouse, sure. But he's not the Star. Who else?"
"Um... there's also my lab partner in chemistry, Ethan. He's really smart and funny..."
Brad leaned back, looking thoughtful, as if he were reviewing a draft pick. "Ethan’s a nerd, but he’s got a clean look. A bit of a placeholder, though. I could see it if you’re looking for someone to do your homework. But he's not the only one. I know there’s more dudes you’re thirsting for. You’ve been checking the 'depth chart,' haven't you? Even in our shitty dorm, you're scanning for talent."
He turned to Gabe, his eyes glinting. Gabe felt his "soccer-leg" endurance failing; his palms were sweating against his jeans.
"Tell you what. Why don't you come to the O-Pi party tonight? I'll introduce you around. We’ll run some drills, see who’s actually Varsity material. Maybe we can find someone who's... a solid runner-up to the Blueprint."
Brad leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "Before we hit the function, though, I gotta check the stats," Brad said, his eyes narrowing. "Are you jacking it to these dudes? Like, when you're alone in the shower there, is it Logan’s face you're thinking about while you're beating your meat? Or the chemistry nerd?"
Gabe’s face flushed a deep, mortified red. The silence in the room became heavy. He thought about the nights in their small room, the linoleum cold under his feet, hearing Brad breathing in the next bed and knowing the Star was only a few feet away.
Brad took the silence as an answer and scowled, his lip curling in a display of performative disgust. "That’s actually nasty, Gabe. I can't believe you'd be going solo with other dudes while I'm right there in the same room. What the fuck, man? That’s a locker room violation."
The shame hit Gabe like a physical weight, but beneath it, the truth was clawing to get out. He was tired of being the "Sidekick" in Brad's highlight reel.
"I... I'm sorry, man. I can't help it," Gabe stammered, his pulse thundering in his ears. "It's just... it's always you, Brad. I never think about anyone else. I don't want anyone else like I want you. Even when I’m looking at Logan, I’m just trying to find someone who's half as good as the Blueprint."
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Brad froze. The "Blueprint" had just received a massive ego boost, and he was reveling in it like a trophy ceremony.
"What the fuck do you mean, it's always me? You’re actually obsessed, aren't you? You’re down-bad for me, for real. You’ve been 'Star-watching' in our own barracks?"
Gabe hung his head, unable to look at the "Specimen" he had just confessed to worshiping. "I... I'm sorry, Brad. I just... I want you so fucking much. You're the top of the food chain, man. How am I supposed to look at a walk-on when I live with the MVP?"
Brad didn't pull away this time. Instead, he reached out, his thumb brushing roughly, almost painfully, over Gabe's lower lip. The contact was electric.
"Alright, listen up, fucker," he growled, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble. "If you're gonna be a little bitch and admit you want me that bad... then you better fucking tell me. Tell me what you think about when you're beating your meat to the thought of me. Give me the play-by-play. I want the full scouting report."
Gabe’s heart hammered against his ribs. The dam had broken, and the confession poured out of him, fueled by weeks of repressed longing on the cold linoleum of their room.
"I... I think about everything, Brad. I think about tasting you... taking your cock in my mouth... Fuck, Brad, I—”
"And? Go on, you little freak. Tell me more," Brad demanded, his hand moving from Gabe's lip to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in Gabe’s brown curls and pulling just enough to force him to look up. "What’s the move that makes you blow? What's the 'All-American' fantasy?"
Gabe swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a mortified whisper. "I... I think about you fucking me, Brad. I think about you bending me over the sink in the bathroom and just... taking what you want. I want you to ruin me. I want you to fucking wreck me and make me yours. I want to be the Star's favorite piece of equipment."
Brad’s hand snapped from Gabe's hair to his throat. Not squeezing, but anchoring him to the back of the couch. A physical claim. He looked at Gabe like a rookie who just admitted he'd do anything for a spot on the roster.
"You want me to breed you like a thirsty little slut?" he growled, his eyes searching Gabe’s. "You want the Blueprint to leave a mark on you?"
Gabe nodded frantically, his pulse hammering against Brad's palm. He was lost in it, lost in the dominance, the heat, the feeling of finally being "owned" by the Star. His legs felt like water.
But then, in a desperate, misguided attempt to reclaim a shred of agency—to show Brad that he wasn't just a fan, but a partner—Gabe made a fatal error. He thought about the power-dynamic in the gym. He thought about being 'co-captains'.
“I also want to fuck you too, Brad. I told you that. That thought especially makes me cum—us switching it up. You and me playing bitch and dog. I want to see the Star on his knees for once. To see if the 'Specimen' can handle being the one who takes the hit.”
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The air didn't just die; it turned to ice. It was like a 'Game Over' screen flashing on a monitor.
Brad’s face contorted, the narcissistic high he’d been enjoying curdling into pure, toxic outrage. He stood up abruptly, looking down at Gabe like he was a piece of gear that had just snapped. The "Untouchable" front had been insulted by a lowly "Substitute."
"Wait... hold up. You think you’re in my league?" Brad sputtered, his voice rising, crackling with a dangerous energy. "You're telling me you jerk off imagining pinning me down? Like you’re the one in control of the Specimen? That’s top-tier delusional, Gabe. That’s actually insane. You’re talking like you're the Captain, bro. You're the water boy."
"No, I mean... I didn't..." Gabe started, his blood running cold. He saw the "Star" turning into a "Supernova."
But Brad wasn't having it. He grabbed Gabe by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the muscle. He shook him once, hard. "Don't lie to me! You just said you wanted to fuck me. To put a bumper sticker on a Bentley? To bench the Blueprint? To take over the lead? What the actual fuck, Gabe? I thought you knew the hierarchy. I thought you knew your place on the depth chart."
"I... I'm sorry, Brad. I meant I want you to fuck me! I swear! I was just talking shit!"
Brad shook his head, looking revolted. He stepped back as if Gabe were contagious. "I can't believe this shit. You’re not just gay, you’re a menace. You get off to the thought of overpowering me? That’s nasty. That’s actually tragic, bro. I’m out here trying to coach you up, and you’re trying to take my spot? You're trying to hijack the season?"
Brad lunged again, slamming Gabe back against the wall of the living room with brutal, athletic force. The framed photo of Gabe and Isa on the wall rattled. Gabe gasped as Brad leaned in, his face a mask of fury. The smell of the pre-workout was overpowering—the scent of a guy who was ready to hit someone on the field.
"Listen up, you fucking pervert," Brad hissed, his voice a vicious, low vibration. "I am the Blueprint. I am the Specimen. You are the side quest. You're nothing but a disgusting little bitch who forgot his place in the room. You don't get to 'switch it up.' You don't get a turn at the mic. You exist to make me look like an All-American. Period."
With a final, vicious shake that made Gabe’s teeth rattle, Brad released him. Gabe slumped against the wall, gasping for air, his heart shattering as he watched Brad stagger out of the room. The front door slammed with a force that felt like an explosion, leaving Gabe in a deafening, terrifying silence. The living room smelled like sandalwood and a broken season.
Downstairs, in the parking lot, Brad doubled over against the side of his truck, retching. He didn't actually vomit, but the dry heaves were violent. The idea of Gabe—his "favorite fan," the one guy who treated him like a god—thinking he could ever be the one in the dominant position felt like a physical violation. It was a threat to the very foundation of his identity as the Star.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard in the humid Texas night. The taste of bile was fresh, but as he stood there, a cold, dark idea took hold. He thought about the O-Pi house. He thought about Logan and Ethan. He thought about how to "cut" Gabe from the team permanently. He thought about how much better he was going to feel once they finally moved into The Summit and he could truly lock Gabe into his role.
He couldn't just ignore this. He had to re-establish the brand. He had to show Gabe exactly what happened to "walk-ons" who tried to be the Star. He had to put Gabe on permanent 'bench' duty.
He climbed into his Raptor, the engine roaring to life. He had a frat party to get to. Omicron Pi Epsilon was waiting. And Gabe... Gabe was going to learn exactly who owned whom.
Back in the apartment, Gabe remained slumped against the wall for a long time. The marks on his shoulders were already turning a dull, angry red. He felt a strange mixture of terror and a lingering, shameful arousal. Brad had called him a "menace." He had called him "nasty."
But he hadn't said it was over. The "Pilot" in Gabe was already trying to find a way back into the game.
Gabe stood up shakily and walked to the bathroom. He avoided his reflection at first, but then, he forced himself to look. He pulled down the collar of his t-shirt. There, on the pale skin of his neck, was the faint yellow-red outline of Brad’s hand. It looked like a brand. A 'Red Shirt' sign for the season to come. He traced it, his heart jumping. He wasn't just a roommate anymore; he was a marked man.
"High Tier," Brad had called him in the shower. But now, he felt like nothing. He felt like a "side quest" that had tried to steal the spotlight. He realized that being near Brad wasn't just a friendship; it was a battle for territory.
He heard the front door open. It was Isa.
"Gabe? You still here?" she called out, her voice bright and oblivious. "Where’s Brad?"
Gabe pulled his collar up, his heart racing. "He... he headed out early," Gabe called back, trying to keep his voice steady. "To help set up at the house. He’s the 'Main Event' tonight."
"Oh, typical Brad. Always the 'MVP' of ‘O-Pi’," Isa laughed, walking into the kitchen. "You better get ready, G-Man. You need to look sharp. Why don’t you wear that linen shirt I bought you? We can’t have the Star's roommate looking ‘dusty’."
Copyright © 2026 Trevor Carradine. All Rights Reserved. This story may not be reproduced or redistributed in any form without the express written permission of the author who may be reached via [email protected]
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Disclaimer: All characters in this work are fictitious and 18+. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Please do not read this material if it is illegal for you to do so in your community or country.
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