The New Sigma Chi Players
The Sigma Chi tailgate was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. Crimson tents, the smell of grilled meat, the thumping bass of a country pop playlist: it was a language I’d spoken my whole life, but now the words felt foreign in my mouth. I stood on the periphery of the lawn, a pledge pin weighing down my polo like a lead seal.
Six weeks. That’s all it had been. A lifetime crammed into forty-two days.
The glasses were still there, a permanent fixture. The dark dye had grown out, leaving a strange, two-toned shadow in my hair, a visual timeline of my ruin. I was a palimpsest, the old Wyatt Briggs barely visible beneath the layers of scandal and survival.
A hand slipped into mine, fingers lacing through my own with a familiarity that still sent a jolt through my system. Elliot.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood beside me, his presence a silent anchor. We watched Tate supervise his dominion by the keg, surrounded by a group of brothers and a few football players. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the crowd and landed on us. On our joined hands. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his conversation.
This was the one thing Tate didn’t realize would happen when he brought us in. Our relationship. But Tate saw it not as a threat, but as the ultimate tether. Two unstable elements, bonded together, became a stable compound. We were less likely to wander, to talk, to fuck up. We were his. And seeing us together, a united front, proved his power to everyone watching.
“He’s preening,” Elliot whispered, his voice low enough for only me.
“Let him,” I said, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. “His pride is our cover.”
It started in the silence. After the Marriott, after the lawyers, after the terrifying quiet of being utterly alone, Elliot had been the only one who didn’t feel like a stranger. Our first time wasn’t in a stadium bathroom or a borrowed bed. It was in my Riverside single, marked with my new identity, in the dead of night. It wasn’t about worship or power or degradation. It was unplanned, yes, and desperate, but with a different kind of need: the need to feel something other than a void, to prove to each other that we were still alive, still capable of touch that didn’t leave a bruise on the inside.
The next clash happened near the beer tub.
Grant Gibson cut through the crowd, his Phi Delt pin gleaming, his gaze a laser of pure fury locked onto me. He didn't even look at Elliot. I was the trophy he’d failed to shatter.
“Harrison,” Grant said, his voice a shallow, carrying sneer meant for the entire circle. “I see you’re still running a halfway house for other chapters’ rejects. Does your standards chairman know he’s pledging a predator who preyed on your very athletes, or does he just do what you tell him?”
The air around us went stiff. The football players exchanged glances and subtly took a step back, wanting no part of this.
Tate didn’t move. He took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes cold over the rim of the plastic cup. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Gibson. And your house. The University closed the case. The only one still obsessed with this is you.” He lowered his voice, leaning in just enough. “Maybe you should be more worried about your own GPA than my pledge class. I hear your dad’s not too happy about that C in Econ.”
Grant’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. He’d been gunning for a knockout blow, and Tate had just effortlessly sidestepped and punched him in the gut. This wasn’t about me anymore; it was a naked power play between two future kings, and Tate had just proven himself the stronger.
“This isn’t over,” Grant spat, the words lame and predictable.
“It is for you,” Tate said, his voice flat and final. He turned his back, a deliberate, dismissive act that was more brutal than any rant. Grant stood there, humiliated, his plan half-executed and his rival strengthened, before finally turning and stalking away.
Elliot’s grip on my hand tightened. “He’ll never forgive you for that,” he chuckled.
“I know,” I said, a strange, cold calm settling over me. We were still on the battlefield, but for once, I wasn’t the one bleeding.
Later that week, in a beige, soundproofed office off Helen Keller Blvd. I replayed the scene for Dr. Harper.
“It doesn’t scare me anymore,” I said, my voice calm. “Grant’s anger. It used to feel like a noose. Now it just feels… loud. It means I’m still here. I’m a fact he has to deal with.”
Dr. Harper nodded, her pen pausing over her notepad. “And how does that feel? To be a ‘fact’?”
I thought about it, truly thought, not just giving the answer I thought she wanted. “It feels solid,” I finally said. “For the first time in my life, I’m not a performance. I’m just… what’s left. And what’s left is stronger than anyone thought.”
After she nodded approvingly, my mind drifted from Grant to the other faces in the crowd. “I saw Caroline at the tailgate. She’s dating some Theta Chi now. I heard his family’s from Huntsville.”
The unspoken words hung in the therapeutic silence: She had to settle.
Dr. Harper’s pen paused. “And how did seeing her, knowing that, feel?”
I didn't need to think long. There was no sting, no schadenfreude. Just the cold clarity of an accountant reviewing a ledger.
“It felt… like a fitting end to the story,” I said. “She wanted the fairy tale. The one where the Mountain Brook legacy DKE and the KD princess get the skybox and the life in Birmingham. And I think she really believed it.” I met Dr. Harper’s gaze. “My tragedy was that I couldn’t fake it. Hers was that she got cast out of the perfect life she wanted because of me. She didn't just lose a boyfriend; she lost her place in the hierarchy. Now she’s with a nice guy from Huntsville. In our world, that’s a step down. And that… that’s the real punishment for both of us.”
Dr. Harper gave a slow, acknowledging nod. “You’re seeing the cost of the roles now, not just the performance.”
“Yeah,” I said, the truth of it as quiet and final as a closing door. “I am.”
In our sessions, we didn’t talk much about Bryant Hall anymore. We talked about my name. We talked about the weight of being a Briggs. We talked about the difference between the hunger for validation and the need for connection. I was building a foundation, not just shoring up ruins.
This had been Macy’s doing. The one thing her, Mom, and Dad had unanimously, and surprisingly, agreed on. “He needs to talk to someone, Henry. We can’t have him… unraveling further.” My mother’s voice had been tight on the phone. It wasn’t about healing for me; it was about containment for them. But Macy had texted me right after the conference call: Take the lifeline, Wy. Use their paranoia to get what you actually need. So I did. I was using their tool to build my own fresh start, talking about the weight of my name, the performance of my previous life.
That night, back in my dorm, the silence was a shared quiet. Elliot was at my desk, sketching. I was on the bed, scrolling absently through my phone, the glow illuminating our quiet space. I wasn't on Grindr. I was on the official Alabama Athletics site. Out of habit. Out of a lingering, quieter curiosity that had replaced the desperate hunger.
A few articles down, I saw it. A small recap from last week’s meet: "Alabama Swim and Dive Wraps Up Competitive Week at Georgia Invitational." I clicked it. My eyes scanned the results, and there he was. "In the 500 Freestyle, Junior Adam Collins placed a respectable 4th in his heat with a time of 4:28.85."
Adam Collins.
The name landed with a quiet finality. I knew it, of course. I’d looked him up on the roster that first week, filed him away as another body in the ecosystem. But in my head, he’d always just been Adam. The RA. The guy who carried me. The one I pulled into my mess. Seeing his name in the official results, attached to a time, a place, a legitimate achievement for the Crimson Tide… it finally framed him as a whole person. He had been in Georgia, wearing the Alabama cap, swimming in a lane for his team, not just practice. He was defined by his own efforts, not by my chaos.
A strange, quiet peace settled over me. There was no jealousy. No aching want. Just a faint, distant respect for someone who had shown me a moment of kindness in my freefall, and was now exactly where he was supposed to be.
“What is it?” Elliot glanced from beside me, seeing the smile on my face.
I showed him the phone. He read the line, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, searching for a reaction.
“Adam’s okay,” I said simply, and the words felt like a release. "He's still swimming."
After a few more minutes of scrolling, I put down my phone. I was feeling nostalgic, so I went into my dresser and pulled them up: the navy blue Nike Pro compression shorts, the fabric a dark, slick blue.
Elliot’s eyes widened in mock horror, and he let out a playful, high-pitched squeal. “Oh, come on, Wyatt. Not again! Is this, like, still your thing? Your kink? Rehabilitating your traumatic spandex memories through my innocent body?”
I couldn’t help but grin, the expression feeling foreign and easy on my face. “Please?” I pleaded, my voice dropping to a low, earnest murmur. I stepped closer, the shorts dangling from my finger. “Just for a minute. I just… I want to see you in them again.”
He rolled his brilliant blue eyes, the color of a shallow sea, but the resistance was already melting away. He was a year older, a sophomore, but we were almost the same size, both just under six feet, with the lean, almost delicate frames of guys who’d been raised on golf and country club pools rather than weight rooms. Where I was all sharp angles and tense muscles, Elliot was made of softer lines and a graceful ease.
“You’re nuts,” he sighed, but he was already taking the shorts from my hand and placing them on the desk.
He turned his back to me, a gesture of trust that was more intimate than any kiss had been just weeks ago. He peeled off his polo and dropped his khakis, standing there for a moment in just his fitted boxer briefs. His body was supernaturally smooth, his skin like polished marble from his shoulders down to the gentle curve of his calves. Finally, the briefs came off, and he mockingly held them over his crotch before taking the compression shorts from the desk.
Elliot stepped into the shorts and shimmied them up his legs. The navy fabric was darker than his skin tone, and as he pulled it up, it was like watching a sculptor drape wet cloth over a flawless statue. The material resisted for a moment over the swell of his ass, then snapped into place, hugging him with a firm, perfect embrace. He tugged the waistband, settling it just right on his hips.
When he turned around, the effect was breathtaking. The shorts molded to him, highlighting the slim, powerful cut of his thighs and the perfect, tight curves of his backside. The stark Nike swoosh on his thigh seemed to draw my eye along the lines of his body. His chestnut curls were tousled, his cheeks flushed, and his blue eyes were shining with a mixture of amusement and a deep, affectionate warmth.
“Happy?” he asked, his voice softer now, all teasing gone.
I didn’t answer with words. I closed the distance between us and kissed him, my hands finding his hips, my thumbs stroking the slick, constricting fabric.
“My turn now,” I whispered against his lips.
I broke away just enough to pull my own polo over my head. The air was cool on my skin, but his gaze was warm. I made quick work of my pajama pants, pushing them down my legs until I was standing before him in just my own boxer briefs. I felt exposed, but not like before. This wasn't an inspection. It was an unveiling. His eyes tracked over my shoulders, my chest, down to the waistband of my underwear, and the look in them wasn't of judgment, but of pure, wanting appreciation. It made my skin flush with a heat that had nothing to do with shame.
This was different. This wasn't the frantic, desperate coupling of our first night. This was slower, more intentional. I backed him toward the bed, my mouth never leaving his, and we fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.
The navy blue fabric was a barrier and an invitation, a symbol I was reclaiming. With Elliot, it wasn't a uniform of a distant god or a tool for degradation. It was just another layer of him, the boy I was falling for, and right now, it was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.
I moved over him, my knees bracketing his hips, and looked down. The sight of him like this, laid out for me in the very fabric that had once been a trigger for so much shame and hunger, sent a wave of pure, clean desire through me. This wasn't about chasing a ghost or proving a point. This was about seeing him.
"Just... let me see," I whispered, my voice husky.
My hands began their journey, just as they began in that stadium bathroom. But the intent was a world apart. Then, it had been a worshipful mapping of a stranger's divinity, a desperate attempt to absorb a power I felt I lacked.
Now, my fingertips traced the same paths, but on a map I was coming to know by heart. I started at his shoulders, not with the awe of an acolyte, but with the familiarity of a partner. My thumbs smoothed over the delicate curve of his collarbones, feeling the steady pulse of life beneath his skin. I followed the soft, almost invisible line of hair that led down his sternum, my touch light, reverent not for what he represented, but for who he was.
Elliot watched me, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his breath catching as my palms slid over the smooth plane of his stomach. The navy fabric was warm now, heated by his skin, and it stretched taut as he shifted under my touch. I traced the sharp lines of his hip bones through the spandex, my fingers dipping into the hollows where his thighs met his torso.
Where my exploration of Jordan had been a silent, overwrought prayer, this was a quiet conversation. A soft sigh escaped Elliot's lips as I leaned down and pressed my mouth to the center of his chest, right over his heart. I could feel its strong, rapid beat against my lips. I kissed lower, my tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin through the fabric at his navel.
My hands slid down his thighs, feeling the firm muscle encased in the slick blue material. I squeezed gently, and he let out a low, shuddering moan, his back arching off the bed. This was the proof I needed. Not of my worth, but of our connection. The power here wasn't in his body, but in the sounds I could draw from him, in the trust he gave me to touch him like this.
I looked up and met his gaze. There was no challenge there, no detached appraisal. Only a raw, open vulnerability that mirrored my own.
"This is it, it’s different now." I breathed, more to myself than to him.
He reached up, his hand curling around the back of my neck, pulling me up for a deep, searching kiss. "I know," he squished against my lips. "It's because it's us."
My hunger for him was a clean, sharp thing now, stripped of desperation and filled with a sense of rightness. I broke our kiss, my breath coming in ragged pulls, and began to move back down his body. My lips and tongue traced a wet path down his smooth stomach, over the taut navy fabric, until my face was level with the prominent bulge straining against the spandex.
Elliot’s breathing quickened. His hands came down, his fingers tangling in my hair, not to guide or force, but simply to hold on.
With trembling, deliberate fingers, I hooked my thumbs into the elastic waistband of the Nike Pros. I looked up, meeting his gaze one more time. His blue eyes were wide, his lips parted, his entire being focused on me. I saw no trace of a performative, challenging smirk from the stadium bathroom, only a breathtaking trust.
I pulled the waistband down.
The fabric slid over his hips, the sound loud in the quiet room, and his cock sprang free, hard and eager. It was not the intimidating, brutal instrument of my past encounters. It was just Elliot, his cut five and a half inches, familiar, beautiful, and entirely mine.
I didn't hesitate. I lowered my mouth onto him, taking him in with a slow, deliberate ease that was born of intimacy, not submission. A guttural, broken moan tore from Elliot’s throat, his hips bucking slightly off the bed before he forced them still. His grip in my hair tightened.
This act, which had once been about worshiping a stranger or fulfilling a transaction, was now about communion. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way his body moved under me, it was all a language of our shared survival. I lost myself in the rhythm, in the profound intimacy of the act, each soft gasp from above a benediction.
It was over quickly. With a final, choked cry of my name, he came, his body shuddering beneath me. I stayed with him until the last tremor passed, until his hands fell limp from my hair.
I crawled back up his body and collapsed beside him, pulling him into my arms. The navy blue shorts were still bunched around his thighs, a testament to the past we were rewriting together. We lay there in the aftermath, tangled and breathless, the only sound was our hearts slowing into a synchronized rhythm.
The air in the room was thick with the scent of us, a mix of clean sweat and the faint, chemical smell of his art pencils. Elliot’s breathing was still ragged against my neck, his body pliant and warm where it pressed against mine.
I pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “Turn over,” I whispered, my voice rough with a tenderness that still felt new.
He didn’t question me. He just shifted, his movements languid and trusting, rolling onto his stomach. The compression shorts were now a twisted band at his ankles, and the sight of his bare back, the delicate curve of his spine leading down to the perfect, exposed curves of his ass, sent a fresh, powerful wave of desire through me. This was a vulnerability he offered freely, not one I had taken.
I reached for the nightstand, my fingers closing around the small, familiar bottle of lube and the strip of condoms Macy had practically ordered me to buy. It had been one of her conditions, delivered in a no-nonsense text alongside her second Zelle deposit: I'm not funding your self-destruction. Get on PrEP and use condoms or the money stops. This isn't a suggestion. It wasn't about judgment. It was about her as a doctor. She was the first person who gave me the tools to protect myself, not just hide.
I sheathed myself, the ritual feeling not clinical, but sacred, a deliberate act of care for both of us. When I leaned over him, my body blanketing his, I felt him tense for a fraction of a second, a ghost of a memory, before he consciously relaxed, melting back into me.
“Okay?” I breathed into his ear.
He nodded, turning his head to the side, his cheek pressed against my pillow. “Yeah,” he rasped, his voice muffled but sure. “Just… go slow.”
I did. There was no brutal claiming, no struggle for dominance. There was only the slow, steady, breathtaking pressure of joining, of becoming one in this quiet space we had carved out from the world. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, his fingers clutching at the sheets, but then his body opened for me, accepting me, and the sound turned into a long, low moan of pleasure.
This was the final reclamation. The act that, in Bryant Hall, had been about being used and erased, was now about connection and presence. Every thrust was a quiet promise, a whispered I am here with you. His body moved with mine, a perfect, desperate rhythm, his moans music that drowned out every echo of the past.
When my climax broke, it wasn't a panicky expulsion of shame, but a deep, full-body surrender to feeling. I cried out, my forehead dropping between his shoulder blades, my entire world narrowing to the point where our bodies met.
I realized then what Dr. Harper had meant: that I didn’t have to perform anymore. Not here. Not with Elliot. From now on, I wasn’t acting a part; I was just present, inside the moment, inside him.
I collapsed against his body, spent, and for what felt like an eternity, we just lay there, slick with sweat, breathing in unison. I could feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest, slowly calming.
Eventually, I moved off Elliot, disposing of the condom before curling around his side. He turned to face me, his blue eyes hazy and sated, a small, soft smile on his lips. He didn't need to say anything. The peace in his expression said it all.
The navy blue compression shorts were a puddle at the foot of the bed now, just a piece of fabric. The past held no power here. In this room, we had built something stronger. We had built a future. And as Elliot’s breath warmed against my chest, I finally believed it was mine to keep.
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