Samford’s Secret
I woke up late Saturday morning with sunlight bleeding through the half-open blinds. My phone was already buzzing with notifications: group texts, frat event invites, Grindr pings stacked one after another, but I ignored them.
My eyes landed instead on the lanyard hanging from my desk lamp: Crimson, glossy, stamped with a holographic Alabama logo. My dad had pressed it into my hand on Thursday morning when he and Mom finished moving me in.
"Don’t waste this, Wyatt. Network. Shake hands. Stay out of the athlete-only areas, though: the locker rooms, weight room, and fueling station (their private dining room). NCAA doesn’t like boosters rubbing elbows that deep,” he said as I nodded my head.
It was more than a pass. It was a key to the temple. The kind of thing that got you waved past security and into places most SEC freshmen only dreamed about. This lanyard said you weren’t just a student at Bama: you were THAT kid.
I turned it over in my hands now, still with my bed head hair. The words printed in block letters across the front: ATHLETICS DONOR ACCESS were enough to make me feel like it was the backstage pass to a Tate McRae concert.
The Mal M. Moore Athletic Facility. I didn’t have free roam of the building, but being amongst the gods is all that mattered. All those bodies I’d only seen on TV, or slipping past me in the Student Center, would be in there right now, working, sweating, stretching. And now, I had a reason to walk in like I belonged.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the drawer at my hip whispering a different temptation. Compression shorts, folded in secret stacks, waiting. My morning wood twitched just thinking about sliding them on beneath my khaki shorts and striding across campus like I had a practice to get to.
Instead, I shoved the thought down. This wasn’t about fantasy. This was about access. About stepping into a world I’d been raised to sponsor but never touch.
I grabbed the lanyard, slung it over my neck, and muttered to myself:
“Let’s see what being a Briggs really buys me.”
The Mal M. Moore Athletic Facility loomed like a fortress of glass and steel, its mirrored panels catching the late-morning sun. Even the lobby smelled expensive, polished tile, fresh paint, and the smell of scrambled eggs from the athlete's dining facility down the hall.
I flashed the lanyard to the woman at the front desk, who barely glanced at it before nodding me through. Just like that. No questions. The pass worked.
The first idol I saw, etched in polished brass on the main donor wall, was our name. The Briggs Family, right there beside the Barretts, the Cabaniss’, and the Harbetts. Dynasties that didn’t just give money, but ran the Bama Machine. It wasn’t just a wall; it was a map of the shadow government of campus. A monument to the people who picked SGA presidents, shaped the narrative, and decided which scandals disappeared. My name wasn’t just there; it was there like a badge, a reminder that I wasn’t just being watched, I was already inside the gears, even in the one place I thought I could be anonymous.
Beyond the foyer, the thing that hit me was the sound. Grunts echoing off high ceilings, the metallic clank of plates racking, the rhythmic thud of sneakers on turf. The air was thick with sweat and chalk dust, humid and electric with effort.
And then there were the bodies.
Everywhere I looked, there were athletes in crimson and white Nike gear: shirts plastered to their backs, compression tights gleaming under the lights, swooshes stretching over sculpted thighs and broad chests. A pair of linemen lumbered past me toward the Gatorade coolers, their 3XL Dri-Fit shirts hanging off them like tents.
I tried not to stare, but my eyes were greedy. This wasn’t the country club gym back in Mountain Brook, where old men fiddled with machines for half an hour before hitting the steam room. This was a temple, and every single body inside it looked carved for worship.
I drifted past the weight room, the clang of plates still buzzing in my ears, until the heat of it all pressed too much. I slipped through a side exit, squinting against the sunlight.
That’s when I spotted someone familiar.
Adam. My RA. His hair was wet, a towel slung over his shoulders, team-issued Nike shorts plastered to his thighs. He’d just come out of the aquatics facility next door, chatting with another swimmer as they split off toward the dorms.
At first glance, he looked every bit the athlete: the long frame, the easy laugh, but something about the way he followed, rather than led, tugged at me. Like he wasn’t the guy they built the program around, more someone who drifted at the edges.
I’d heard bits and pieces during move-in. Adam was technically on the swim team, but not in the position you’d see headlining meet recaps. He wasn’t a scholarship guy. More like… a depth piece. A body in the water when they needed one. And since swimming didn’t cover his tuition, the RA gig did.
That explained the contradiction: how he could be both in the team-issued gear and running my floor back at Riverside. Half athlete, half regular student. Close enough to the gods to sweat beside them, but still human enough to need free housing.
It made him feel… possible.
I froze, halfway between wanting to wave and wanting to disappear.
He caught me anyway.
“Briggs,” Adam called, grinning like this was the most natural place to bump into each other. “Didn’t expect to see you around here.”
I tugged at the lanyard on my chest. “Dad left me this pass.”
Adam gave me a knowing smirk. “Figures. Careful, though. Hang around too long and they’ll toss you in the pool.”
He jogged off, leaving a faint trail of chlorine in the air, and I slipped back inside Mal M. Moore, the buzz in my chest louder than the clang of weights.
The athlete-only dining hall was another place dad told me to stay out of, but there was a table of snacks outside labeled ‘Phase II: Crimson Standard Donor Luncheon Only’. I grabbed a to-go box: fruit, a sandwich, a protein shake, and tried to steady myself. It wasn’t just the athletes that had me rattled. It was the encounter with Adam as well.
I was halfway down the hall when a voice stopped me.
“Hey…you. Hold up.”
A staff member in a Nike polo strode toward me, iPad in hand, eyes narrowing. He looked me up and down: the pressed shorts, the clean Nike Dunks, the lanyard swinging against my chest.
“You an athlete?” he asked flatly.
The question punched heat into my face. “Uh, no. Just… family donor access.” I lifted the badge, praying it looked official enough.
He frowned, leaned closer, and for a brief moment, I thought he’d demand my ID. But then his eyes landed on the gold lettering at the bottom of the pass. His posture changed instantly.
“Oh. You’re a Briggs.” His tone softened, almost deferential. He stepped back. “Didn’t realize.”
I forced a tight smile, the one my mom had trained me for country club luncheons. “Yeah. Just grabbing breakfast.”
“Of course. My apologies, sir. Enjoy.”
Sir.
I clutched the little breakfast box like contraband and walked out, pulse still raised. The word echoed in my skull. I didn’t belong here, but this lanyard said I did.
Standing in that hall, the power of it felt almost as intoxicating as the athletes themselves.
By the time I stepped back out into the late-morning sun, my pulse had finally slowed. The word still clanged in my head……Sir. Like I’d earned something I hadn’t.
The lanyard felt heavy against my chest now, not like access but like armor, flashing to everyone that I belonged here even if my body said otherwise.
I cut back toward University Blvd., chewing the corner of the crimson-wrapped breakfast sandwich I’d grabbed, when my phone buzzed again. This time it wasn’t Grindr or Caroline.
Tate Harrison:
Lunch? Twelve thirty? You free?
I should’ve known this was coming. Tate was Sigma Chi’s poster boy, a Junior, the kind of kid who’d been born into the system just like me. Mountain Brook Club summers, cotillion winters, SEC football Saturdays in the skybox. If I were legacy DKE, Tate was Sigma Chi through and through.
Dirty rush. That’s what they called this, unofficial meetings, the quiet prelude before formal bids went out. Both of us already knew where I was supposed to end up. Still, it was part of the choreography, part of the game.
I thumbed back: Sure. Where?
A second later: DePalma’s. Off University. Dress decent.
Of course. Not a dining hall, not even the Strip. A place where the waiters wore black and the booths were deep enough to talk without anyone overhearing.
I stuffed the half-eaten sandwich into the nearest trash can and glanced down at myself. Nike Dunks, khaki shorts, a polo. Passable. Country club casual.
As I walked closer to downtown, I was back in familiar territory: not gawking at athletes from behind a donor pass, but sliding into another role I’d been rehearsing for years: legacy kid, fraternity material, perfectly polished on the outside.
DePalma’s was buzzing, even at noon on a Saturday. White tablecloths, crimson accents tucked here and there, waiters weaving between booths. It was the kind of place my parents would approve of: “Tuscaloosa nice,” as Dad called it.
Tate Harrison was already there, of course. Slouched into a chair by the window, phone facedown on the table, his mahogany hair swept back like he’d just stepped out of the pool. He wasn’t an athlete, but he dressed like one: slim-fit Nike polo, athletic shorts that hit high on his thighs, and a braided leather bracelet instead of a useless expensive watch.
“Briggs,” he said, grinning as I slid into the chair across from him. “About time you got here. Thought I was gonna have to order without you.”
“You texted me twenty minutes ago,” I said, managing a smirk.
“Yeah, well. Sigma Chi runs on a different clock.” He flagged down the waiter with the kind of casual authority you couldn’t fake. “Two iced teas. He’ll have the chicken Alfredo, extra bread. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
I didn’t argue. That was Tate, always assuming control, making choices like it was second nature. It was easy to see why guys followed him, why his name carried weight in every circle that mattered.
“So,” he leaned back, hands laced behind his head, “settling in okay? Riverside treating you right?”
“It’s fine,” I said, defaulting to the same vague answer I’d given my mom the day before. “Big step up from home.”
Tate chuckled. “From Mountain Brook? Yeah, sure. The kid with a skybox seat since birth is finally having to clean up after himself in Tuscaloosa.” He said it lightly, but there was an edge beneath it. He knew exactly who I was. Everyone did.
The waiter dropped off our teas, condensation already dripping down the glasses. Tate took a long sip, then leaned forward, lowering his voice just a notch.
“Look, man. I’ll be straight with you. Everyone already knows where you’re going. DKE has your name on the top of their bid card, written in Sharpie. Hell, they probably monogrammed your pledge jersey already.”
I laughed, even though it wasn’t really funny. “So what’s this, then?”
He shrugged, tearing open a packet of sugar. “Formality. Dirty rush. Makes everyone feel like you had a choice.” He stirred his tea lazily, then nodded toward the bar across the room.
“See them?”
I followed his gaze. A table full of guys in crimson polos, broad shoulders stretching the fabric. Their laughter rolled across the restaurant, easy and loud.
“Sigma Chi,” Tate said, pride in his voice. “Half the football team eats here after morning lift. A couple of swimmers. Baseball guys when they’re in town. You wanna talk brotherhood? That’s it right there.”
I swallowed, heat prickling at my neck. Their shirts clung just enough to show definition; the shorts rode high on thighs that looked like they could crush me. And they weren’t just teammates. They were bonded, leaning into each other, sharing food off plates, nudging shoulders like family.
Tate grinned at me knowingly. “Different vibe than the DKE boys, huh? Those guys are networking by the time they’re sophomores. Sigma Chi? We’re built differently. We bleed on the field together.”
I nodded, pretending to study my tea, but my eyes kept flicking back to the table of athletes. Their confidence was magnetic. I didn’t just want to sit with them: I wanted to be them.
The food came, steaming plates slid onto the table, the smell of garlic filling my nostrils. Tate dug in without hesitation, talking around mouthfuls. “Look, I’m not here to poach you. I know how this ends. But don’t forget: Sigma Chi’s door is always cracked. Some of us know how to have fun without worrying about our starting salary at Dad’s firm.”
I twirled my fork through the pasta, my appetite dulled by the churn in my stomach. Tate’s words slid over me, but the images stuck: those Sigma Chi athletes, laughing like the world belonged to them.
Sitting there, I wasn’t Wyatt Briggs, legacy DKE material. I was the kid back in Mountain Brook, staring through locker room steam at boys who lived in a different orbit.
“Appreciate it,” I said finally, forcing a smile. “Really.”
Tate smirked. “Good man. Enjoy the pasta, Briggs. It’s the only thing in this town as rich as us.”
We finished lunch, and when we stepped outside, the sun hit bright and unforgiving. Tate slapped me on the shoulder then said, “See you on the Strip or an IFC meeting, Roll Tide, Wyatt!” his confidence trailing behind him like cologne.
My phone buzzed in my pocket after I rounded the block. Caroline: Out with some girls from Ridgecrest, see you later.
Which meant the rest of the day was mine.
And already, my thoughts were sliding back to the drawer in my dorm. To the lanyard. To the messages waiting for me on Grindr, still unanswered.
By the time I got back to Riverside, the sun was already past its peak, burning the concrete courtyards into blinding white. My room felt cooler than usual when I pushed the door open, but maybe that was just relief, relief to be out of DePalma’s, away from Tate’s statements of effortless certainty.
I tossed my keys on the desk and checked my phone. Grindr still pulsed with yellow dots, most of them shirtless torsos I didn’t recognize. But at the top of my inbox sat the one I did: bham196.
I’d left him on read this morning, too busy dodging Caroline and gawking at Mal M. Moore to commit. His last message blinked back at me now: Still on?
I hesitated, thumb hovering. Then I typed: Yeah. Tonight. Can u host?
The reply came fast. OK, tonight, but no. Can’t host. No car either.
Typical. My shoulders dropped. Samford was basically in my backyard back home. If I were going to make this happen, it meant driving right into the shadows of Mountain Brook.
I sighed, then sent: Fine. I’ll come get you. But you’re wearing the gear in your pic.
Another pause, then: Under Armour?
Yeah, I shot back. Top and bottom. Under your clothes. That’s non-negotiable.
The typing bubble lingered, then: Done. You too?
I smirked despite myself, pulling the drawer open and running my fingers over the smooth folds of fabric.
Already on, I lied, but it wouldn’t be a lie for long.
Dinner was forgettable: some half-warm chicken from the dining hall and an orange soda I barely touched. My stomach wasn’t ready for food anyway, not with the kind of nerves clawing at it. I picked at the meal until the room thinned out, then dumped my tray and slipped back to my dorm.
The drawer in my dresser practically hummed. I shut the door, locked it for good measure, and pulled out the pair of white Under Armour compression shorts. My hands shook a little as I stepped into them, tugging the slick fabric up over my thighs.
The shorts clung tight, gleaming under the desk lamp as I turned toward the mirror, tugging them higher on my hips.
5’9”. Just enough height to look the part, though my frame didn’t cash the check. My shoulders leaned narrow, chest flat under the hoodie I hadn’t taken off yet. Dirty-blonde waves framed a face people liked to call wholesome, straight teeth, baby blue eyes, easy grin, dealership-ad perfect. The kind of look that belonged on a billboard, not in a locker room.
The reflection was brutal in its honesty. I wasn’t a sprinter, wasn’t a swimmer, wasn’t even close. But the way the spandex hugged my thighs, the way it transformed me, just for a second, I could almost believe.
I pulled the sweat pants back on, grabbed my keys, and let my Denali fob clink against my palm. Time to meet someone who played the part.
The night air hit warm and sticky as I crossed the Quad, a few kids tossing a football on the grass, others heading toward the Strip. My path was different. I cut toward the looming stadium, the massive floodlights throwing silver on the brick.
And there it stood. My Yukon Denali Ultimate. Black paint gleaming under the lot lamps, chrome polished like it had rolled straight out of the showroom. Parked not in some freshman gravel pit across campus, but right here, prime booster parking, steps from Bryant-Denny.
No other freshman I knew had a car right on campus, much less one like this. It wasn’t just a vehicle. It was a billboard. The Briggs name sat on twelve dealership signs across Alabama: Chevrolet, GMC, Cadillac. Dad liked to joke that if it had wheels and a warranty, we owned it. There was no universe where I was taking public transportation or bumming rides from upperclassmen.
Dad had clipped the parking pass onto the rearview like it was nothing on move-in day. “You’ll need it. Don’t let them tell you freshmen can’t park. We’ve had this space for years.”
I felt eyes on me as I walked up, like anyone nearby could tell I didn’t deserve it. I hit unlock, the headlights blinked, and I slid behind the wheel. The leather hugged me, the console glowed, and for a second, I just sat there, breathing it in.
Then I checked my phone. One new message.
bham196: Ready when you are.
I gripped the wheel, knuckles white, and muttered to myself.
Yeah. Ready. b there by 8:30. I typed back, and backed out toward I-20.
After the hour drive, I rolled the Denali up to the edge of Samford’s campus, the brick buildings glowing under the streetlamps. I’d only ever been here for debate tournaments in high school, always with my blazer buttoned and my parents waiting in the parking lot. Being here now felt different, like I was sneaking behind enemy lines.
He was already where we agreed. Leaning against a stop sign, hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.
Bham196.
When he spotted the Denali, he straightened, jogging a couple of steps before pulling the passenger door open. The interior light caught his face, and I blinked.
Blonde hair, cut short and straight. Blue eyes that flashed even in the dim glow. His jaw was square, a little rugged, like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. He wasn’t huge, but the way his sweatpants clung to his thighs, the way the hoodie stretched across his chest, made it clear he was built, athletic, but not polished country-club athletic.
He climbed in, pulling the door shut with a thunk, and immediately looked around.
“Damn,” he said, a little laugh in his throat. “For a second, I thought you’d sent a limo or something.”
I grinned, shifting the Yukon into drive. “Something like that.”
He settled back against the seat, tugging his hood lower, and I caught the faintest whiff of laundry soap and sweat.
That’s when my eyes flicked up out of habit, scanning the windshield, and my stomach dropped.
In the corner of the windshield, the service sticker sitting smugly in the corner of the glass. Next oil change due. And right beneath the numbers, bold as daylight: Briggs Chevrolet: Vestavia Hills.
Our dealership. Our name.
I clenched the wheel tighter, praying he wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t put it together. Around here, Briggs wasn’t just a name: it was a sign on half the highways, stamped on every other license plate frame from Huntsville to Mobile.
My pulse ticked fast, but I kept my face steady, eyes on the road.
Don’t look at the sticker. Don’t say the name. Just drive.
Beside me, Bham pulled his hood down a little further, completely unaware of who I was, or at least, pretended to.
I cleared my throat, keeping my eyes on the road. “So…where do you usually go for this?”
He snorted. “Usually? Man, I don’t exactly have a rotation. Somewhere nearby works. Just not the dorms.”
I nodded, pretending like I knew what I was doing, but the truth was I didn’t. The Denali hummed through the quiet streets, my hands clamped too tightly on the wheel. Every brick building we passed looked the same, and I was hyperaware of the way his knee brushed the center console when we hit a speed bump.
Then I saw something, just a block off Lakeshore Dr, tucked behind some oaks. A church, red brick with white columns, the parking lot stretching wide and empty under yellow floodlights.
“What about there?” I asked, jerking my chin toward it.
Bham leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. That’ll do.”
I flicked the blinker out of habit, like there was anyone else around to see it, and turned in. The tires crunched over gravel as I pulled the Yukon into a far corner of the lot, away from the lights, the church steeple casting a long shadow across the hood.
When I killed the engine, the Denali fell silent around us. The glow from the dashboard faded, leaving only the dim light spilling through the tinted windows. My pulse quickened in the quiet.
Neither of us moved. The church steeple loomed above, and I couldn’t stop thinking how wrong it should feel to be here, of all places. But slowly, he shifted in the seat, reminding me of why I drove all the way back here..
He tugged his hoodie up over his head, tossing it into the back. The motion was casual, but what he revealed wasn’t. The black compression shirt clung to him like paint, tracing every cut of his chest and arms. Under the distant floodlight glow, it shimmered just enough to make my cock throb.
“Your turn,” he said, almost teasing, before sliding out of the front seat and crawling over the console, into the back.
I hesitated, knowing this was my first step away from the DKE/Country Club life I was destined for. Then I shoved the thought down and followed.
The back of the Yukon smelled faintly of leather and new car, the space wide but suddenly too tight with both of us there. He sprawled against the seat, sweatpants riding low, the shirt stretching tight across his pecs.
I reached out, testing, pressing my hand flat against his chest. Warm. Solid. My thumb brushed over his nipple through the fabric, and I felt him twitch.
“Damn, don’t waste time,” he muttered, but his voice was tight, a mix of nerves and want.
I leaned in, lips closing over the spot my hand had just teased. He sucked in a breath, his head falling back against the seat.
“Man,” he hissed, grabbing the hem of my hoodie like he might shove me off. But instead, he pulled me closer. “We gotta be fast, alright? My roommate thinks I went to the gym.”
His words lit something reckless in me. I nodded, not pulling away, already kissing lower, tasting the salt of his skin through the thin fabric.
The fantasy in my head had been slow, exploratory. But the tension in the car was a cocked spring, thrumming with his obvious need to get this over with. My heart was a wild, trapped beat kicking against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desire.
I reached out, my fingers brushing against the rough cotton of his sweatpants. He flinched, just slightly, then stilled. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, the elastic stretching tight. I could feel the heat of his skin beneath.
I pulled.
The grey sweatpants slid down his thighs, pooling around his knees in the footwell. The interior light was off, but the ambient glow from outside was enough.
That’s when I finally had access to them.
Black Under Armour compression shorts, slick and dark, hugging his body like a second skin. They were everything I’d imagined, everything I’d craved. The fabric was taut, outlining the powerful cut of his quadriceps, the solid curve of his ass, and the distinct, promising bulge at the front.
A choked sound escaped me, half-gasp, half-sigh. This was it, the real thing.
My hand moved almost on its own, palm pressing against the firm heat of him through the slick, constricting fabric. I felt him jump at the touch, then harden instantly under my hand. He was now fully hard, a thick line of pressure straining against the spandex.
A groan rattled in his chest. “Fuck,” he breathed out, the word tight with tension.
He was right there, exactly what I’d wanted to see, to feel. But his whole body was rigid, eager for friction but not for touch.
“We gotta… can we just…” he muttered, his voice strained, hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust against my still hand.
The message was clear. Hurry up.
The fantasy of taking my time, of exploring every seam and muscle, evaporated. The reality was this: a nervous, almost frantic guy in a dark car who just wanted to cum.
“Yeah,” I whispered, my own voice rough. “Okay.”
I didn’t kiss him. It didn’t feel like that kind of moment. Instead, I hooked my fingers into the waistband of the compression shorts. The elastic fought back for a second before yielding.
I pulled them down just enough.
He sprang free, hard and hot in my hand. I wrapped my fingers around his about cut 6 and a half inches, and he let out a sharp, shuddering gasp. His head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut.
This was it. No more layers. No more fantasy. Just the reality of my hand moving on another guy for the first time, in the backseat of my Yukon, where hardly anyone ever sat, under the watchful eyes of a darkened church.
His breathing quickened, turning into ragged gasps. He was close, teetering on the edge after only a few strokes. The urgency was contagious, a feedback loop of nervous energy. His hips bucked into my fist, his hand clamping down on my knee, grip tight enough to bruise.
It was messy. It was rushed. It was nothing like the slow, worshipful scene I’d pictured.
And it was the most alive I’d felt in years.
The air in the Yukon was thick, humid with our breathing. His back arched off the leather seat, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as his release hit him, hot and sudden, striping across his stomach and the dark fabric of the Under Armour shirt still stretched tight over his chest.
For a second, everything was still. The only sound was his ragged panting and the frantic thump of my own heart. I pulled my hand back, my fingers sticky.
He didn’t move. Just lie there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling rapidly. A single, glistening streak had landed perilously close to the logo on his shirt.
Bham19 had slumped back, breathing hard, then turned toward me. His eyes, still dark with need, dropped to my lap. Without saying a word, he leaned in, fingers hooking into my sweats. He yanked them down roughly, bunching the fabric mid-thigh.
The air hit my skin just before his hand did, wrapping around me through the thin white compression shorts. I gasped as he tugged the waistband down just enough to remove my cut 6-inch dick, his calloused palm already moving in quick, urgent strokes. It wasn't gentle, it was efficient, almost businesslike, his knuckles on the other hand brushing against the slick fabric still stretched tight across my hips. The pressure built fast, too fast, the church steeple a blurred silhouette against the tinted window as my hips bucked off the leather and I cummed in his hand.
The silence in the Yukon was absolute, broken only by the sound of our breathing slowly returning to normal. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of sex and conditioned leather.
I was still coming down, my head buzzing, my body humming with the aftershocks. My eyes were closed, lost in the fading pulse of sensation.
Then, a sharp, disgusted sigh cut through the haze.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My eyes snapped open.
He was sitting up now, staring down at his stomach and the black compression shirt plastered to his chest. His face, which had been slack with pleasure moments before, was now twisted into a scowl of pure irritation.
A thick, pearlescent streak of his cum was splashed near the Under Armour logo. Another droplet was sliding slowly down the slick fabric toward the hem.
“Dude,” he hissed, his voice low and tight. “What the hell? I was going to the gym after this.”
The spell was shattered. The heat in the car vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy awkwardness. I fumbled for something to say, an apology, but my brain was still foggy. “I… sorry, I didn’t….”
“Forget it,” he cut me off, his tone clipped. He looked around the dark interior, his movements suddenly frantic. “Just… crap. Do you have any napkins? Anything?”
I lunged for the front seat, my own pants still around my thighs, and grabbed a half-used packet of fast-food napkins from the center console. I handed them back to him, my face burning.
He snatched them up and started scrubbing furiously at his shirt. The thin recycled paper napkins disintegrated immediately, leaving little dark brown flecks stuck to the damp, black fabric. He cursed under his breath, a string of frustrated mutters. “...look like I just… goddammit… totally obvious…”
He gave up on the napkins, balling them up and tossing them angrily onto the floor mat. He yanked his sweatpants back up, the motion sharp and aggravated. Then he pulled the ruined compression shirt over his head in one swift, hasty motion, revealing a toned torso that was, for a moment, glistening in the dim light. He didn’t even look at me. He just wadded the shirt into a tight ball and shoved it into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, which was still crumpled in the back.
“This is so messed up,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. He grabbed his hoodie and pulled it on over his bare skin, yanking the strings so tight the hood closed into a small tunnel around his face, hiding everything but the frustrated set of his jaw.
The intimacy of minutes ago was gone. He was a stranger again, closed off and angry.
He didn’t wait for me to say anything else. He shoved his door open, the dome light blinding us for a second before he slammed it shut. The sound echoed in the empty church lot. He leaned in through the open front passenger window, his expression hidden in the shadow of his hood.
“You know what? Don’t even bother. I’m just gonna walk.”
Bham196 didn’t wait for a reply, just turned around and stalked toward the sidewalk.
The church lot swallowed him up, hoodie pulled low, steps quick and angry. I sat frozen in the back seat for a moment, the smell of leather and sweat still thick in the air, the crumpled napkins scattered on my all-weather floor mats like the wreckage of some experiment gone wrong.
By the time I scrambled forward into the driver’s seat, he was already gone, out of the lot, swallowed by the dark streets around Samford. I gripped the wheel with shaky hands, the dash clock reading 9:06, my own reflection staring back at me in the windshield.
I didn’t remember the drive back at all. Tail lights smeared red on the interstate, the Denali’s cabin too quiet even with the radio on. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that look on his face: the disgust, the irritation, the way his voice cut cold after I finished in his hand.
When I rolled past the looming walls of Bryant-Denny, my stomach was twisted into knots. The booster lot was nearly empty now, stadium lights casting long shadows across the asphalt. I parked in the Briggs family space like I belonged there, killed the engine, and sat in the silence.
My phone was in my hand before I even thought about it. Grindr. Yellow dots pulsed across the screen. That black compression shirt, now soiled, should have been right at the top of my inbox.
But it wasn’t.
I scrolled down. Nothing.
I hit search, typed bham196, waited. Still nothing.
The realization hit slow, then all at once, like the silence in a skybox after a missed field goal, absolute and condemning.
He’d blocked me.
The air left my lungs. My chest caved in, my forehead pressed against the steering wheel as the first sob tore loose. My whole body shook, the leather seat creaking beneath me. The Denali, this giant showroom of privilege, shrank into a coffin. I cried hard, gasping, hot tears wetting the wheel beneath my cheek.
I broke, and not just for him, not just for the ruined fantasy, the look of resentment on his face, or the fact I’d driven an hour and back only to be erased from a stranger’s phone. I broke for everything. For the performance I’d put on for Tate, the unearned “sir” from the staffer, the way Caroline’s hand felt like a lie over mine. The entire suffocating weight of the person I was supposed to be finally crashed down on me in that silent, empty SUV.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, sobbing, until the sound of knuckles on glass jolted me upright.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I blinked through wet eyes and turned, expecting to see a campus police officer.
Instead, Tate stood outside my window, ear buds in, like he was just on the way back from the Strip, brows knit in something between confusion and concern. The stadium lamps haloed behind him, casting him in a glow that felt almost unreal.
He leaned down, knocking again, this time softer.
“Wyatt?” His voice carried easily through the glass. “You good in there?”
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