Riverside North
The pain woke me up. Not all at once, but like a slow, creeping vine. A deep, bruised ache had settled into my bones, a physical map of the night before. Every throb in my hips, every sharp protest from my lower back was a memory I didn't want to name. My body was remembering for me.
I was still in the same jeans and shirt from Bryant Hall. The room stank of me, sweat, shame, and the fabric refresher I used on my DKE Blazer. Pale morning light cut through the blinds, lighting up the dust dancing over my desk. Over my real iPhone, silent and dark.
I remembered the short Uber ride. Sitting stiff in the back, trying to fold myself into the leather so the driver wouldn't see the ruin in my face. I remembered the sound the Samsung made when it hit the Black Warrior. A short, dull thunk. The firewall was gone. Drowned. And I was just the hollow thing left behind.
The adrenaline was gone. The fear had burned out. All that was left was this leaden weight, this absolute silence in my head. This was the control I’d wanted, wasn’t it? The ultimate secrecy. The top of the food chain.
I’d never planned for what came after.
I had to move. I had to prove I could still function, that I wasn't just a collection of aches in a ruined shell. Coffee. The thought was simple, primal. A reason to put my feet on the floor. A reason to walk. A performance for an audience of one: me.
I pushed myself up, a sharp gasp hissing through my teeth as my body screamed. I stood, my legs trembling, and took a step. The limp was obvious, humiliating. I trailed one hand along the wall for support as I opened my door and tried to make my way unnoticed toward the communal kitchen.
And of course, that was when I saw Adam.
He’d just stepped out of his room, YETI mug in hand, wearing his usual Alabama Swimming quarter-zip and sweatpants. His easy stride froze the second he saw me. His brows furrowed, sharp with recognition and concern.
“Wyatt?” he said, voice inquisitive, already different from the casual tone he used with the rest of the floor. His eyes dropped to my awkward gait. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I muttered, trying to retreat and push past him toward my door. My hand slipped on the knob. My body betrayed me with a wince I couldn’t hide.
Adam stepped in front of me, blocking the door. He searched my face, his own tightening with something fiercer than suspicion.
“You’re hurt,” he said, not a question. “You’re limping like hell.”
I shrugged, forcing my voice steady. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Adam didn’t move. His height, his swimmer’s build, suddenly felt imposing in the narrow doorway. “Cut the crap, Wyatt. You can’t even walk straight. You’re going to the Health Center.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snapped, but my voice cracked on the last word, revealing my pain once again.
Adam’s eyes softened, but his jaw stayed set. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Then let me at least check if you’re okay.”
The fight drained out of me all at once. I let go of the doorknob, my hand falling useless to my side. Without another word, Adam took my keys, opened the door and guided me in, his hand firm on my shoulder.
The door clicked shut behind us, and that was it. The armor cracked. My knees buckled, and I crashed back onto the bed. The sobs came before I could stop them, harsh and humiliating, tearing out of my chest in a way I’d never let anyone hear before.
Adam was on me instantly, dropping down beside me, his arm curling around my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. No judgment. No questions. Just warmth, pressure, and presence.
I buried my face against him, gasping for breath, clutching at his quarter-zip like it was a lifeline.
For the first time all semester, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like the final breaking point.
My hand lingered against the outline of him, trembling. I didn’t know if I wanted him to pull away or push closer.
Instead, Adam just stayed still, his breath sharp and uneven, like every second was its own choice.
“What happened to you Wyatt…” he said quietly.
The name cracked me open. My chest tightened, words spilling out in a hoarse whisper I couldn’t control.
“Bryant Hall,” I mumbled into his shirt, voice breaking. “It was… they… I went into the room… there were two of them…... and I let them….”
Adam stiffened under me, not in judgment but in something heavier, protective. His hand slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck, holding me steady as if I might break apart again.
“You’re safe here,” he said calmly.
The dam inside me crumbled. As I clung to him, my eyes drifted down, and I saw the clear, hard outline of him straining against the grey sweatpants. It was a stark, physical truth that cut through the numbness. I needed to overwrite the memory, to drown it, to lose myself in something that was real and not an exchange.
My fingers moved from his shoulder, down, hooking into the waistband of his sweats and tugging.
Adam hesitated, just for a moment, his breath catching. Then he let out a shaky exhale, and his hips shifted, granting access. Suddenly, my hand was inside, skin against skin.
He was hot, thick, alive in my grip. My whole body lit up like it had been wired straight into an outlet.
“Wyatt…we can’t…..” His voice cracked on my name, lower now, rougher.
I tilted my face up toward him, eyes wet and searching. “Please, Adam. I need to.”
That broke him.
He leaned down, his lips finding mine in a desperate, unsteady kiss. It wasn’t practiced or planned. It was raw, a collision of need and relief, teeth clashing before it melted into something slower, deeper. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing the tear tracks on my cheek.
I stroked him harder, my other arm wrapping around his back, pulling him down with me until we were tangled on the bed. He kissed me like he was trying to rewrite what had been taken from me, each press of his mouth an answer to the ache I’d carried back from Bryant Hall.
The kiss broke, leaving us both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together. The world had narrowed to the space of my single bed, to the scent of Adam’s body spray and the salt of my own dried tears.
I untangled myself from him and got back down on the floor, kneeling between Adam’s legs. My hands cupped him through the sweatpants, still watching, waiting for how far he’d let me in.
"Wyatt," Adam breathed, his voice a ragged warning. But he didn't stop me. His eyes were dark, his resolve visibly crumbling.
"I need to," I whispered again, the words still caught in my throat. It wasn't just about pleasure. It was about reclaiming this act, about giving it willingly to someone who saw me as a person, not a toy. It was about worshiping something untainted. "Please. Let me."
I didn't hear another protest. I pulled him back gently until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, then grabbed a pillow for him to prop his back against. He watched me, chest rising and falling rapidly, a war playing out in his eyes between duty and desire.
My hands trembled as I hooked my fingers into the elastic of his sweats and the boxer briefs beneath. But before I pulled them all the way down, my hands slid down his thighs, needing to feel the solid muscle there, to ground myself. And that’s when I noticed it.
Adam’s legs were perfectly, impossibly smooth.
It wasn't the faint fuzz of a guy who just didn't have much hair. It was the slick, clean-shaven texture of a competitive swimmer. Shaved. This wasn't just a body; it was a tool, honed and prepared for the water. The reality of what he was, a real, NCAA athlete, hit me with a jolt that was more potent than any touch. My fantasy, made flesh.
Emboldened, I pulled down the sweatpants and underwear to his ankles.
He was already hard, thick, uncut, more than enough to fill my mouth. The sight sent a vibration through me, not of fear, but of a powerful, affirming hunger. This was different. This was Adam. My RA. The swimmer who’d carried me to my bed at my lowest, twice, and was now looking at me like I was both his salvation and his ruin.
I leaned forward, my breath ghosting over his skin before I took him into my mouth
A sharp, choked gasp escaped him. His hands, which had been braced on the mattress, flew to my head, not forcing, but tangling in my curls, holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
I moved slowly, deliberately, trying to pour every ounce of my gratitude, my need, my brokenness into the act. This wasn't the distraught, performative act from Bryant Hall. This was an offering. Each flick of my tongue, each soft sigh I drew from him, was another stitch sewing up the tear inside me. I could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, and hear the ragged pull of his breath.
"Wyatt... God...dammit," he groaned, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust.
I took him deeper, my eyes closed, losing myself in the rhythm and the scent of him, chlorine, clean sweat, and something uniquely Adam. This was the antidote. This was authentic.
His grip in my hair tightened. "I'm... I'm close..." he warned, his voice strained.
I didn't pull away. I looked up, meeting his gaze, those Bama blue eyes, letting him see me there, on my knees for him. It was the final permission he needed.
With a final, guttural cry that was half my name, half a sob, he came, his body shuddering. I stayed with him until the last spasm passed, until his hands fell from my hair, limp and spent.
For what felt like hours, the only sound was our heavy, shared breathing. I rested my forehead against his thigh, the reality of what we’d just done looming like a thunderstorm.
Then, I felt him move. He gently tugged his sweats back up, his movements slow, almost clumsy. I looked up as he stood, my body still humming.
Adam wouldn't meet my eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, his face a mask of stunned conflict. He paced the two steps to my desk and back, a caged animal in my small room.
"Fuck, I’m screwed," he muttered to himself, the words low and vehement. "So screwed."
He stopped pacing and finally looked at me, his blue eyes wide with a panic I hadn't seen before. It wasn't about me anymore; it was about the shattered boundary, the professional line he'd vaporized.
"I'm your fucking RA," he said, as if reminding himself. "I can't... This can't... God fucking damn it."
He grabbed his mug from where he'd left it on my desk, his knuckles white around the handle. Without another word, without a backward glance, he yanked the door open and slipped out into the hallway, closing it behind him with a soft, definitive click.
The silence he left behind was deafening. The warmth of him was already fading from the air, replaced by the cold dread of his final, muttered words.
I was left alone on my knees, the taste of him still on my lips, the hollowness inside me now filled with a new, chilling fear. I had reached for a lifeline, and in doing so, I might have just pulled us both under.
I didn’t go to class that day, but by Friday night, I couldn’t stand Riverside anymore. My room stank of stale sweat and secrets, the blinds clamped shut, the Donor Pass hanging on my lamp unused. I hadn’t answered Caroline, hadn’t touched the iPhone except to scroll blankly through apps.
So I pulled on khakis and a polo, slipped on my boat shoes, and limped toward Fraternity Row. DKE’s front porch was already alive, the house roaring with country on Bluetooth and pong balls echoing off plywood. I just wanted the noise to swallow me up, to disappear in the performance again.
When I had just settled onto the couch, watching a couple of other pledges play Mario Kart, Miles called me to the front door, saying I had a visitor.
Grant Gibson was standing on the porch. Phi Delt. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in DKE territory.
And yet he was, arms crossed, posture casual like he owned the block.
“Briggs,” he said, voice smooth like he was cutting butter. “We need to talk,” he gestured further away from the door, where we had more privacy.
The hairs on my neck stood up. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
He smiled thinly. “Call it… brotherly concern. Phi Delt’s got eyes and ears, you know. And what they’ve been hearing about you?” He tilted his head. “Not flattering.”
My throat closed.
Grant stepped closer, the porch light catching on his cufflinks. “Bryant Hall. Thursday night. Word is, a certain booster’s kid limped out of there late at night like he’d been run over. Now, I don’t care what your kinks are. But dragging athletes into your little hobby?” He shook his head slowly. “That’s a statewide scandal waiting to happen.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
He studied me for a few seconds, eyes sharp. “You think DKE can shield you? Think again. Guys talk. Staff talk. And I hear your RA is tangled up in this, too. That’s messy, Wyatt. Real messy.”
My stomach turned to stone. Adam.
Grant let the silence hang, savoring the way it suffocated me. Then he leaned in just enough that only I could hear him.
“Your family’s been trying to play kingmaker in Tuscaloosa for years. So I think there’s enough here to put a stop to that. I’m meeting with Priya Sharma from the Crimson White tomorrow before the game. How much of this she prints, I’ll decide. If you let me do what I need to do, I might just spare the last part about your RA. Careful, or you might not have anyone left on this campus to talk to.”
He turned and walked off down the street toward the Strip, leaving me standing by the doorway of the house, the music pounding behind me, the weight of his words crushing the air out of my lungs.
I left the DKE house without saying goodbye and retreated to Riverside, but Grant’s words echoed all night: Bryant Hall. Limped out like he’d been run over. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the scrape of his voice in my ear. By morning, I hadn’t slept more than an hour.
The next home football game was Saturday, whether I wanted to go or not.
The Strip was a river of crimson, boots, and bourbon. “Bama versus Vandy” wasn’t Georgia, but Vandy was undefeated, 5–0, and the chatter on ESPN had been unbearable all week. Is this the year Vanderbilt knocks Alabama off? Everyone seemed to say it with relish.
From the skybox, the stadium looked impossibly full: every seat a red dot in a living, roaring organism. The air itself seemed to vibrate with noise, a sellout crowd moving as one, shaking Bryant-Denny like it was built on fault lines.
Inside the glass, it was quieter. Carpeted floors. Cold air-conditioning. A spread of brisket sliders and shrimp cocktail. Over it all, the constant hum of polite, deadly conversation.
“Wyatt! Good to see you again, son. Your father tells me you’re finding your place in DKE.”
A hand on my shoulder, another stranger’s laugh. My father’s proud smile. Caroline at my side, her lipstick perfect, her phone up constantly, snapping pictures with the field sprawling behind her.
She whispered in my ear, “This is so much better than in the lower bowl. Look at this light!” She posed, red crop top gleaming, Bama shaker in one hand. I leaned into the frame on cue, smile automatic, the perfect couple shot for Instagram.
The first quarter cracked open with a gut punch, Vanderbilt running sixty yards to the end zone. The room tensed, but my dad just laughed too loudly, clapping a banker on the back. “Long game, boys. Don’t sweat the opening drive.” I wasn’t sweating the game at all; I was sweating the silence of my phone, waiting for it to detonate.
By the second quarter, the Tide finally found its rhythm. Ty Simpson threw two clean touchdowns, one early, one just before halftime, like the team was remembering who it was supposed to be. The box erupted in polite relief. Caroline leaned into me for a selfie, the glow of her screen lighting her smile. My own reflection in the glass looked like someone else’s son.
My dad leaned close during halftime, one arm heavy on my shoulder. “This is our world, Wyatt. These are the people who keep Alabama what it is. You’ve got to protect that. Understand?” His voice was serious, as if he already knew what was coming on Monday.
By the fourth, the field was all crimson again, a slow suffocation that ended in victory. Another touchdown sealed it, and the skybox toasted to dominance reborn. Caroline kissed my cheek, posting the photo before the scoreboard even reset.
And all I could think about was Grant’s smirk, Adam’s panic, and the way the Bryant Hall door had clicked shut behind me.
I had no will to leave my room on Sunday.
Not for the dining hall, not for the Strip, not even to get something from the vending machine. My fridge was empty except for a half-pack of bottled water, and I survived on three bags of fruit snacks I found at the bottom of my backpack. It was enough to keep the cramps from twisting too tight, not enough to feel like eating.
The blinds stayed shut. My phone stayed dark. Caroline’s messages stacked up, blue bubbles I didn’t open, little explosions I couldn’t risk. Each one probably angrier than the last. She’d want to know where I was, why I hadn’t smiled for her sorority sisters at the game. Why I wasn’t playing the part.
I lay on my bed and listened to the silence. Not the silence of peace, the silence of waiting. Grant’s words were the noose around my neck, and Monday was when he pulled the lever.
By the time my alarm buzzed on Monday morning, I had made a decision: lean into school. Let the hours drown me. Pretend the world was still whole.
I showered, shaved, threw on a white and crimson polo and khakis like nothing was wrong, and walked into my 9 a.m. lecture. The classroom lights buzzed overhead, dry-erase markers squeaked across the board, and I tried to let myself breathe. If I wrote fast enough, copied every word on the slides, maybe I could trick myself into thinking I was still just a Freshman. Not a headline waiting to be printed.
After my morning classes, I decided to have an early lunch. The stir-fry was still steaming in front of me, soy sauce soaking into the bed of rice, and for the first time since Grant’s ultimatum, my stomach didn’t recoil at the thought of food. I ate slowly, forcing each bite down, trying to convince myself I was normal again. Students around me buzzed with the usual Monday chatter, group projects, frat gossip, and looming midterms.
I didn’t know the student reporters had rushed to get the story out by 9:30 a.m., front page of The Crimson White’s webpage, pushed to phones all over campus and alumni: Booster’s Son Linked to Athlete Scandal. I still had my phone on silent from Sunday, so I didn’t know half my fraternity brothers had screenshotted it and dropped it into the DKE Server with question marks and exploding-head emojis. I didn’t know my RA’s name was already being whispered, too.
I just knew the stir-fry tasted like something, and that was better than nothing.
The doors to Lakeside Dining Hall banged open. A ripple of silence swept the room. Forks froze. Conversations cut off mid-sentence.
I looked up.
Caroline.
Her hair was perfect, blown out even on a Monday, her lipstick sharp enough to cut stone. She was wearing the Brandy Melville top I’d bought her in Atlanta this summer, back when I thought buying her things meant buying myself a role to play.
Caroline’s eyes scanned the hall, hard and fast, until they landed on me in the corner. The silence deepened. People shifted out of her path as if she were royalty or a bomb. A girl with long dark hair, studying with a textbook open, glanced up over the top of her glasses. From the sushi station, an Asian student holding a tray paused, his eyes flicking from Caroline’s furious face to my frozen one.
Just as she came around the Food Service Area, Caroline shouted.
“Wyatt Jefferson Briggs!”
Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to sting. Every head turned. Every phone tilted slightly higher, ready to record.
My chopsticks clattered into the bowl. My chest went hollow.
She stopped at the edge of my table, hands planted on the laminate surface like she might flip it. Her eyes were wet, furious, already glinting under the LED lights.
The world had found me, or likely she found me from that new geolocation feature on Instagram I kept meaning to turn off.
“My father just called me and told me everything he read. He said I should be mindful of what I say to you…..”
The pause she took was perfectly calibrated. Long enough for the shame to burn its way up my neck and into my face.
“So I’ll say this once, Wyatt. The only thing more pathetic than what you’ve been doing is that you got caught.” Her eyes were like ice. “Don’t call me. Don’t look at me. You no longer exist.”
Then, she turned. The spell broke. The room erupted into a torrent of whispers, but I didn’t hear any of it. I was just watching her walk away, the click of her shoes fading as she disappeared out the doors, leaving me alone in the deafening silence.
I stared down at the stir-fry as if I just kept eating, the world would fold back into normal. My chopsticks hovered over the bowl, hand trembling, sweat sliding down the back of my neck. One bite. Two. Each grain of rice tasted like volcanic ash. The silence around me wasn’t silence anymore; it was the weight of every stare. I could feel them, burning holes in my back.
The whispers crawled closer. Phone cameras tilted. Someone coughed into their sleeve to cover a laugh.
I shoved the tray away and stood, forcing my legs to move like I had somewhere important to be. My bag hit my shoulder with a dull thud.
Don’t run. Don’t show it.
But when I pushed through the glass doors, the air outside hit me sharply, and my chest cracked open.
I had one more class. Just one. If I could make it through, I could prove I wasn’t broken.
The lecture hall was already full, the hum of conversation buzzing as I slipped through the door. As I got to the first aisle, it happened: a few heads turned, then more. The hum cut off like someone had pulled the plug.
The projector glowed on the front wall, the professor still shuffling his notes, but it didn’t matter. Eyes were on me, wide, curious, some smirking, some whispering into cupped hands.
Heat flooded my face. My seat halfway down the row might as well have been a hundred miles away. I froze in the aisle, exposed.
“Is that him? He doesn’t look loaded,” someone hissed.
That was it. The muffled laughter chased me down the steps and across the quad. I didn't stop until I was through the main doors of Riverside, the familiar, stale air hitting me like a welcome back to a prison I’d built myself.
The hallway on my floor was silent. I fumbled for my key, my hands shaking so badly the metal scraped against the lock.
A door creaked open down the hall.
I flinched, spinning around. A guy I'd seen around, not a DKE, but a Phi Delt, one of Grant's, was peering out. He wasn't someone I knew, just a face from the periphery. Our eyes met. There was no surprise in his, just a flat, calculating look, as if he was ready to let Grant know I was back. Then he ducked back inside, his door clicking shut with a sound that felt like a verdict.
The thought was a cold knife in my gut. I stumbled into my room and slammed the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn't just a scandal anymore. It was a targeted takedown, and Grant had eyes everywhere.
I locked the door and leaned against it, chest heaving. I wanted to crawl under the bed, vanish into the concrete.
My phone buzzed in my pocket before I could get to my bed. Once. Twice. I pulled it out with exhausted hands.
AL.com Breaking News: “Heir of AL Dealership Empire Tied to Athlete Scandal at UA.”
The headline glowed against the screen. Bold. Unavoidable. A siren that would carry from Tuscaloosa to Huntsville and, of course, Montgomery before nightfall.
I didn't leave the room for hours. The world outside my window cycled from afternoon sun to evening dark. My phone buzzed incessantly on the desk, unknown numbers, DKE Discord explosions I couldn't bring myself to open: a relentless digital firing squad.
And then, a new sound. A soft, hesitant knock.
My whole body went rigid. Grant, Phi Delt. The Crimson White. I didn't move, didn't breathe. I just stared at the door, waiting for it to break down.
After a moment, I heard footsteps walking away.
Another five minutes stretched, and the silence was a weight on my chest. Hunger was a sharp claw in my stomach, but the thought of facing the dining hall again was unthinkable. Finally, driven by a desperate need for something, anything, to change, I crept to the door and cracked it open.
No one was there.
But on the floor, directly in front of my door, was a brown paper bag from Raising Cane's. The top was folded over neatly. Taped to the front was the receipt turned over with one thing written in blue Sharpie:
-E.
I stared at it, my mouth watering. I snatched the bag, pulled it inside, and locked the door again, leaning against it as I hugged the warm, greasy paper to my chest. It was the first act of kindness I'd felt in days, and those chicken fingers were the best I had in a while.
At 8:02 p.m., the phone buzzed again. Louder. Different.
I rolled over, dragging myself upright, and picked it up.
The screen showed multiple unread texts. But the one on top: Dad.
Come here now. Do not talk to anyone.
Below it, a dropped pin glowed red on the map: Courtyard by Marriott, off I-20.
The weight of it settled in my chest like lead. Not a request. Not an option. Just the next move in a game I was already losing.
I set the phone down back on the desk, the map still glowing in the dark, and lay back against the pillow. The world outside kept moving, but for me, everything stopped at that red pin.
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