Chapter Text
The grass always looked different under game lights.
Not like the massive pro arenas on TV—this was their university’s main football field. But their university wasn’t just any school; it was the kind whose name opened doors and quieted rooms. The kind with endowments so large the facilities never felt old.
The field sat low and perfect, framed by sleek, modern bleachers in brushed steel and pale concrete, their edges lined with LED strips that glowed soft under the night.
The turf was clipped short and even, its green so uniform it looked filtered in real life, white yard lines painted with a precision that screamed money and care. No bare patches. No ragged corners.
To Jaydon Shears, this rectangle of grass might as well have been the center of the world.
He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, feeling the slight, engineered give of the turf through his cleats, sucking in a lungful of air that tasted like night and sweat and the faint clean bite of whatever they used to mark the lines.
His helmet hung from his right hand, its weight familiar, the chinstrap tapping against his thigh in a steady rhythm.
“Trips right, Jay. Read the safety. You got this,” his offensive coordinator barked from the sideline.
Jay barely glanced over. He knew the call. He knew the coverage he’d seen all quarter. Four years of this field under his cleats meant nothing here was really new.
What still felt new, even now, was how his heart sped up when the ball was his to claim.
He rolled his shoulders back, the pads shifting against his bronze skin, the navy jersey taut over hard planes of muscle built from years of brutal work.
He could feel eyes on him—he always did.
The low hum of the crowd along the bleachers, students in expensive athleisure and branded varsity jackets, the cluster of girls in perfectly styled outfits who’d wandered over after their own club meetings, the group of guys from finance and law who treated home games like networking events.
All that noise blurred into a single texture in his head.
Somewhere beyond all that, he knew, there was one gaze that didn’t blend into the rest.
He found it without trying.
Top of the central section of the bleachers, Weston Webber sat with his forearms resting on the slim metal rail, ankles crossed neatly.
Of course Weston wasn’t in a hoodie.
He wore a light wool-blend bomber jacket in a deep, understated charcoal—perfectly cut, the collar sitting clean against his throat—over a cream knit polo that looked simple until you noticed the fine texture and the way it sat exactly right on his shoulders. Slim black trousers, slightly cropped to show off a pair of glossy dark loafers with subtle hardware.
Even his socks—fine, ribbed, matching the tone of his jacket—looked intentional.
Everyone on campus knew Weston dressed well.
Sports pages called him the captain with runway potential. Fashion kids whispered about his outfits on a fan account dedicated to cataloging his looks, from his belts to his watches to the cost of each piece.
Jay just knew that when he looked up after a play, Weston was always the cleanest, sharpest thing in the stands.
Right now, Weston wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t bouncing with the crowd.
He was watching.
His posture was easy but precise, back straight, shoulders relaxed. His fair skin caught the light; his eyes—deep, steady—were locked on the field. On Jay.
He didn’t smile yet. His mouth was set in that tight, focused line he wore when he was reading a game, cataloging angles and tendencies.
Jay felt that gaze like a thumb pressed at the base of his neck.
His chest loosened.
He let his lips tilt into a quick, knowing half-smile that only Weston would recognize, then snapped his helmet on. The world narrowed, sounds softened by padding and plastic to something he could control.
“Trips right! Trips right!” the center called, clapping his hands as they jogged up to the line.
Jay slid into position in the slot, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. He glanced at the corner across from him—guy looked nervous, even under the pristine, university-issued gear. Weight on his heels, eyes a little too wide, studs of his visor reflecting the lights.
Easy.
Jay dropped his hips, coiled.
The quarterback barked the cadence. The ball snapped.
Everything went sharp.
Jay exploded off the line, cutting outside first, selling the vertical route with three long strides before planting his left foot hard into the manicured turf and slicing across the middle.
The safety shifted, hips opening the wrong way.
There.
The ball left the quarterback’s hand, a tight spiral cutting through the bright air.
For a heartbeat, it was just rotation and distance and timing.
Eyes first, then hands, he told himself automatically, the manta so drilled-in it sounded like his old high school coach in his skull.
The leather thumped into his palms, familiar weight absorbed instantly into his body. He tucked it in, turned, lowered his shoulder as a linebacker lunged.
Contact slid off the side of his pads, a dull thud. He rode it, legs still driving.
White yard numbers flashed beneath him. The field, under these lights, had that almost unreal sheen, every blade of grass behaving exactly the way physics predicted.
It’d be easy to take the first down. He could go down and hear the polite applause of a well-bred crowd.
But Jaydon Shears didn’t come to this school to be polite.
He loved winning more than he loved what was sensible.
He kept going.
Someone grabbed at his hip from behind; he felt fingers brush the fabric of his jersey, slip as he powered through. His lungs burned, legs pumping, breath punching out of him in steady bursts.
Five more yards.
Three.
He crossed into the end zone, mind already moving to ball security as the whistle shrieked across the field.
Touchdown.
The crowd rose, the sound folding over itself—cheers from the student section, deeper shouts from older alumni.
His teammates were on him in seconds—helmets smacking his, hands pounding his back and shoulders.
“Let’s go, Jay!”
“Motherfucker, they can't hold you!”
Jay laughed, breath burning his lungs, letting the wave of celebration roll over him.
The hit of adrenaline was bright and clean, but he was never one for over-the-top celebrations. Not here. Not with scouts occasionally sitting somewhere in the expensive seats.
He jogged toward the sideline, chest still heaving under his pads.
On instinct, before he let himself get swallowed by the chaos of the bench, he looked up again.
Same place. Top row, center.
Weston was on his feet now, one hand still resting on the rail, the line of his body subtly forward.
His mouth had finally broken into a smile—small by Jay’s standards, huge Weston's. It was the kind that made his eyes warmer and softer, catching the light in a way that made them look almost amber.
Their gazes locked.
The noise around Jay blurred, like someone had laid a transparent panel of glass between him and everything else.
He lifted his right hand, two fingers flicking off his helmet in a gesture that, to anyone else, could’ve just been for the entire student section.
He knew better.
So did Weston.
Weston’s smile lingered. He dipped his chin once, a tiny, almost private acknowledgment.
He’d watched every second of that play.
He always did.
Jay turned away, letting the volume of the field fold back in around him.
Up in the stands, Weston’s fingers tightened slightly on the rail, knuckles whitening before he forced them to relax.
He’d been doing this for four years—watching Jay on this field, in all kinds of light and weather, through big wins and ugly scrapes. His chest still reacted the same way every time Jay broke into open space.
A sharp pull, like something inside him was attached to number 11’s jersey by a string.
He told himself he was just invested. In his best friend. In someone he believed in.
He didn’t touch the other word for it.
Not here.
Not yet.
The rest of the game played out in a controlled blur.
On the field, everything was efficient—the coaching, the substitutions, even the way trainers handed off water bottles. It was a prestigious program at a prestigious university; chaos was for their opponents.
They won by enough that the last two minutes were just disciplined handoffs and clock management.
By the time the final whistle blew, the perfectly painted lines had soft scuffs, but nothing sloppy.
Jay’s socks were damp with sweat, his shoulders held a pleasant ache, and there was a faint twinge in his lower back from a tackle he’d taken a little too upright.
It felt good.
He shook hands with the opposing players out of habit, the smell of high-end fabric softener and turf pellets in the air, then turned toward the sideline.
A group of girls leaned against the sleek, brushed-steel fence, calling his name in that half-teasing, half-hopeful tone he'd gotten used to. One of them held her phone up, framing him casually in 4K.
“Jay, that cut was filthy!”
“Jay, can you look over here?”
He flashed them a half-smile, a quick, practiced thing. Not unkind, not inviting anything more than they’d already take for themselves.
He knew how he was seen here.
Golden boy. Star receiver. The guy whose highlight reels looked like they’d been edited.
And he knew the details everyone else knew about him, too—he came from money, not old enough to be untouchable, but comfortable enough that tuition here had never been a question.
He had a high-end apartment twenty minutes off campus with a concierge who knew his name and a parking space reserved for his bike.
He had all of that.
It still didn’t mean much when he was standing on this field, helmet in hand, sweat drying on his skin.
“Jay, you coming to the after?” Malik shouted from near the forty, half-hugging a teammate. “Hunter’s place. You have to come, it’s gonna be insane. His dad’s out of town.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jay called back, adjusting the strap on his gloves. “Let me get out of this shit first.”
Hunter’s house was a known quantity: big lawn, bigger pool, cars in the driveway that started in the six-figure range. Parties there blurred into each other in Jay’s mind—different playlists, different outfits, same stories.
He jogged toward the sideline, cleats biting cleanly into the almost-too-perfect turf. A trainer offered him a chilled bottle of branded electrolyte drink; he took it, downed half in one go.
From somewhere behind him, the head coach’s voice rose, beginning the post-game debrief with a lecture on penalties and red-zone efficiency.
Jay’s attention had already shifted.
He knew Weston would come down.
He always did.
And as much as Jay liked the electric hum of victory, there was a different kind of high waiting for him at the edge of the bleachers.
The field changed texture as the crowd thinned.
Expensive shoes clacked down the concrete steps of the bleachers. Designer bags swung off shoulders as students filed out, their conversations already veering toward where to eat, where to drink, whose apartment looked best on Instagram tonight.
Weston made his way down from the top row.
Where other students clomped, Weston glided.
He moved with that contained grace he always had—each step precise, long legs taking the decline easily.
Every piece he wore moved with him—jacket falling just right when he straightened, the cream knit under it catching tiny shimmers of light, his slim black trousers breaking cleanly over the gloss of his loafers.
He caught a greeting on the way down—a guy from his own team who'd come to watch.
“Nice catch by your boy,” the guy said.
Weston’s mouth tugged up at one corner.
“He did okay,” Weston replied.
The other guy laughed like that was a joke.
It wasn’t, entirely.
Weston slipped through the small gate in the fence, the brushed aluminum cool under his fingers for a second.
His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers. He squinted briefly against the field lights, letting his gaze track, as it always did, straight to the navy jersey with the number 11 and the familiar shape underneath.
Jay had his helmet off now, dark curls damp, sweat shining in a light sheen on his bronze skin.
Even in a crowd of visibly trained bodies, he stood out—bigger across the shoulders, a little denser through the arms, built like someone who took contact personally and gave it back.
A lot of people looked at Jay and saw an athlete with a perfect body and a good face.
Weston saw something else first.
He saw the way Jay’s stance eased half a degree when he spotted Weston at the sideline. The way his hand automatically shifted his helmet under his arm, freeing the other hand like he might need it.
Saw him scan the edge of the field until their eyes met.
By now, everyone on the football team knew that post-game, Jay and Weston moved on their own orbit.
“Star boy,” Weston called when Jay reached him, his tone dry, eyes brighter than his voice.
The nickname had started as a jab during second year, when a local magazine had done a feature on “Campus Athletes To Watch” and Jay’s face had been splashed across the cover.
The nickname rolled easily off his tongue now.
He’d never actually told Jay that the first time he’d seen that article, something in his chest had twisted—pride and protectiveness and a sharp little flare of possessiveness at how public Jay’s face suddenly was.
Jay grinned, teeth flashing white against the darkening field.
“You sound jealous,” he shot back, letting his eyes run once, quick and appreciative, over Weston’s face.
If Jay was all sharp edges and loud energy, Weston was a different kind of striking. He was the type of good-looking that made people do double takes—not because he was the biggest guy in the room, but because everything about him was put together.
Up close, Jay smelled like sweat and turf and a faint thread of something clean and expensive from whatever cologne he’d sprayed on earlier. The kind of scent that clung in the best way.
Weston’s eyes flicked once, involuntarily, over him—pads, neckline of the jersey, the exposed skin at his throat. Then he forced his gaze back up.
“Jealous?” Weston echoed, arching a brow. “Of a man who almost dropped a perfectly thrown ball in the first quarter?”
Jay scoffed.
“That was not ‘almost.’ That was me keeping it interesting,” he shot back.
“You’re insufferable,” Weston said, but there was warmth underneath.
He shifted his weight, the leather of his loafers silent on the smooth walkway. The wind moved slightly across the field, catching the hem of his jacket.
He could feel his own heart still beating a little faster than normal, not from physical exertion, but from the residual adrenaline of watching Jay take hits.
He hated that part.
He loved that part.
“Mm-hm,” Jay said. “You cold?”
Weston glanced down at his outfit, then back at Jay.
“In cashmere and wool?” he said. “Not really.”
“You’re so spoiled,” Jay complained lightly.
“Correct,” Weston replied. “And you’re dripping onto my shoes.”
Jay looked down, then deliberately took half a step closer.
“Relax,” he said. “You can buy new ones.”
Weston’s lips twitched. “I did buy these. That’s the problem.”
Jay laughed, the sound loud, easy, drawing a brief glance from a nearby group.
If they noticed the way Jay’s body angled toward Weston, or how his grin softened slightly when he looked at him, they didn’t say anything.
“You sure you're not cold?” Joss asked again.
“I'm fine,” Weston replied. “You're the one out here sweating like a faucet. You should shower before your pores revolt.”
“Oh, you're invested in my pores now?” Jay’s smile grew. “This love is getting intense.”
Weston snorted, a short sound that came from his nose rather than his mouth. “Don't put words in my mouth.”
Jay’s gaze flickered briefly, almost involuntarily, to that mouth.
He looked away before the moment could solidify into something he had to think about.
“You staying for the debrief?” Weston asked, nodding vaguely toward where Coach was still talking at a circle of players.
“Nah,” Jay said. “He's just repeating himself.”
“Well watch everything tomorrow.”
“You're going to walk off in front of him?”
Weston's lips twitched. “That's bold.”
But he didn’t move immediately.
For a few seconds, they just stood at the edge of the painted sideline together, the white boundary line a roughly straight strip under their shoes.
The field stretched out in front of them, littered with a few stray cones and the faint indents where cleats had torn into the grass.
From here, the yard markers weren’t just numbers; they were memories.
Jay remembered the first time he’d brought Weston out here late at night, back when they were first years and still pretending not to be impressed by one another.
He’d flicked on the field lights with the smugness of someone who knew all the right switches, then tossed Weston a ball, laughing when the basketball player had fumbled the spiral at first.
“You belong on smooth floors,” Jay had teased. “This is my kingdom.”
Weston had rolled his eyes and then, ten minutes later, thrown a nearly perfect slant route back at him. The kind of quick learning that stuck with Jay.
Now, four years later, that easy history wrapped around them even when they weren’t saying anything.
“You played well,” Weston said then, letting the teasing fall away for just a second.
He didn’t over-sell it. He never had. Jay didn’t need over-the-top praise.
But Weston had spent the game tracking not just the spectacular moments, but the small details—Jay’s feet on certain breaks, his timing against press coverage, the way he adjusted his release when the corner shaded inside.
Jaychest warmed in a different way than from exertion.
“Yeah?” he asked, the word naked of bravado.
“Yeah.” Weston’s gaze moved briefly out over the field, then back to him. “Your cuts were sharper than last week. You read the safety right on that second touchdown. You were…clean.”
From anyone else, that might've sounded bland. Coming from Weston, clean meant efficient, controlled, almost beautiful.
For four years, Weston had watched Jay get better and harder and sharper. Watched him refine raw talent into something polished—not because of the scouts, but because that’s who Jay was when he cared about something.
Weston loved that about him.
He’d never said love out loud in that context.
He wasn’t sure he ever would.
“Keep talking like that, I might start thinking you actually like watching me,” Jay said, but there was a thread in his voice that sounded closer to hope than ego.
Weston’s mouth curved.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied. “I’d be here anyway. It’s good film. Opposing coaches are lazy. I like seeing what they miss.”
It was partially true.
The other part—the part about how he couldn’t not be here when Jay played, how sitting in his penthouse while Jay took hits on this field felt physically wrong—that he kept to himself.
“Film study from the luxury box,” Jay teased. “Of course.”
Weston ignored the jab at his money. They both came from wealth; Jay’s was loud and athletic and sponsored, his own was older, quieter, generational in a way that showed up in the kind of watch he wore and the way his last name made certain professors look again.
He didn’t talk about it. Neither did Jay, really. They both just moved through this world like it was normal.
“You heading home now?” Jay asked.
“In a bit,” Weston said. “I have design lab tomorrow.”
“Right, the fashion world can't progress without your opinion on hemlines,” Jay teased.
Weston’s eyes finally slid to his.
“Says the man who asked me to color-coordinate his cleats to his gloves,” he shot back.
Jay lifted his free hand in a mock-surrender.
“That was once.”
“That was last week.”
“Details,” Jay said.
Weston shook his head, but the look he gave Jay was softer than any insult warranted. His gaze flicked briefly to the damp curls plastered against Jay’s forehead.
“You’re going to get sick standing here,” he said. “Go shower. I’ll text you.”
“In a bit,” Jay said. “Gotta pretend to listen to Coach, shower, then apparently show my face at Hunter’s circus.”
Weston’s nose wrinkled, the smallest, quickest expression.
“You love the circus,” he said.
“I like the noise,” Jay corrected. “And the free food.”
“And the women,” Weston thought, but he didn’t say it.
He’d spent years teaching himself how not to flinch when he saw some girl pressed into Jay’s side at a party, laughing into his ear. How not to notice when Jay left a place with someone else.
It wasn’t Jay’s fault. Jay had never promised him anything.
They were best friends.
That was already more than Weston had expected to have.
“Come by after?” Weston said, voice casual, as if his heart wasn’t stepping lightly toward a ledge. “If you’re not too drunk or too busy.”
Jay tilted his head.
“You inviting me over?” he asked. “Is this a date?”
Weston let out a soft, disbelieving huff.
“It’s a couch and a screen,” he said. “You’re not special.”
He was lying. To himself more than to Jay.
Movie nights in his penthouse were for a very tight, very specific circle.
Sometimes his little sister, Waynona, when she was in his city and not busy terrorizing her own friends.
Sometimes a teammate.
Most often: Jay.
Jay didn’t know that Weston always kept the living room slightly warmer on nights he came over, because he’d noticed once that Jay got cold quickly when he was tired.
Didn’t know Weston picked restaurants based on what Jay actually ate, even when he pretended it was his own craving.
“Always free for you,” Jay said, the words out before he could layer a joke over them.
Something in Weston’s chest pulled tight.
Big words.
He tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders still held in that careful, casual line.
“Go shower,” he said. “You’re stalling. And if Coach chews you out because you wandered off mid-rant, I’m not listening to you complain about it later.”
Jay’s eyes flicked to the group near midfield where Coach was still talking. Then back to Weston.
He didn’t want to leave. Not really. It was always like that—his favorite part of game days wasn’t the noise during, it was the quiet after, standing here with Weston in the cooling air, the field no longer a battlefield but just grass and lines and breath.
But for all his noise and chaos, Jay listened when Weston used that particular tone—quiet, directive, no room for argument but no sharpness either.
He liked to think of himself as the dominant one on the field, the one in control.
But off it, there were very few people he let steer him.
Weston was one of them.
“Bossy,” Jay muttered, but he started backing away, walking slowly so he could drag the moment out.
“Efficient,” Weston corrected.
Jay took another step back, then another, walking backward now, eyes still on Weston.
“You driving?” he asked.
“Yes,” Weston said. “In my car. Like a normal person.”
His car—a low, sleek coupe in a deep midnight blue that almost read black under most lighting. The kind of car that cost more than most people’s annual salary, but sat completely at home among the other vehicles in this campus lot.
Jay had teased him about it when Weston had first pulled up in it second year.
“Subtle,” he’d said, running a hand along the flawless paint. “Real low-key.”
“It’s practical,” Weston had replied. “It drives well.”
Now, Jay rolled his eyes.
“Boring,” he declared. “I’ll pick you up next week. Bike is faster.”
“You say that every time,” Weston replied. “And every time, I question why I allow you near my lifespan.”
“You're dramatic,” Jay shot back, walking backward slowly so he could still face Weston for a few more seconds. “You love it.”
Weston’s answer was quiet.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Jay wasn’t sure if Weston meant the chaos, the bike, or him.
He didn’t push.
He just held Weston’s gaze for one more heartbeat, then turned fully toward the locker room, helmet bumping lightly against his hip.
Weston watched him go.
From behind, without the helmet, Jay looked broader. The expensive, custom-tailored uniform fit his frame perfectly, the navy and white clean against his skin.
Weston’s fingers twitched once in his pockets.
He turned away only when Jay disappeared into the tunnel.
The field behind him glowed in the curated light, lines on the turf still crisp despite the game. The big university crest at midfield looked like it had been polished.
He’d be back here tomorrow—for his own reasons, in a different building, on a different court.
Tonight, though, all his steps, all his careful, measured movements, drifted in one direction.
Toward his car.
Toward his penthouse.
Toward the part of the night where, if history held, Jay would show up damp-haired and loud, filling Weston’s meticulously designed space with a kind of life nothing else did.
The locker room was its own ecosystem.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bouncing off white tile and brushed steel.
Branded gear bags sat on polished benches; the air carried the familiar mix of sweat, steam, and the faint citrus of expensive body washes their athlete stipends could easily cover.
Someone had music blaring from a portable speaker—the same playlist they always used, rap and pop and something with a heavy bass that made the metal benches vibrate.
Jay dropped his helmet into his locker with a practiced clang.
“Star boy!” Malik yelled from two lockers down, peeling off his jersey. “Scouts are gonna drool, man. That second TD? Stupid.”
“Relax,” Jay said, tugging his jersey over his head. The fabric clung briefly before sliding off, leaving his upper body bare, skin still flushed with effort. “It’s one game.”
“One game closer to a contract,” Malik insisted, towel-smacking his shoulder.
Jay rolled his neck, the hint of a smile on his mouth.
He didn’t shy away from the talk. He knew what he wanted. He knew he had the frame, the numbers, the highlight reels. People had been telling him since high school that he had league potential.
And his family had never told him no. Money hadn’t been a barrier here—not to elite camps, not to private trainers, not to this university.
He’d grown up around manicured lawns and weekend trips and shiny cars, though none of it had ever felt quite as real to him as the feel of a ball in his hands.
Here, under this humming light, surrounded by rows of metal and wood and guys who yelled too loud, he was just—finally—himself.
“Yo,” Malik said, squinting toward Jay’s open duffel. “That new?”
Jay followed his gaze.
Tucked neatly in the corner, half-covered by a rolled pair of socks, was a matte, slate-blue shaker bottle.
He hadn’t packed it.
His irritation at Malik’s earlier teasing faded, replaced with a small, inevitable warmth.
He picked it up. The plastic was cool, the lid turned just slightly off-center, like someone had closed it quickly.
Vanilla, he guessed, before he even twisted it open.
Of course.
“Personal nutritionist,” Jay muttered, lips twitching.
“Your what?” Malik asked.
“Nothing,” Jay said.
He pictured Weston walking in before the game started, slipping past the threshold where athletes and staff flowed. He’d move through the space with that calm certainty, nodding once to the equipment manager, stopping right in front of Jay’s locker, opening the bag like it was his own.
Placing the shaker just so.
No text. No comment.
Just knowing Jay would see it when he needed it.
Jay unscrewed the lid and lifted it to his nose. Vanilla, smooth, with a faint hint of something else—almond, maybe, or oat. Weston’s preferred formula. Only the high-end stuff. The kind you’d find in a perfectly organized kitchen cabinet with labels facing outward.
He took a long drink.
“Damn,” Malik said, watching. “Coach hook you up with that? That’s not the cheap crap.”
“Friend,” Jay said simply.
Malik smirked. “Which one?”
Jay’s eyes cut sideways, sharper than he intended.
“Just a friend,” he said, voice flat enough that Malik relented.
“Okay, okay,” Malik said, turning back to his own locker. “Chill.”
Jay let out a slow breath.
They all knew Weston. They’d seen him courtside at basketball games, seen him in the front rows of their own.
They’d clocked the way he dressed, the car he drove, the quiet weight of his last name and how campus admin suddenly became very helpful whenever Weston was around.
They’d also clocked how often he and Jay were together.
They called them “the bros.” The campus golden pair in different fonts.
The two popular athletes from different worlds being buddies.
They didn’t see the file of little details Weston carried in his head—the way Jay took his coffee, the brand of cereal he actually finished, the fact that Jay never remembered to buy his own protein.
They didn’t see the way Weston’s throat tightened every time Jay took a hit that sounded a little too loud from the stands.
They didn’t see the way Weston anticipated things before Jay even realized he needed them.
They didn’t see how, after a particularly rough practice earlier this season, Jay had stumbled out of the locker room to find Weston leaning against his bike downstairs, helmet already in hand, a bag of take-out from Jay’s favorite burger place hanging from his wrist.
“You look like you’re about to die,” Weston had said calmly, handing him the food. “Eat first. Then I’ll drop you home.”
He’d said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
Jay finished the shake, shoulders easing, and headed for the showers.
Hot water pounded over his head minutes later, steam fogging the glass of the stall. He braced his hands on the wall, letting the ache leak out of his muscles, the victory settled properly into his bones.
His mind flickered, for a second, to the inevitable: the party at Hunter’s place, the noise, the drinks, some girl with glossy hair laughing too loudly at something he said.
He knew how it’d go. He’d let the attention wash over him, maybe let someone press closer, his lips finding hers in the blur of music and alcohol.
He wouldn’t take her home. He never did.
He liked flings. Liked the flex, the chase, the uncomplicated thrill.
He didn’t like responsibility dressed up as romance, not after he’d had a taste of how ugly expectations could turn.
He told himself it was cleaner this way—for him and for whoever touched him for a night.
Somewhere outside the spray, his phone sat dry, silent in his locker.
He hadn’t checked it, but he knew—knew on the same bone-deep level that told him when to cut left or right—that there’d be a message waiting from Weston.
Not gushing.
Not long.
Just enough.
Something like: You were disgusting.
Which, in Weston’s language, was the distilled version of everything he’d felt watching Jay streak down the field—pride, fear, fondness, hunger for him to keep going, to be exactly what he wanted to be.
Jay shut the water off and reached for a towel.
Dressed again—loose gray sweats, white tee, his own hoodie thrown over it—he dug his phone out of his duffel.
Three notifications.
Two were from teammates.
The third was from “Wes.”
Wes: You were disgusting.
Jay’s mouth curved.
Wes: Drink the thing I left in your bag.
A second later:
Wes: All of it, Jaydon. I know how you are.
Jay leaned his shoulder into the cool metal of the locker, thumbs moving.
Jay: Bossy for someone who just sat there in his little rich boy outfit.
Bubbles appeared.
Wes: It’s not little. It’s Prada. And I’m the reason you’re not cramping right now.
Jay huffed a quiet laugh.
Jay: U home now?
Wes: Parking. Why.
Jay: Pullin up in like 30. Don’t sleep yet.
A longer pause.
Wes: You have a party.
Jay: And I have u. Multi-tasking, princess.
This time the typing bubbles lingered, disappeared, came back.
Wes: Don’t call me that. And don’t be late. I’m tired.
Jay slid the phone into his pocket, satisfaction thrumming in his chest.
Hunter’s party would have food and noise, a pool lit from beneath, speakers that cost more than some people’s cars.
Weston’s place would have its own kind of luxury—warm lighting, minimal lines, an expensive candle burning on a low table, food that had actually been ordered with him in mind.
They were both wealthy. Both moved in this world like it was normal.
But the only place Jay really let himself rest these days wasn’t his own high-end apartment.
It was Weston’s.
He shrugged his bag over his shoulder and headed out.
Outside, the field glowed behind him, one bank of lights dimmed, others still bright. The university crest at midfield gleamed, wet from the light mist that had started drifting down.
He took one last glance, then turned toward the parking structure reserved for players and staff.
His bike waited there under a perfect cone of light, matte black body gleaming just enough to hint at the absurd price tag.
Jay ran his hand once along the bike’s handlebar, then swung a leg over, settling into the seat.
The engine came alive with a deep, contained growl.
He aimed the front wheel toward Hunter’s neighborhood right now.
Just a brief appearance and that's it.
Then almost immediately.
He pointed it toward the route he could ride in his sleep—past the sculpture garden that looked like money and taste had gotten drunk together, down the boulevard lined with trees and clean pavement.
Toward a high-end apartment tower with a discreet entrance and a lobby that smelled like white flowers and new leather.
Toward Weston.
The field receded behind him, perfect lines shrinking in his mirrors.
The game was over.
The part of the night that mattered most—to both of them, even if only one of them would admit it—was just beginning.
;)