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The Foxes really should’ve known better than to make bets.
But, well… they usually didn’t.
It all started after practice when Andrew Minyard silently scared off yet another overly confident fan who’d been waiting outside Fox Tower with flowers.
The guy had barely managed three words before Andrew looked at him.
Just looked.
Cold. Flat. Uninterested in anything the man had to offer.
By the time Andrew took a single step forward, the fan was already backing away. By the time Andrew reached the door, he was practically sprinting down the sidewalk, flowers forgotten on the ground like evidence of a crime.
Matt watched him go, eyebrows raised. “That’s number… what? Twelve this semester?”
“Fifteen,” Dan corrected without missing a beat.
Nicky let out a long, suffering sigh, like the universe itself had personally wronged him. “I’m telling you, Andrew is going to die alone.”
Andrew didn’t even look up from cleaning his racquet. The steady, precise motion of his hands didn’t change. If anything, he looked more relaxed than before the fan had arrived.
Kevin snorted. “Like he’d care.”
Aaron’s gaze flicked around the room, calculating, bored. “Twenty bucks says he never dates anyone.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“Seriously?” Matt asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Seriously,” Aaron repeated.
Dan’s grin spread slowly, sharp with opportunity. “You’re on.”
Within minutes, the Foxes had turned a passing comment into something far more dangerous: a very stupid, very competitive betting pool on whether Andrew Minyard would ever have a significant other.
Odds were assigned with military precision. Dan started tracking entries on her phone like it was a financial portfolio. Nicky insisted on “emotional subcategories” that no one understood but everyone ignored. Kevin tried to impose “logical constraints” that were immediately dismissed. Matt just kept asking if this was really necessary while still contributing money. Aaron, annoyingly, was the most organized of all of them.
Rules were argued in overlapping voices - time limits, definitions of “dating,” whether “Andrew tolerating someone’s existence for more than ten minutes” counted as a relationship milestone. Money changed hands with alarming speed, folded bills shoved into Nicky’s hands like contraband.
Andrew ignored all of it.
Which, of course, just convinced them they were right.
Three thousand miles away, Neil Josten stared at his phone like it had personally offended him.
Nicky: THEY MADE A BET ABOUT YOU.
Neil blinked once. Then again, slower.
Neil: About me?
Nicky: No. About Andrew. They think he’ll never date anyone.
Neil leaned back in his chair, the hotel suite suddenly feeling too bright, too loud. Stylists were still arguing in the background over which jacket he should wear to tomorrow’s awards show, their voices blending into a distant, meaningless hum. Someone was steaming fabric. Someone else was talking about lighting. It all felt far away.
To the world, he was Neil Josten - Olympic gold medalist, bestselling memoir author, occasional actor, constant magazine cover guy. A face that showed up everywhere whether he wanted it to or not.
Almost nobody knew he’d been dating Andrew Minyard for nearly four years.
Not because they were hiding it out of shame.
Andrew just hated attention.
Neil attracted it like a magnet.
So they kept things private. Simple rule. No exceptions. No slip-ups.
It worked surprisingly well.
Mostly because Andrew refused to acknowledge cameras existed, and Neil had gotten disturbingly good at disappearing when he needed to - slipping out of events through service corridors, ducking into cars before flashes could catch him, learning the exact angle to stand at so Andrew could be near him without being seen.
A small, private smile tugged at Neil’s mouth.
Neil: Are they serious?
Nicky: Matt already put fifty bucks in.
Neil laughed so hard his publicist immediately turned around, alarmed. “Everything okay?”
Neil waved her off, still grinning. “Yeah. Perfect.”
She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t believe him, but turned back around anyway.
Neil typed again, slower this time, amusement settling warm in his chest.
Neil: Don’t tell them anything.
Nicky: I would never.
A pause.
Nicky: I already told them everything.
Neil: Of course you did.
Andrew’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it once, expression unchanged.
Neil: Apparently you’re incapable of romance.
Andrew stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering.
Then he typed back one word.
Andrew: Apparently.
A beat passed.
Neil: Want me to fix that?
Andrew’s mouth twitched - barely. A ghost of something softer, something almost amused. Most people would’ve missed it entirely.
Andrew: No.
Pause.
Andrew: It’ll be funny.
Neil read it twice, smile widening as understanding settled in.
Oh.
Let them embarrass themselves.
For the next month, the betting pool basically became a campus sport.
It spread faster than anyone admitted. What started in the Fox Tower common room somehow became a rotating topic of conversation in the locker room, then the dining hall, then even whispered debates during away games. Nicky, of course, did nothing to stop it. In fact, he seemed to be actively feeding it.
Every awkward attempt to flirt with Andrew, every nervous smile, every poorly timed compliment, every brave idiot who thought they would be the exception - only made the pot grow.
Every rumor that Andrew had “almost smiled at someone” lasted about twelve minutes before being violently disproven by reality. Someone once claimed Andrew had “lingered” near a conversation for longer than usual; Kevin immediately produced video evidence showing Andrew standing there purely because the exit was blocked.
Meanwhile…
Andrew kept disappearing every other weekend.
The Foxes noticed, of course, but not enough to question it properly.
He was Andrew Minyard. He disappeared. That was part of the package.
They figured he was visiting Bee.
Or shopping.
Or doing something vaguely illegal that they didn’t want to know about.
No one really pushed.
In reality..... He was flying out to whatever city Neil was working in.
Sometimes New York, where the lights never fully went out and the skyline made everything feel temporary.
Sometimes LA, where everything felt like a performance and even silence had an audience.
Sometimes London, where Neil pretended he didn’t notice the cameras and Andrew pretended he didn’t notice anything at all though he always positioned himself just slightly behind Neil, just enough to see everything.
Paparazzi had thousands of photos of Neil Josten alone - coffee cups, airport terminals, red carpets, hotel balconies at sunrise.
None of them ever noticed the blond man in sunglasses sitting across from him, quiet as a shadow, watching like Neil was the only thing in the world worth looking at. He never looked at the cameras. He never reacted to flashes. He just existed in Neil’s orbit like gravity had personally decided Neil was worth anchoring to.
The reveal happened by accident.
Kind of.
Neil had invited Andrew to the premiere of his newest film.
Private entrance. Private seating. No press. No chaos.
Everything was going smoothly.
Too smoothly.
Until they left.
A photographer’s voice cut through the night air like a blade. “Neil! Over here!”
Neil instinctively turned, already bracing for the flash, the noise, the swarm.
Andrew kept walking.
For half a second, Neil didn’t think.
He just reached out.
Grabbed Andrew’s hand.
Not dramatic. Not performative. Just instinct - like it had always been that way, like it had always been allowed.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The cameras exploded.
Flashes stuttered across the street in rapid bursts, blinding and relentless. Shouts layered over each other. Someone cursed. Someone else yelled Neil’s name like it was a lifeline.
Andrew stopped.
Looked at Neil.
Neil looked back, still holding on.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Andrew exhaled through his nose, long-suffering.
“Yes or no?”
Neil’s grin came slow and easy, like it had been waiting years for this exact moment. Like every secret, every careful step, every hidden weekend had been building toward this single second.
“Yes.”
Andrew didn’t let go.
Instead, he stepped in closer, one hand sliding up to the back of Neil’s neck like it belonged there, like it always had. Neil tilted up without hesitation, and Andrew kissed him - quick, certain, utterly unbothered by the chaos erupting around them.
It wasn’t for the cameras.
It was just for them.
When they pulled apart, Neil was smiling like he’d won something far bigger than any award.
Andrew, as usual, looked mildly inconvenienced by the existence of everyone else.
The internet broke before sunrise.
WORLD-FAMOUS NEIL JOSTEN CONFIRMS LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIP
MYSTERY BOYFRIEND REVEALED AS PALMETTO STATE GOALKEEPER ANDREW MINYARD
FOUR YEARS TOGETHER
The Foxes found out from the news.
Matt stared at the TV, frozen mid-step. “…No.”
Dan reread the headline three times like it might change if she looked hard enough. “…No.”
Aaron slowly turned toward the doorway as Andrew walked into the common room, coffee in hand, completely unbothered by the collapse of public reality.
“You have a boyfriend.”
Andrew took a slow sip. “Yes.”
Nicky screamed.
Kevin just closed his eyes like he was trying to erase the entire timeline.
“I knew you were hiding something,” Kevin muttered.
“You did not,” Aaron snapped immediately.
“I suspected.”
“You literally bet fifty dollars.”
“That was strategy.”
The door opened again.
Neil walked in about ten minutes later, baseball cap pulled low, even though every news channel in the country was currently screaming his name. He looked mildly amused, like none of this was particularly surprising.
He crossed the room like he belonged there. Like he always had.
Stopped in front of Andrew.
“Hi.”
Andrew nodded once. “Hi.”
Neil stole his coffee without asking.
Andrew let him.
The room went dead silent in a way that felt almost reverent.
Matt whispered, “He’s… real.”
Neil glanced over, amused. “Oh. You must be the betting pool.”
No one answered.
Neil smiled anyway, like he had no idea what kind of chaos he’d just stepped into.
“So…”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope.
“I think Andrew won.”
Inside was a full list of every bet Nicky had been tracking for a month.
Signed. Verified. Irrevocable.
Andrew took the envelope, weighed it in his hand, then didn’t even bother opening it.
“I’ll take cash.”
A collective groan rolled through Fox Tower like a dying wave.
Neil laughed so hard he almost spilled Andrew’s coffee.
Totally worth it.