Heartbreaker, a Heartstopper Story - Ch. 1

Welcome to my new story!

The clock bled red, eighty minutes gone, mere seconds left on the board. The Sharks were down by four, 24-20, and the ball was spinning out wide for one last, desperate attack. Nick’s legs were on fire, lungs heaving, but he was ready. The lads were counting on him. He could feel it in the way fly-half Ryan Whittaker’s eyes flicked urgently his direction as he called the move, in the quick nod from inside centre Ben Harrignton as he set up to crash the line and draw defenders, even in the forwards’ roar from the ruck, Captain Torres bellowing “To Nelson! To Nelson!” like a prayer. They all knew he was the one who could turn it when everything was on the line, and Nick knew he could deliver. He always did when the pressure was on.

Sweat poured down his face under the hot spring night, stinging his eyes as the starry sky stretched endless above the pitch, pinpricks of light winking through the faint haze. The scent of salt from the nearby bay carried on a slight breeze that did bugger all to cut the lingering heat, only stirring the warm air enough to make his soaked navy jersey cling even tighter to every hard-earned muscle across his chest and back. His thighs burned from the endless sprints, arms heavy from smashing through tackles, but the adrenaline surged through his veins like pure rocket fuel, exhilaration buzzing in every fibre, making the world sharp and alive.

The crowd’s roar rolled in like a distant wave, about 1,500 voices thundering as one, chanting “Sharks! Sharks!” whenever they sniffed a chance. Somewhere up there, Harp was going absolutely mental, and though Charlie’s shout was lost in the noise, Nick knew he was there, yelling himself hoarse.

The ball came wide. Ben took the hit-up, drew his man like the plan then it smacked into Nick’s hands, a perfect flat pass at chest height. He tucked it tight under his arm, eyes locked on the gap ahead, and powered forward.

Nick hit the line at full tilt, shoulder dipping as the first defender lunged high. He felt the impact shudder through his frame, solid hit, but nothing he couldn’t absorb, and powered on, legs driving like pistons, thighs pumping despite the burn. The winger opposite was closing fast, angling to shove him into touch, but Nick read it, stepped inside sharp, felt the brush of fingertips on his jersey before he burst clear. Bloody brilliant. The gap opened up wider now, twenty metres to the corner flag, and the tryline was calling him.

His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline flooding every muscle, making him feel invincible, like he could run through a brick wall if he had to. Sweat flew off him with every stride, the navy kit plastered to his skin, heavy and clinging, but it didn’t slow him. The crowd’s roar swelled closer now, no longer distant, shouts of “Go on, Nelson!” cutting through, and the lads on the pitch were yelling too, Torres bellowing “Fucking finish it, Nelson!” from the ruck behind.

Another defender dived low for his ankles, desperate tackle, but Nick hurdled the arm, kept his balance somehow, ball still tucked safe. Ten metres now, lungs screaming for air, but the exhilaration was everything, pure, electric joy surging through him, hormones raging like he was flying. He could see the white paint of the tryline ahead, feel the victory in his bones.

Five metres out, the fullback committed, diving at his legs in a last-gasp effort. Nick planted his foot, twisted his hips, and rode the tackle, feeling the arms slide off harmlessly as he kept driving forward, ball held out in front like an offering. The corner flag loomed, the tryline just there, and with one final surge he stretched, lunged, and slammed the ball down over the white paint.

The referee’s whistle shrieked through the air, absolute, as the clock hit zero and froze.

Time stopped.

Then the world exploded.

25-24.

Sharks win.

The stands erupted into a wall of noise, hundreds of voices roaring as one, a tidal wave of sound that slammed into Nick like a physical force. In a heartbeat, his Teammates swarmed him, piling on in a chaotic, laughing heap. Torres was thumping his back and Ryan was screaming “You fucking legend!” right in his ear, mud and sweat and pure joy everywhere. Nick lay there for a second on the trampled grass, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, the sweetest rush of victory flooding every aching muscle. They’d done it. He’d done it. All that time, all the early mornings, the brutal training sessions, the sheer exhaustion that left him knackered some nights, it was all worth it for this single, perfect moment. It felt absolutely unreal, like he was floating above the pitch, watching it happen to someone else.

A big hand hauled him up from the grass, and Nick came face to face with the towering frame of Coach Hendricks, the man who’d convinced him to join the Sharks in the first place, spotting him during freshman orientation and refusing to take no for an answer. The coach’s usually stern face was split by the widest grin Nick had ever seen on him, eyes crinkling at the corners, looking ten years younger.

“Well done, son,” Coach Hendricks boomed, Afrikaans accent thick with pride as he pulled Nick into a bone-crushing hug, thumping his back hard enough to jolt the air from his lungs. “Well fucking done!”

Like in a movie, the crowd in the stands suddenly surged forward, spilling onto the pitch in a chaotic, joyous invasion, shouting, cheering, a roaring sea of navy and white shirts, flags, and painted faces that swallowed the Sharks whole. Supporters hoisted players onto shoulders, strangers slapped backs, and the whole field turned into one massive, laughing scrum of celebration. It was mental seeing so many people there, all for them, watching, supporting, going absolutely spare.

In their first game of the season, there’d barely been 200 in the stands, mostly mates of the players and a handful of lonely rugby enthusiasts who’d wandered over, lost in the sunny California haze. But 1,500 for a semifinal? Bloody insane. They’d worked their arses off to put Westbridge Sharks rugby on the map. Flyers shoved under dorm doors, social media clips of training montages going viral on campus TikTok, even silly stunts like the team dressing as sharks for Halloween and crashing the quad party.

Nick’s favourite by far had been the charity dunk tank they’d organised back in March, a scorching hot day that had the whole team stripped down to practically nothing, all to raise funds for the resurfacing of their battered old rugby pitch that the University had been putting off for years. Nick had spent hours in nothing but a pair of tiny navy shorts that clung to him like a second skin, the thin fabric soaked through the moment he hit the water, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His massive frame glistened under the sun, broad shoulders and meaty pecs flexing every time he hauled himself back up onto the platform, thick arms bulging as he gripped the seat, tree-trunk thighs and that big, muscular arse shifting with each climb back up, the light fur on his chest dark and matted with water. And Christ, those shorts did no favours hiding the heavy bulge swinging between his legs, the outline thick and obvious whenever he pulled himself out of the tank or stretched his arms above his head, drawing stares from every direction. The queue had snaked round the block, half the campus turning up “for charity”: girls giggling and blushing, phones out snapping away, boys doing the same with barely disguised thirst, everyone drooling in equal measure as the lads mucked about on the platform, flexing shamelessly and belly-flopping into the tank to maximise the splash. Nick had laughed till his sides ached, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat, even when Charlie snuck up and dunked the platform lever before Nick was ready, sending him plunging into the icy water and hauling himself out soaked to the bone, rivulets cascading down his abs and the shorts clinging even more indecently than before.

Nick had only a second to brace himself before Harp launched at him like a missile. Ethan Harper —Harp to everyone who knew him— was no small bloke, all 6’2” of tanned, lacrosse-built muscle, and the impact nearly sent Nick sprawling back into the mud. Harp wrapped both thick arms and legs around him in a full-body tackle-hug, shouting something triumphant and incoherent right in his ear, voice cracking with pure glee.

Nick laughed, the sound bursting out of him as the adrenaline still surged. Bloody hell, he should’ve tried harder to convince Harp to join the Sharks proper; the lad had the build for it and the heart too. He grinned wide when Harp planted a sloppy, wet kiss on his muddy cheek, the kind of over-the-top celebration that only best mates got away with.

But then Nick spotted Charlie pushing through the sea of navy and white, that familiar curly hair bouncing, face lit up with the biggest smile Nick had ever seen. It was like in a dream. The chaos around them blurred, the dozens of celebrating bodies fading into obscurity as if a spotlight had fallen just on Charlie, picking him out from the crowd like he was the only person there. It was always like that when Nick caught sight of him in a sea of people; everything else just… dimmed.

Without a second thought, Nick unceremoniously shrugged Harp off, letting his mate drop to the grass with a dramatic yelp and a laugh. Nick was already moving, heart flipping in a whole new way as he jogged toward Charlie, arms open.

Nick wrapped his arms around Charlie’s waist and hoisted him into the air like he weighed nothing at all. He’d always been bigger, stronger, but the past year in America had packed nearly fifty pounds of solid muscle onto his frame, and Charlie was still the same adorable, slender twink he’d fallen for back at Truham, all sharp elbows and soft curls and that smile that turned Nick’s knees to jelly.

Charlie let out a bright, breathless laugh as Nick spun him round, the sound cutting straight through the chaos of the pitch like the best kind of music. Charlie’s legs wrapped instinctively around Nick’s waist, anchoring himself as Nick slowed the spin and let him slide down just enough for their faces to be level. Mud-streaked and panting, Nick didn’t care about the crowd or the cameras or anything else, only Charlie, eyes shining, lips parted, descending that last inch to kiss him.

The kiss was fierce and sweet at once, tasting of salt and victory and home. Nick’s hands tightened on Charlie’s hips, holding him close, and for those few seconds the whole world narrowed to just the two of them.

“Hi.”, Charlie murmured when they parted, their foreheads still touching for a lingering moment, his breath warm against Nick’s lips.

“Hi.”

“My champion.”, Charlie said.

“I haven’t won anything yet,” Nick replied, laughing softly, cheeks flushed from more than just the adrenaline.

Charlie just shrugged, that cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Details. You’ve already got the only trophy that counts, me. The rest is just a bit extra.”

They kissed again, slower this time, deeper, the roar of the crowd fading to a distant hum as Nick held him close. Finally, Nick lowered Charlie carefully back to the ground, hands lingering on his waist, reluctant to let go entirely.

“Please tell me you rugby guys do, like, victory parties,” Harp said, sliding up beside them with that huge grin, still brushing grass off his shorts from the drop.

“Sure we do, mate,” Nick answered, clapping him on the shoulder. “Heading over to Delta Tau Phi tonight, the lads have already bagged the garden. Ask Torres over there; he’s sorting it.”

Harp’s eyes lit up like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket. He strutted off toward Torres without another word, already shouting something about kegs.

Nick turned back to Charlie, arm still slung round his waist, thumb tracing idle circles on his hip. “You coming too, right?”

“As if I’d miss it,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes fondly. “Though I might have to play wingman for Beto for a bit first. You know what he’s like around rugby players.”

Nick was dead proud of himself for keeping a straight face at the mention of Charlie’s best mate here at Westbridge, Beto Montenegro. Nick bloody well knew how he got around rugby players.

“Talking about Beto,” Charlie went on, completely unaware, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “He said he’s gonna make Adams crash with him tonight so we can have the room to ourselves. Fancy our own little after-party later?” He waggled his eyebrows in that half-lame, half-adorable way that always made Nick’s chest tighten.

“I sure fucking do, love,” Nick murmured, as s he leaned down to kiss Charlie again, slow and deep this time, hands sliding up to cup his face like he was something precious.

They parted after that, Charlie slipping off to hunt down Beto so they could head to Delta Tau Phi together, while Nick marched toward the locker room for a much-needed shower, his kit heavy with mud and sweat, muscles still buzzing from the try. The celebration was already in full swing inside: lads shouting, music blasting from someone’s speaker, and Nick had barely peeled off his jersey and shorts, standing there in just his jockstrap, the strap framing his smooth crotch and heavy bulge, when a very naked Jake Mallory, the hulking prop forward with arms like tree trunks, popped a bottle of dirt-cheap champagne with a triumphant yell. The fizzy spray exploded everywhere, drenching the room in sticky foam as the Sharks erupted again, jumping and roaring, passing the bottle round for gulps straight from the neck like it was nectar from the gods.

Nick laughed but tried to dodge when the bottle came his way, wanting to hold off at least until they got to Delta Tau Phi proper, but Marcus “Big Mac” Jenkins, the massive second-row lock with shoulders wider than a doorway, and Liam “Bear” O’Connell, the equally gigantic number eight who could bench-press a small car, grabbed him from either side, the only two blokes on the team even bigger than him, their grips like iron vices. They held him steady, chuckling as Torres stepped up with a grin, tilting the bottle right over Nick’s face. Champagne cascaded down in a cold, bubbly torrent, soaking his hair, running over his chest and abs, trickling into every crease of his body and making his jockstrap cling even more obscenely, the whole locker room howling with laughter as Nick spluttered and gave in, the sweet fizz mixing with the high of victory.

The locker room only settled when Coach Hendricks and the rest of the coaching staff burst in, bellowing in unison for the lads to pipe down and sit their arses on the benches. The champagne spray stopped mid-air, bottles hastily set aside as everyone scrambled to look halfway presentable, still half-naked and grinning like idiots. Nick wanted nothing more than to yank off that sodden jockstrap, it was chafing something fierce, soaked in champagne and sweat, the strap digging into his thighs and cradling his smooth crotch in a way that felt far too exposed now the high was fading. Hell, being stark bollock naked in front of the team would’ve been better than this sticky mess, but he planted himself on the bench like the others, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to ignore the drip down his back.

Coach Hendricks paced the front, his voice booming through the steam-filled room as he launched into the post-match debrief, all fire and precision. For the next forty minutes, felt like bloody hours, Nick sat there patiently, muscles twitching with impatience, as Coach dissected every key moment: praising Whittaker’s pinpoint passes that set up the attacks, complimenting Harrington’s bone-rattling tackle in the first half that turned the tide, and giving a nod to Torres for holding the forwards together like glue. But he didn’t hold back on the grilling either, roasting the back row for those sloppy penalties in the second half, calling out Big Mac for dropping that easy ball near the line, and reminding the whole lot of them that defence had been leaky as a sieve at times. “We won today, lads, but we nearly bottled it,” the coach said, his gaze sweeping the room. “Sort that out before Houston, or we’ll be coming back with sod all but regrets.”

Nick nodded along, the words sinking in even as his mind wandered to the party ahead and to Charlie waiting there. The speech wrapped with a final round of applause, Coach’s grin breaking through at last, and Nick wasted no time ripping off the jockstrap the second they were dismissed, grabbing a towel and heading for the showers, the cool water a blessed relief as it washed away the mud, sweat, and champagne.

Delta Tau Phi already looked like a scene straight out of American Pie when Nick and the other lads got there, the massive three-story Victorian house on the edge of campus throbbing with bass and lights spilling from every window. Torres was a high-ranking member of the fraternity, so all their celebration parties happened in their backyard, and all stops were pulled that season. The house itself was a frat legend: peeling white paint on the wraparound porch, Greek letters bolted above the door, and rooms inside crammed with mismatched furniture, beer pong tables, and walls plastered in faded posters of bands and bikini models. Nick had been inside a couple of times, usually dragged by Torres for some pre-game chaos, but tonight, he took a detour round the side of the house, skirting the front steps to slip through the gate straight into the backyard. Whitaker and Harrington were right behind him, the two of them jumping the low fence like overexcited pups, whooping as they landed and immediately scanned the crowd for the nearest keg.

The backyard of Delta Tau Phi was a full-on frenzy, the sprawling lawn crammed with kegs lined up like sentinels, plastic cups scattered everywhere as people pumped beer and laughed in great, booming waves. String lights zigzagged overhead, casting a warm, flickering glow over the chaos, while a makeshift dance floor of trampled grass pulsed with bodies writhing to the thumping bass blasting from massive speakers. The air hung thick with barbecue smoke from the grill still sizzling in the corner, burgers and hot dogs looking delicious on plastic plates, and the sharp tang of spilled beer mixed with the infectious roar of laughter echoing off the house. It was the kind of party where boundaries blurred fast: groups of students danced together in sweaty clusters, hands roaming freely, lips locking in heated kisses that drew cheers from onlookers, some couples (or more) grinding so close it looked like they might shag right there on the grass, clothes half-tugged aside amid the haze of smoke and strobe lights.

The Sharks received a hero’s welcome worthy of warriors returning from the battlefield. The moment Nick and his teammates stepped through the gate, the crowd spotted them and erupted, shouts and whistles so loud they muffled the pounding music for a solid ten seconds, a deafening wall of “Sharks! Sharks! Sharks!” that shook the string lights. Blue cups, the team’s collor, were raised high in salute, beer sloshing over rims, and soon Nick and the rest of the team were mobbed, surrounded by people shaking hands, clapping backs, even planting kisses on cheeks from strangers high on the vibe. The party was even more crowded than the game, bodies packed so tight Nick wouldn’t be surprised if campus police showed their faces soon, blue lights cutting the night. He knew the rugby lads would never pull the same star treatment as the (American) football or baseball squads, but right then, with the cheers ringing in his ears and hands grabbing at him from every direction, Nick felt like the most famous bloke in the world.

Nick waded through it all, grin so wide he thought it would split ihs face. He spotted Harp near the edge of the dance floor, his muscular arms slung around a hot boy and a hot girl who looked dangerously like twins, all sharp features and matching blonde hair, the three of them laughing and swaying together like they’d invented the night. Like Nick, Harp was bi, but, unlike Nic, he was allergic to serious relationships. Nick shook his head with a chuckle, weaving past a group passing a joint, the scent of weed curling into the barbecue fog, as he scanned the crowd for Charlie.

Instead, Nick spotted Beto.

Immediately, that now familiar, unwanted rush of attraction slammed into him like a freighter train. Bloody hell, no matter how many times he laid eyes on Beto, each one felt like the first, searing, unbidden, and impossible to ignore. The man was bloody gorgeous. He was Brazilian, for God’s sake, son of a couple who’d moved to America when he beginning high school, and Beto embodied every stereotype about Brazilian men incarnated: smaller than Nick’s towering 1,90m but still tall at around 1.80m, with a lean yet muscular build that screamed effortless power: meaty arms and pecs that strained against his fitted tee, skin kissed by the sun and glowing a warm golden hue even in the depths of winter, full lips curved in that perpetual half-smirk, thick black hair styled in an old-money fashion with fringes falling unevenly across his forehead, a thin, narrow moustache tracing his upper lip, and a short, clean goatee barely shadowing his chin, all framing those deep brown almond eyes that seemed to pull you in like a current.

As if feeling Nick’s eyes on him, Beto locked gazes with him across the crowded backyard, that slow, knowing smirk curling his full lips. Beto started weaving his way over, cutting through the throng with that effortless swagger that always made Nick’s stomach twist. The buzz from the win evaporated, leaving him on edge, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with rugby. He watched him approach, body tensing up like he’d just taken a hit on the pitch.

Every interaction with Beto left him like that, off-balance, flustered, always bracing like he was gearing up for a proper scrap.

“Yo, Nick, congrats on the win, irmão,” Beto said as he got close enough, voice smooth with that Brazilian accent. “Couldn’t make it to the game, but everyone’s saying you were the MVP tonight?”

“Nah, we all pulled our weight,” Nick dismissed, trying to sound casual, forcing a shrug.

Beto was wearing a black shirt that clung to his skin like a second skin, the fabric stretched tight over those meaty pecs and biceps, and equally tight black shorts that hugged his lower body obscenely. His legs were a work of art: muscular quads bulging with every step, thick thighs that strained the material, powerful calves flexing like they were carved from marble. Nick’s eyes dipped down to them for just a second — he couldn’t help it — but when he snapped his gaze back up to Beto’s face, he knew he’d been caught, those brown almond eyes glinting with amusement.

“You’re way too modest, man,” Beto said, stepping even closer, close enough that Nick caught a whiff of his cologne, something tropical, like sun-warmed coconut and spice that made his head spin. “Take the compliment.”

“Cheers, mate,” Nick deadpanned, taking a step back to put some distance between himself and Beto and that bloody cologne that was doing his head in. He wanted to wrap this conversation up as quick as possible without coming off rude; Charlie hated on Nick was a wanker to him.

“You seen Char around?” he asked, glancing over the crowd as if he might spot him.

“Yup, he went to get Luna because she twisted her ankle trying to do some mad flip on the dance floor,” Beto said with a shrug, his brown eyes still locked on Nick’s like he was studying him. “But he should be here soon.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll go and mingle a bit, then” Nick answered, already turning his back, shoulders tensing as he started to move away.

Beto didn’t let him, though, stepping smoothly in front and forcing Nick to halt suddenly so he wouldn’t crash right into the man, close enough that Nick could feel the heat radiating off him, that tropical cologne hitting him like a wave again. “So, how you feel now that the Sharks made it to the finals? You’ve gotta be pretty proud. I know how hard you guys worked for it.”

Nick shifted his weight, eyes darting over Beto’s shoulder into the throng, willing Charlie to appear. “Yeah, training’s been full-on,,” he said, keeping it short. “Worth it, though.”

Beto nodded, unfazed, that easy smile never fading as he leaned in a bit, like they were old mates sharing secrets. “Man, I bet. What’s the toughest part been? The conditioning runs or those… scrum drills?” He paused half a second on the words, like he’d done his homework but wasn’t totally sure he was using them right. “Mallory’s always going on about them, so they must be rough.”

“Bit of both,” Nick muttered, spotting a curly head that wasn’t Charlie and feeling his shoulders tense further. “Look, I should…”

Beto barrelled on. “Yeah, fair enough, you’re kinda built for it anyway. Those gains you’ve made this year are legit impressive, irmão.”, he said with a grin. “What’s the secret? protein shakes, or just grinding nonstop? And what’s the plan for Houston? You guys already scouting the other team?”

Nick’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking left and right, where the bloody hell was Charlie? “Grit, mostly,” he clipped, forcing a nod. “Coach has us watching tapes already. Nothing special.”

Beto chuckled warmly. “Sounds solid. Bet you’ll smash it. Oh, hey, look. There’s Charlie,” Beto said, nodding in the opposite direction from Nick.

Nick turned, and sure enough, there was Charlie, face still painted with Nick’s kit number in navy and white, Luna DeLuca’s right arm thrown around his shoulder as Charlie guided his stumbling friend through the party, her twisted ankle making every step a wobbly adventure. Without saying another word, Nick left Beto behind and jogged toward them, weaving through the sweaty bodies and, when Charlie saw him approaching, he widened his eyes in a clear plea for help, that silent “save me” look Nick knew all too well.

Nick laughed, carefully slipping his own arms around Luna, taking her weight off Charlie with ease. “Got you,” he said to her, guiding the giggling girl toward a nearby beach chair that was quickly emptied after Nick snarled a quick “Piss off” at the poor blokes lounging on it. They scattered with grumbles, one tossing him a finger on the way. Luna flopped down with a dramatic sigh, fanning herself as Charlie mouthed a silent “thank you” over her head, his painted cheeks flushing even more under the string lights.

““Everything all right?” Nick asked, his eyes flicking from Luna to Charlie. Whatever had happened to her didn’t look too serious, so he was trying hard not to laugh at the silly image the two of them made.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine. Have you been here long??” Charlie asked, still catching his breath, face flushed from the effort of half-carrying her through the crowd.

“Not really, just a few minutes,” Nick replied. He gave Luna another look, one eyebrow lifting. “So… what happened to you, then?”

“Nothing, just a dumb accident,” Luna said, grinning up at him, and Nick had the feeling the girl wasn’t completely sober. Her words slurring just a touch, eyes a bit glassy under the string lights.

“Shouldn’t you be in A&E? Or, I don’t know, not at a party right now?” Nick said, sounding only half serious, half entertained.

“As if I’d miss another Sharks victory party!” she shot back, and to Nick’s surprise, she grabbed his hand with surprising strength, yanking him down so she could throw her arms around his neck in a fierce, wobbly hug. “Congrats, Nick. We’re all super proud of you, know that, right?”

Nick chuckled, hugging her back. Unlike Beto, Luna was one of Charlie’s friends Nick actually liked. She was this pretty, slightly overweight girl with a thick accent he’d learned was from Queens, New York, all sharp wit and no-nonsense attitude that made her fun to be around. “Cheers, Luna. Means a lot.” He glanced at Charlie, who was watching with that fond, exasperated smile, and Nick felt a warm rush in his chest. His boyfriend, right there, proud as punch. “Right, come on. Let’s get you some ice for that ankle, yeah?”

Nick jogged off to the kitchen inside the house, dodging spilled drinks and dancing bodies until he found a bag of frozen peas in the freezer, close enough to an ice pack. He wrapped it in a tea towel and headed back, handing it to Luna, who pressed it to her ankle with a theatrical groan. Satisfied she wasn’t going to topple over, Nick dropped down onto the grass in a quieter corner of the backyard, legs stretched out, blue cup in hand. Charlie slipped right in between them, back against Nick’s chest, settling like he belonged there. Nick wrapped his arms round Charlie’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder, the solid warmth of him grounding Nick better than any beer could.

They talked about the game, Nick replaying his favourite bits with a proud little smirk. Luna whooped every time he described a tackle, and Charlie cheered him on, squeezing his forearm, eyes bright under the string lights. A bit later, Harp came barrelling over, dragging the cute male twin by the hand. Whitaker wandered over next, still in his muddy kit shorts, bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, followed by Ollie “Grimmy” Grimshaw, the massive flanker with the broken nose and perpetual grin. They dropped into the circle on the grass, legs sprawling, turning the little group into a proper rugby huddle.

The chat turned loud and daft, replaying dodgy ref calls, slagging off the opposition’s weak scrum. People kept drifting over with plates of barbecue, burgers dripping sauce, hot dogs loaded with onions, and the lads wolfed them down like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, hands greasy, mouths full, demolishing everything in seconds. Charlie watched Nick inhale two burgers in about thirty seconds flat, eyes wide in mock horror, but still offered to go get him more food. Nick just tightened his arms round Charlie’s waist, pulling him back harder against his chest. Charlie melted into him, head tipping back onto Nick’s shoulder, and Nick pressed a quick kiss to his head, the noise of the party fading to a happy hum around them.

The party raged on, the word spreading like wildfire across campus until it felt like half of Westbridge had descended on Delta Tau Phi. Soon the chaos spilled out onto the street in front, bodies milling about under the streetlamps, music thumping loud enough to rattle nearby windows, blue cups littering the pavement. Loads of them stopped by the circle on the grass to greet Nick and the lads, clapping backs, shouting congratulations, but Nick was dead certain most of the crowd hadn’t a clue they were meant to be celebrating the Sharks making it to the finals. They were just here for the free booze and the vibe, turning up because it was the place to be on a Saturday night.

People got bolder as the alcohol worked its magic, inhibitions melting away in the warm spring air. A couple of scuffles broke out near the kegs, nothing serious, just drunk lads squaring up over spilled beer or some daft comment, but sorted quick enough with a few shouts. Nick had to haul Harp back from climbing the massive oak tree at the edge of the lawn, the idiot halfway up already, slurring about proving he could reach the tallest branch while the twin cheered him on from below. Nick grabbed him round the waist and yanked him down, Harp landing in a heap on the grass, laughing his head off.

He’d switched from beer to soda hours ago, but Charlie had started sipping from the massive jar of caipirinha that Beto had whipped up out of nowhere, limes muddled with sugar and cachaça, ice clinking, the drink citrusy and fresh on the tongue. Even Nick couldn’t pretend it wasn’t delicious when Charlie tipped the jar his way for a taste, the sharp tang cutting through the barbecue smoke and sweat, cool and dangerously smooth going down.

The circle grew looser as the night wore on, more people drifting in and out, the lads retelling the try for the hundredth time with ever-wilder exaggerations. Nick kept Charlie tucked close, arms loose round his waist, the warmth of him pressed back against Nick’s chest a steady anchor amid the madness swirling around them. He only let Charlie out of his sight when Torres came barrelling out of nowhere, eyes wild and already three sheets to the wind, banging on about “defending our honour” and dragging Nick off for a game of beer pong against a couple of cocky lads from the Westbridge American football team.

They got proper crushed. Nick was always rubbish at beer pong, his aim on the table nowhere near as sharp as it was on the pitch, and Torres was only getting drunker with every missed shot, sinking cups for the opposition more often than not. The football lads were loving it, crowing and flexing like they’d won the Super Bowl, the Sharks’ honour looking well and truly battered. It was only restored when Charlie and Luna, reigning champions of beer pong in Delta Tau Phi, apparently, limped over (Luna still favouring her good ankle) and took over the table. Charlie’s competitive streak came out full force, that focused little furrow between his brows as he lined up shots, while Luna trash-talked the football lads with her Queens bark until they were red-faced and flustered. Shot after shot sank clean, the crowd around the table growing louder with every Sharks redemption, until the footballers were left staring at an empty side and slinking off with their tails between their legs.

It was pushing four a.m. when Nick finally decided it was time to call it. The party was still going full blast, music thumping, bodies spilling out onto the street, shouts and laughter echoing into the night, and it’d probably rage on till sunrise, but Charlie, still slightly tipsy and working his way toward properly shit-faced on Beto’s caipirinha, was leaning heavier into Nick’s side with every passing minute. Nick hadn’t forgotten his promise of their own private after-party back at the dorm, and the thought of Charlie tucked up in bed with him sounded a hell of a lot better than watching him slide any further down the slope.

Nick, probably the only person left at the party still properly sober, spent a good while making sure everyone would be alright before they scarpered. He found Harp in the back of someone’s parked car, tangled up with the twink twin, windows fogged and seats creaking. When Nick knocked on the glass and interrupted them, the blond lad, flushed and breathless, promised with a grin that he’d make sure Harp got back to his own frat house safe and sound. Nick gave him a nod and a warning look, trusting it’d be fine. Luna, giggling but stil wobbly on her good foot, was next, and Nick, after flagging down an Uber driven by a woman, helped her in and waited till the car pulled away before turning back. Torres, swaying only a bit, clapped Nick on the shoulder and assured him that Grimmy and Mallory, the two drunkest Sharks by a mile, already snoring on the porch swing, would be crashing in his room at Delta Tau Phi. Sorted.

With the lads looked after, Nick and Charlie finally slipped away from the chaos of Delta Tau Phi. Charlie was a tiny bundle of energy, buzzing from the caipirinhas, jumping up and down like an overexcited pup and doing little spins that nearly sent him stumbling off the pavement. Nick just laughed softly, keeping a firm grip on his hand, patient as ever, steering him gently whenever he veered too far.

The walk from Delta Tau Phi back to Seaview Hall wasn’t that far, fifteen minutes at most, and Nick figured the fresh air would help burn off some of the alcohol sloshing around in Charlie’s system. Westbridge campus was dead pretty at night, all soft golden lamps lighting the winding cobblestone paths, flower beds bursting with late-spring colour, vibrant California poppies in oranges and yellows, fragrant lavender spilling over the edges, and tall jacaranda trees lining the main walkways, their purple blossoms scattered across the ground like confetti under the streetlights. The breeze carried the faint salt from the distant bay, cool enough to feel refreshing after the sweaty heat of the party, and the whole place felt peaceful, almost magical. Even at this hour there were still a few people out, clusters of students stumbling home in giggling groups, a couple sitting on a bench sharing a late-night smoke, the occasional jogger or cyclist pedalling past, remnants of the night refusing to end just yet.

Charlie kept chattering away, half about the beer-pong victory, half nonsense, his free hand gesturing wildly as Nick guided him along, thumb stroking the back of Charlie’s knuckles, a quiet smile on his face the whole way. Charlie wasn’t mellowing into sleepiness at all; if anything, he was buzzing harder, that tipsy energy crackling with anticipation because he knew exactly what was waiting once they got back to the room. Every glance he threw over his shoulder at Nick carried that cheeky spark, like he couldn’t wait another minute.

By the time Seaview Hall came into view, a squat, three-storey brick building tucked behind a row of taller residences, its windows glowing softly against the dark, Charlie was practically vibrating. The name was pure irony, of course; stuck in the middle of campus with nothing but other dorms and a car park to look at, there wasn’t a glimpse of the sea for miles. Nick always took the mick out of it, calling it “Lakeview Hall” or “Car-Park-View Hall,” but tonight it didn’t matter. It was home, and it meant they were almost there, alone.

Nick’s lips were on Charlie’s the second the dorm door clicked shut behind them, the red tie already looped round the outer doorknob in the classic Seaview Hall signal, DO NOT DISTURB, or face the consequences. It was tradition, and tonight Nick wasn’t taking any chances.

The room was simple but dead cosy: two single beds, two desks shoved against opposite walls and piled with books and laptops, two narrow wardrobes crammed with clothes. Soft rugs covered the cold linoleum floor, thick curtains blocked the car-park view, and a couple of scented candles flickered on the windowsill, filling the air with something warm and spicy, sandalwood and vanilla, Charlie’s favourite. Golden fairy lights were strung along the ceiling and round the headboard, casting a soft, honey-coloured glow over everything. The whole place had this golden, intimate quality to it tonight, turning Charlie’s curls into a halo and his skin into something luminous, making him look absolutely breathtaking. Or maybe, Nick thought as he backed Charlie toward the bed, hands already sliding under his shirt, it was just that he was really, properly horny, months of tension and tonight’s win and the way Charlie had been looking at him all evening finally boiling over.

Charlie laughed breathlessly into the kiss, fingers tangling in Nick’s hair, tugging just hard enough to make Nick groan. “Someone’s eager,” he teased, voice low and a bit rough from shouting at the match.

“Been waiting all night,” Nick muttered against his mouth, lifting Charlie easily and laying him back on the bed, fairy lights twinkling above them like their own private sky. “Now shut up and let me show you how Sharks celebrate.”

Their kiss was ravenous, passionate, and at the same time tasting of home. Charlie’s lips, his tongue, his whole body, they were home to Nick, would always be. Moving to California had done wonders for their sex life. Nick’s roommate, Tyler, a quiet, lanky computer-science lad from Oregon who spent most of his time gaming with headphones on or at his girlfriend’s flat across the city, had struck up a nice, unspoken agreement with Nick from the start: weekends were sacred privacy time, no questions asked. Tyler would vanish Friday afternoon and not reappear till Sunday night, giving Nick the room to himself.

And that first week at Westbridge, before Tlyer had even properly moved in, Nick and Charlie had fucked like rabbits. Every single day, twice at least, some days, when Nick was feeling particularly horny, even three times. Long, delicious sessions where they worshipped each other for hours and hours, so tangled up in each other’s bodies they’d forget to eat, forget the world outside even existed. They’d fall asleep sweaty and spent, limbs knotted together, only to wake up a few hours later and start all over again, slow and lazy in the morning light, frantic and desperate in the afternoon, deep and intense under the lights at night. It had been pure bliss, like making up for every moment they’d ever had to hide or hold back.

Nick ripped his shirt off over his head in one swift motion, tossing it onto the floor without a care, then paused, letting Charlie drink him in. He loved this bit, the way Charlie’s eyes always went wide with that same adoration they’d had since they were sixteen, lips parting as he licked them unconsciously, desire written all over his face like he couldn’t quite believe Nick was real.

“You’re so bloody hot, Nicky,” Charlie breathed, voice soft and a little husky, reaching out to trace his fingers over Nick’s meaty pecs, fingertips brushing through the sparse golden hair scattered there. He trailed lower, slow and reverent, over the hard ridges of Nick’s washboard abs, feeling them flex under his touch.

“All yours, Char,” Nick answered, smirking down at him, that familiar warmth spreading through his chest as Charlie’s hands mapped him like he was something precious. He leaned in again, capturing Charlie’s mouth in another deep kiss, hands sliding under Charlie’s shirt to return the favour, eager to feel every inch of the boy who’d always been his home.

They were naked in seconds, clothes scattered across the rug like they’d been caught in a whirlwind. Nick stood there, muscular and golden under the fairy lights, every hard-earned muscle of him glowing warm; Charlie, pale and slender, already positioned on the bed exactly how Nick loved, on all fours, bodyguard style, knees spread, arse perked high in the air. Nick bloody loved that view: Charlie’s bum was small, yeah, but perfectly round and perky and pillowy, begging to be touched. He waited patiently while Nick tore open the condom packet — extra-large, thank you very much — and rolled the rubber down his thick, aching cock with steady hands. Then Nick hovered over him, chest brushing Charlie’s back, and started planting small, devoted kisses along the nape of his neck, soft and lingering.

Charlie’s whole body jolted at the first touch, a shiver running straight through him. Nick smiled against his skin, knowing exactly what he was doing, and very delicately sank his teeth into the side of Charlie’s neck, that spot he secretly called Charlie’s “secret button,” the most sensitive patch on his entire body that never failed to make him gasp and melt. At the same time, Nick’s free hand slid lower, fingers slick with lube, gently massaging Charlie’s hole in slow, teasing circles, feeling him relax and open under the touch, breath coming faster with every press and stroke.

“You’ve been playing without me,” Nick murmured against Charlie’s skin, a teasing rumble as his finger circled and then slipped inside. Charlie’s hole, usually very tight even after taking Nick’s cock so many bloody times, was slightly looser tonight, warm and slick and open, offering no resistance at all as Nick’s finger slid in to the knuckle with embarrassing ease.

“Knew you’d win tonight,” Charlie panted, breath hitching as Nick added a second finger, twisting gently. Even though Nick couldn’t see his face buried in the pillow, he could hear the grin in Charlie’s voice, that cheeky lilt that always undid him. “Didn’t want to get caught lacking when my champion got back.”

Nick snorted, half-laugh, half-groan, pressing a kiss to the small of Charlie’s back. “Good lad,” he said, voice thick with affection and hunger, before pulling his fingers free and rubbing the blunt, condom-sheathed tip of his cock against Charlie’s pucker, deliberate circles that had Charlie pushing back impatiently, a soft whine escaping his lips.

Nick didn’t make him wait long. He lined up, hands gripping Charlie’s hips, and sank in steady and deep, the heat and looseness swallowing him whole in one smooth glide until his hips met Charlie’s arse. Charlie let out a long, shuddering moan, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, and Nick paused there, buried to the hilt, savouring the perfect fit of him.

“Fuck, Char,” Nick breathed, leaning forward to blanket Charlie’s back with his chest, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel incredible.” Then he started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged over every sensitive spot inside, building to a rhythm that had the headboard tapping softly against the wall and fairy lights flickering with every thrust.

They fucked like it felt hours, each lost in the pleasure, bodies moving in that perfect rhythm they’d perfected over years, but it couldn’t have been more than half an hour, time bending and stretching in the golden glow of the fairy lights. Nick was unrelenting with Charlie, stimulating his body in every way he knew how: turning Charlie’s head gently with a hand in his curls so he could capture his lips in deep, messy kisses; biting down on that secret spot on his neck again and again until Charlie was trembling; one big hand gripping Charlie’s waist hard enough to leave faint marks, holding him steady as he thrust; the other wrapped firmly round Charlie’s cock, stroking up and down in that exact rhythm he knew would drive him mental, slow twists at the head, faster pulls down the shaft, thumb swiping over the tip on every upstroke.

His hips snapped with abandon, never tiring, poised at that perfect angle that tormented Charlie’s spot with every deep push, dragging over it relentlessly until Charlie was a writhing mess beneath him. Charlie came first, like he always did, like Nick always made sure would happen, moaning and mewling into the pillow, body arching off the bed as he spilled hot and thick over Nick’s hand, clenching tight around him in waves that nearly pulled Nick over the edge right then. Nick didn’t stop, kept stroking him through it, milking every last shudder until Charlie was gasping, oversensitive and boneless.

Nick followed seconds later, pleasure seizing his whole body as he emptied himself into the condom with a low, guttural bellow muffled against Charlie’s neck, hips jerking erratically as he rode it out. He collapsed forward, careful not to crush Charlie, chest heaving against his back, arms wrapping round him tight like he never wanted to let go. For a long moment they just stayed like that, tangled and spent, the room quiet except for their ragged breathing and the faint flicker of the candles. Home. Always home.

A couple of minutes later they lay tangled together in the narrow bed, naked and perfectly content in the tightness of it, bodies slotted like they were made to fit. Nick enveloped Charlie’s slender frame with one muscular arm, pulling him in close, while Charlie rested his head on Nick’s shoulder, curls tickling his collarbone. The condom was knotted and chucked in the bin, Charlie’s release wiped clean with the t-shirt that had ended up on the floor. They hadn’t spoken for a while; the only sound in the room was the soft rhythm of their breathing, slow and steady, the fairy lights casting lazy golden patterns across the ceiling.

Nick could feel Charlie’s breath warm against his neck, so slow and even he might’ve thought he’d dropped off if it weren’t for the lazy finger tracing feathery circles round his nipple, light enough to send little sparks skittering across his skin.

“You really knew we’d win tonight?” Nick asked, voice rough from everything they’d just done.

“Of course,” Charlie answered, just as soft, pressing a tiny kiss to Nick’s shoulder. “Never doubted it for a second, Nicky.”

Nick smiled up at the ceiling, the fairy lights twinkling softly above him like a private constellation. The room smelled of candles and sex and them, the red tie still dangling outside the door keeping the world at bay.

In that moment, everything was perfect.

Nick pressed a soft kiss to Charlie’s curls, closed his eyes, and let the quiet happiness settle over him like a blanket.

—

If you’ve made it this far, you already know this story has got under your skin a little. Nick has long way to go before Houston, and a lot more waiting for him when he gets there. If you want to come along for the ride, consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s the best way to support the story and make sure it keeps going. Every single subscription genuinely means the world. 🦈💙🤍