Heartbreaker, A Heartstopper Story - Ch. 06

Enjoy!

The athletics parking lot beside the rugby pitch had turned into a glittering, sun-drenched chaos under a flawless California sky. Not a single cloud dared show its face; the blue stretched endless and brilliant overhead, so bright it almost hurt to look at. Beyond the far fence the Pacific glittered in the distance, a vast band of deep turquoise meeting the horizon, the faint white caps of waves rolling in from the bay. A light sea breeze drifted across the lot, carrying the clean, salty tang of kelp and ocean air, rustling the banners and offering the briefest kiss of coolness against sweat-slick.

A long, snaking queue of vehicles stretched from one end of the lot to the other, bumpers almost touching, windows rolled down, engines idling in the heat. Sedans, SUVs, beat-up Hondas, shiny Teslas, even a couple of lifted trucks, all of them waiting patiently in line. Bright navy-and-white banners flapped lazily in the faint breeze, strung between light poles and the temporary metal fencing they’d put up: “SHARKS TO HOUSTON — $15 CAR WASH — EVERY BUCK GETS US CLOSER!”

Buckets full of soapy water sat in neat rows, bright yellow sponges floating on top like little islands. Hoses lay coiled on the ground like sleeping snakes, ends still dripping. A couple of large folding tables had been dragged out near the entrance, stacked with clean towels, bottles of car soap, and a big metal cash box already starting to bulge. The whole area smelled faintly of wet concrete, citrus soap, and the distant barbecue smoke drifting across from somewhere nearby. Campus security had tried to shut them down the moment they started blocking off the lot, two stern officers insisting they needed proper permissions and authorizations. That was until Torres and Mallory grabbed the hoses and started spraying them with enthusiastic bursts of cold water. The guards had bolted, cursing and dripping, before they got completely soaked. They’d returned twenty minutes later, this time accompanied by no one other than Dean Davenport himself. The Dean had taken one long, amused look at the shirtless, soapy Sharks, slipped Torres a crisp hundred-dollar note, and said with a small smirk that they could proceed.. as long as they cleaned his sleek midnight blue Bentley Continental first

The sun was relentless, pouring down pure gold, making every wet surface sparkle and every droplet of water flash like diamonds. It was the kind of perfect, blinding Saturday morning that made you feel like the whole world had been built just for this moment.

What started as carwashing fundraisers for the Sharks to go to Houston had turned into a full blown party.

The parking lot had transformed into a proper festival. Westbridge students were sprawled across towels and blankets on any patch of grass they could claim, many in bikinis and trunks, soaking up the bright California sun. Some hid beneath colourful beach tents, laughing and screaming, taking endless photos and videos on their phones, while others seemed far more interested in trying to get laid than actually getting their cars washed. The air was thick with the sound of multiple speakers battling for dominance. The official DJ, Ryan Whitaker’s younger brother Leo, a lanky freshman with a backwards cap, oversized headphones around his neck and an impressively deep voice for his age, was spinning tracks for free from a makeshift booth, head nodding along to the beat. Random groups had brought their own speakers, blasting everything from reggaeton to old-school hip-hop, creating a chaotic, overlapping soundtrack that somehow made the whole thing feel even more alive.

The smell of sizzling burgers and grilled meat wafted strongly from the side of the lot where the Roosters had set up their pop-up stand. A big banner proudly declared “COCKS & SHARKS – OUR MEAT IS WORTH EVERY PENNY” in bold red letters. When Nick had first invited his fellow Cocks to the fundraiser, the idea of a full Cocks tent had been born almost immediately. All the money raised would go straight to the Houston fund, and even the Cocks who weren’t scheduled to work that day had agreed to come in and help. Nick had felt extremely grateful when they said yes. Sunny, Rocket and Captain America, for once not squeezed into their tiny red trunks but wearing normal shorts and tank tops, were manning the front, selling cold beers and food with their usual flirtatious energy. Two more, Big Z and Hawk, were behind the grills, flipping burgers and shouting orders back and forth.

The stars of the party, were, of course, the Sharks.

Every single player on the Westbridge Sharks roster was there, shirtless and gleaming under the sun, wearing nothing but the team’s bright thin practice shorts — the kind that rode high on powerful thighs and turned almost translucent the second they got wet. Strapped to each of their backs was a makeshift dorsal fin: bright blue foam cut into that iconic shark shape, held on with simple elastic harnesses that crossed over their chests. The fins bobbed and swayed with every movement, making the whole squad look like a pack of gloriously ridiculous, half-naked sea predators. They were everywhere at once, laughing, shouting, flexing, splashing each other with hoses like overgrown kids. Suds slid down carved abs and broad backs, catching the sunlight and turning every muscle into something glistening and obscene. Ryan Whitaker struck dramatic poses for a group of giggling girls, one arm flexed while he scrubbed a windscreen with the other, his fin wobbling comically. Big Mac and Bear were having a full-on soap fight, sliding across a soapy hood and crashing into each other in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Harrington moved like liquid, bending low to scrub wheels, bum flexing as the fin on his back pointed straight up like a beacon.

Even the coaches had shown up. Coach Hendricks stood off to the side in dark shades, arms crossed over his chest, trying his hardest to maintain that usual stoic demeanour, but every time one of the lads did something stupid, like Torres attempting a handstand on a car bonnet and immediately toppling over, a reluctant smile cracked through, the corners of his mouth twitching before he could stop it. A few feet away, Assistant Coach Nielsend was helping direct the line of cars, and his wife stood beside him looking distinctly flustered. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, eyes darting repeatedly toward the soapy, half-naked Sharks as they laughed and worked. Nick suspected the heat had very little to do with it.

Nick himself was bent over the bonnet of a silver SUV with Torres, Grimmy, Bear and Tank, the five of them working the car like a well-oiled (and very soapy) machine. Torres, who had invited his whole family to the carwash, kept glancing proudly at his parents and cousins who were watching from the sidelines with big smiles. Grimmy and Bear had shown up to the fundraiser still drunk from some wild all-night out, their laughter louder than usual and their movements a little loose as they splashed each other with the hoses. Tank, the dumb fuck, had forgotten to put on suncream that morning and was already turning red like a tomato across his massive shoulders and back.

The sun beat down on Nick’s bare back, turning every drop of water and soap suds into tiny sparkling diamonds that slid down the valley of his spine and over the curve of his arse. His bright thin practice shorts clung to him like a second skin, soaked through and almost see-through now, the fabric stretched tight across his powerful thighs and the firm swell of his bum. He was deeply grateful to Torres, who said Nick that he really, really, shouldn’t go freeballing that morning. Nick had taken the advice and slipped on a jockstrap before leaving the dorm. The wide waistband sat snug just above his hips, the straps framing his arse perfectly, but at least it kept everything from swinging free in front of poor Terry Nielsen.

The lads were in full chaotic form. Torres kept flicking handfuls of suds at Grimmy every time he bent over, making the big flanker splutter and shake his head while the others laughed. Bear had started doing press-ups on the bonnet between scrubs, showing off for a group of girls filming him.. Tank, never one to be outdone, had climbed onto the roof of the SUV and was doing an absurd dance, hips rolling, fin bouncing wildly. In true Cocks fashion, Nick had climbed up next to him without hesitation, joining the ridiculous display. He moved with the same fluid confidence he’d perfected on the Roosters floor, slow rolls of his hips, hands sliding down his own soapy chest and abs, the soaked shorts clinging obscenely as he dropped low and rose again in one smooth motion, showing his teammates some of the teasing, exaggerated moves he’d learned from work. The SUV owner, a woman in her thirties, and her group of friends were hollering at him from the side, cheering and whistling, phones held high as they filmed every second of the soapy performance.

Nick kept going, laughing through the burn in his thighs, the chaos and noise pushing everything else further into the background for a few glorious minutes. His muscles burned with the effort, shoulders, back, arms, the deep ache in his thighs from scrubbing in a low stance, but the adrenaline was pumping so hard he felt miles from tired. Every hard scrub of the sponge brought them another few dollars closer to Houston. Closer to the finals. Closer to the trophy he could already picture in his hands.

It was all he could think about lately. Every morning when his alarm went off at five-thirty, every night when he fell into bed aching and exhausted, every spare second in between. The Houston finals. The biggest stage any of them had ever stepped onto. And the Sharks had earned it the hard way. Coach Hendricks had demanded everything they had, and they had given it willingly. Practices had become brutal, almost religious in their intensity. Two-hour sessions under the blazing sun, then another hour in the film room, then weights, then more drills until the floodlights came on and the pitch glowed like a battlefield. Hendricks stalked the sidelines like a general, voice raw from shouting, pushing them past the point where lungs burned and legs turned to jelly. “Again!” he’d roar after every sloppy lineout, every missed tackle, every half-arsed scrum. And they’d line up and do it again. And again. Until their bodies moved on instinct.

They had studied their rivals, the Crescent City Bayou Brigades, like they were preparing for war. Hours and hours of game film, breaking down every play, every tendency, every weakness. They knew the Brigades’ fly-half liked to fake left and cut right on third phase. They knew their number eight was lethal in the loose but slow off the mark in set pieces. They knew their defensive line shifted early on wide attacks. So the Sharks had perfected their own game in response. They drilled their set-piece moves until they could execute them with their eyes shut. They invented new maneuvers, spent endless afternoons on the pitch running them over and over and over until the timing was perfect, until muscle memory took over and doubt had nowhere to hide.

Every drop of sweat, every bruised rib, every early morning when Nick dragged himself out of bed before the sun was even up, it had all been for this. The obsession was so complete, so all-consuming, that it left almost no room for anything else, not the sharp sting of Charlie not coming, not the lingering shadow of a certain Brazilian, not even the low hum of guilt that had been his constant companion for weeks.

But that didn’t mean Beto had given up on his insane seduction.

He never tried to pull something like he had done in the Eaton Arts Building again, thinking that maybe he had pushed Nick too far that bloody afternoon, but he hadn’t given up. Beto had simply become smarter.

He started appearing in the Lift District locker room with suspicious regularity, always timing it so he was there when Nick finished his post-workout sessions. He never did anything overt. He’d just be there — leaning against the lockers, scrolling on his phone, or casually changing after his own session. His eyes would find Nick the second he stepped out of the shower, lingering just long enough to make the steam feel thicker, the air heavier. Nick would wrap the towel tighter around his waist, jaw clenched, pretending he didn’t feel that dark, hungry stare tracing the water running down his chest and abs.

And then there were the Instagram stories on his Close Friends. The first ones were relatively tame but already dangerous: Beto shirtless in the gym mirror after a heavy session, sweat glistening on his golden chest and carved abs, the deep V of his hips disappearing into grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low. Another showed him post-shower, steam swirling around him, a white towel slung so low it barely covered anything, water droplets tracing slow paths down his torso and disappearing beneath the fabric. Then they escalated. One was taken from the side in the locker room, Beto bent slightly forward, back arched, the perfect round curve of his arse highlighted in tight black compression shorts, the lighting making the muscle look firm and inviting. Another was from behind: Beto tying his trainers, shorts riding up high enough to show the full, powerful shape of his glutes and the way they filled the fabric.

The most recent one had been the breaking point.

Beto had posted a short video in Close Friends. He was on all fours on his bed, wearing nothing but a tiny black thong that was little more than a thin string disappearing between his perfect, round cheeks. His back was deeply arched, arse pushed high and presented to the camera, the minuscule triangle of fabric barely covering anything as he slowly rolled his hips in a filthy, deliberate grind. He loked back over his shoulder straight into the camera with that same predatory smirk. The video ended with him whispering “Come and take what’s yours, Nico” as he kept grinding back against nothing.

It was so absurdly explicit, so shameless, that it finally pushed him over the edge. That same night, after staring at it far longer than he should have, Nick had blocked Beto on everything. Instagram, WhatsApp, Snapchat, the lot. One by one, the little confirmation messages popped up, and with each one he felt a hollow kind of relief, like slamming a door on a storm he knew was still raging just outside. He stopped showering in the Lift District locker room unless Harp was with him. He’d wait until his best mate finished his own session, or he’d skip it altogether and head straight home still sticky with sweat, telling himself it was just sensible. Practical. He was doing everything he could to stop that madness, wasn’t he? Cutting off every possible avenue, every accidental encounter, every lingering look.

But deep down Nick knew there was still one last option in his arsenal, his most potent weapon, the nuclear one he kept buried at the very bottom of his mind: telling Charlie everything. He even had the proof, screenshots saved in a hidden folder on his phone, the damning Close Friends stories that would end Beto’s little game in a single conversation. He wouldn’t tell him, though. He kept repeating to himself that it was to protect Charlie, to shield him from the harsh, ugly reality of who Beto Montenegro really was. It sounded noble when he said it in his head. Honourable, even. But the longer he let the lie sit there, the less he believed it.

Because the truth, the ugly, selfish truth, was simpler and far more terrifying: he was scared. Scared of what telling Charlie would do to them. Scared of the look on Charlie’s face when he realised his closest friend in America had been chasing his boyfriend for months. Scared of the questions that would follow, questions Nick wasn’t sure he could answer without admitting how close he’d come to cracking, how much he’d wanted it, still wanted. How weak he really was.

So he stayed silent.

And every time his phone buzzed with a new notification that wasn’t from Beto anymore, he told himself he was winning.

He wasn’t sure he believed that either.

A sudden, violent blast of icy water hit Nick square in the back, making him yelp and nearly drop the sponge. “You bloody cunt!” he barked, spinning around to find Grimmy cackling like a madman, hose in hand. The chaotic energy of the car wash slammed back into Nick full force: the thumping music, the smell of grilled burgers from the Roosters stand, the bright sun beating down on dozens of shirtless, soapy Sharks with their ridiculous fins bobbing everywhere. He shook his head, water flying from his hair, and forced a laugh, letting the noise and stupidity of the moment drown out everything else. For now, at least, the party was louder than his head.

Nick was taking a quick break, leaning against the side of a freshly washed SUV to catch his breath and gulp water from a bottle one of the lads had tossed him, when he noticed Harp getting closer. He was half-holding, half-carrying the twink he had taken to Roosters the other night, the one Nick still couldn’t remember the name of but definitely thought was way too young for his friend. Nick was surprised to see the both of them together: Harp wasn’t one for second dates. Maybe the twink was freakier in bed than he looked like. It took only a look at the kid for Nick to realise he was smashed — eyes glassy, legs barely holding him up, head lolling against Harp’s shoulder. And when they got closer, swaying like they were on a boat in rough seas, Nick realised his mate wasn’t much better off either, cheeks flushed, grin too wide and sloppy, movements loose and unsteady.

“Yooo, Ni-iiick, m’maaan,” Harp slurred, stumbling toward him with a sloppy, lopsided grin, the words tumbling out thick and loose. “Do me a— do me a sholi— a solid, yeah? Takethis pretty thing t’Sheaview Hall f’me?”

Without ceremony, he dumped the twink straight into Nick’s arms. The boy smashed against Nick’s bare, soapy chest for a second, warm and heavy, before his legs completely gave out and he started sliding down toward the ground. Nick, startled, quickly wrapped one strong arm around the kid’s waist and hauled him back up, holding him firmly against his chest, feeling the full limp weight of the drunk boy pressing into his skin.

“Sod off, you take him,” Nick deadpanned, still holding the twink steady.

“Shhhit, I c’nt, mate. I’m way too drunk. Do thisss one f’me, will ya?”

“Yeeeah Nick… tak’ me hooome,” the twink slurred, his head lolling heavily against Nick’s pecs as he tried and failed to focus his glassy eyes.

“It’s ok, Nelson,” Torres said, who had obviously heard the entire exchange. Nick looked over at him. “We can hold the fort for a few minutes.”

Grimmy and Bear were already nodding in agreement, while Tank was too busy chatting up some sorority girl to even notice what was happening. Nick knew his fate was sealed. He took another look at Harp, the arsehole properly gone, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, swaying on his feet like the ground was tilting beneath him, that trademark easy grin now loose and crooked at the edges.

Nick sighed heavily.

“You’re such a fucking prick, Harp,” he grumbled.

““Y’love me anyway, m’mate,” Harp slurred, giving him a drunk smile before dragging himself away toward a group of freshmen who had set up a small shade tent nearby. The kids looked at him like he was crazy, but they made no fuss when Harp simply collapsed into the shade with them and passed out almost instantly, snoring loudly within seconds.

Shaking his head, Nick decided he was going to have a very serious conversation with Harp about his drinking habits, it wasn’t even lunch time yet, for fuck’s sake! He bent down to scoop up the drunk twink still in his arms. He lifted the kid off the ground effortlessly; the boy probably weighed less than Charlie. With a quick “I’ll be back” to his teammates, Nick started the walk back to Seaview Hall, the twink’s limp body draped against his bare pecs. A couple of the Sharks immediately started laughing at him, wolf-whistling and shouting things like “Don’t let Charlie see you, man!” and “Careful with that one, Nelson!” Nick, whose hands were full and couldn’t even flip them the finger, simply ignored them and kept walking, jaw tight.

The only good thing about that was that Seaview Hall wasn’t that far from the rugby pitch. Nick carried the barely conscious twink in his arms the whole way, the kid’s head lolling against his shoulder as he muttered slurred nonsense the entire time.

“M’sorryyy… sho shorry f’the trouble… you’re sho— sho fuckin’ shtrong, man… like, sheriouslyyy shtrong…”

After the tenth “Don’t worry about it,” Nick just stopped replying altogether and focused on walking, the weight of the boy light but still awkward against his chest. The sea breeze had died down and the sun was beating straight on his back, making the soap and sweat mix into a sticky film that clung to both of them.

The security guard on duty that morning at Seaview Hall took one look at the pair of them, Nick shirtless, covered in drying soap suds, carrying a clearly smashed twink, and raised a single unimpressed eyebrow.

“Jaden Kessler, room 312,” the guard said flatly, not even asking for an explanation. “Same floor as you, actually.”

Nick blinked. He’d never seen the kid before in his life.

When he finally reached room 312 and knocked with his elbow, the door swung open almost immediately. Jaden’s roommate was a skinny, bespectacled Chinese-American, wearing baggy grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, noise-cancelling headphones around his neck. He was holding a half-eaten bowl of instant ramen in one hand and looked mildly startled to see a half-naked rugby player carrying his unconscious roommate.

Nick didn’t bother explaining. He just stepped inside and dumped the limp twink gently onto the nearest bed.

“Cheers, mate,” he said, already turning to leave. “He’s all yours. Make sure he drinks some water when he wakes up.”

Nick gave him a tired nod and stepped back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. The second it clicked, he let out a long, heavy breath and dragged a hand through his damp curls.

Fucking Harp.

Still thinking terrible things about his mate, Nick took a short detour to his own dorm before making his way back to the parking lot to pick up the bottle of suncream. The last thing he needed was for the Sharks to be one man down because bloody Tank had a heat stroke because he was too stupid to do it himself. Distracted, he crossed the hallway to his dorm — Room 328m absently thinking that Tyler should be spending the Saturday with his girlfriend like he usually did, and wondering what was that thump-thump he could hear coming from behind the door.

He opened the door… and stopped dead.

Because Nick had been mistaken: Tyler wasn’t spending the Saturday with his girlfriend. He was right there, kneeling on his bed, bollock naked, his skinny arse going forward and back, forward and back, in a crazy, obsessed rhythm as he fucked the living hell out of someone beneath him. The bed was slamming against the wall with every brutal thrust, the headboard rattling like it was about to come off.

“Bloody hell!” Nick screamed, quickly shutting the door behind him with a loud bang. “Oi, what the fuck, mate! Give me a heads-up, will you?”

Tyler, however, didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn to look at Nick. He just kept going, hips snapping relentlessly, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the small room as if no force in the world could make him slow down.

“S-sorry… so s-sorry… oh god, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry,” Tyler all but pleaded, voice broken and gasping, still fucking like his life depended on it.

The bed was slamming against the wall with every brutal thrust, the headboard rattling like it was about to come off. Nick’s eyes flicked to his own nightstand and landed on the bright orange bottle of sunscreen sitting exactly where he’d left it that morning. He was already here. He might as well grab the bloody thing before fucking off.

“Just put a bloody tie on the knob or something, mate, Jesus,” he muttered, crossing the room in two quick strides, making a very deliberate point of not looking at the bed that was still shaking violently with the power of Tyler’s thrusts. The lad was putting everything he had into it, hips pistoning, skinny back arched, the sound of desperate, frantic fucking echoing off the walls.

Nick snatched the sunscreen and turned on his heel, ready got the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible, when he heard it.

“Don’t be mad at him, Nico. It’s all my fault.”

Nick froze on the spot, his blood turning to ice in his veins as something achingly close to horror crept up his spine and settled cold and heavy in his gut. Because he knew that voice. Knew that smooth, melodic tone with its faint Brazilian lilt. Knew that bloody nickname Nico, and knew the only person in the entire world who ever called him that. His head moved slowly, almost against his will, as if some invisible force was turning it for him. When it finally did, he already knew what he would see.

Beto was sprawled beneath Tyler on the bed, completely naked, golden skin flushed and glistening with sweat. His muscular legs were caged around Tyler’s narrow hips, ankles locked behind the smaller man’s back, holding him deep as Tyler kept thrusting into him with desperate, frantic snaps of his hips. Beto’s head was tilted back against the pillow, dark eyes half-lidded and locked straight on Nick, a smile curling his full lips even as he was being fucked.

Nick drank in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

Beto looked perfect. Absolutely, sinfully perfect. Golden skin flushed dark with heat and pleasure, every sculpted muscle gleaming under a thin sheen of sweat. His broad, firm pecs bounced heavily with each brutal snap of Tyler’s hips, full and round, the dark nipples tight and peaked. His abs contracted visibly with every deep thrust, the deep V of his hips flexing as he took Tyler to the hilt. His fingers trembled slightly where they gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as if even in the middle of being fucked senseless he was still trying to hold onto something. His full lips were parted in open desire, soft broken moans spilling from them with every powerful stroke, eyes heavy-lidded and dark as they locked straight onto Nick’s.

For one treacherous, heart-stopping second, Nick thought that was like an angel sent from above must look lie: radiant, golden, impossibly beautiful in his pleasure.

No.

No, that was wrong.

He looked like a demon. A wicked, bronzed demon that had crawled straight from the underworld, sent specifically to drag Nick down to hell with him.

“What took you so long?” Beto asked in a roken moan, the words melting into a gasp as Tyler drove into him again. “We’ve been wait — oh yes, Ty, right there! —We’ve been waiting for you.”

Nick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mouth had forgotten how to form words. His brain had gone completely, terrifyingly blank. All he could do was stand there, frozen, staring at the scene unfolding on Tyler’s bed like it was happening in slow motion. All he could thinking about was Beto, right there, gloriously obscene, moaning, eyes always making contacts with Nick, even as Tyler fucked him with everything he had.

All he could was how much Nick wanted to be the one fucking him.

He look to Tyler. Quiet, dependable Tyler, the roommate who always vanished on weekends so Nick and Charlie could have the room, who talked about his girlfriend Amanda like she hung the moon and he was going to marry her one day. He was completely lost. His skinny body was trembling, face twisted in absolute bliss, eyes clenched tight as he buried himself in Beto again and again, his movements urgent and uncontrolled, driven by something beyond reason.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Amanda… oh God” Tyler stammered, voice cracking like it physically hurt him to speak, and Nick realizes he wasn’t apologizing to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Beto’s voice cut through the panting like velvet, calm and commanding even while being fucked senseless.

“It’s okay, Ty. Just keep going. Remember our deal?” He reached up, fingers sliding into Tyler’s hair, guiding his face down so he could whisper against his ear. “Tell Nick how good it feels.”

Tyler let out a broken sob of pleasure.

“So good, Nick,” he gasped, like he was confessing the worst sin of his life. “He feels so good… so perfect… I’ve never felt anything like this… so soft, so hot… fuck, I can’t stop…”

Nick’s heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat. Me, he thought. I want to be the one inside him.

Me.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only stand there, sunscreen bottle forgotten in his hand, staring at the most devastating sight of his entire life. Beto smiled at him over Tyler’s shoulder, slow and wicked.

Victorious.

“Wanna join us, Nico?” Beto asked, extending a hand, as if asking Nick to join them for breakfast. “Ty won’t mind. Right, Ty?”

Tyler gave no answer. He just kept fucking, hips snapping forward in that same obsessive rhythm, face buried in Beto’s neck, mumbling broken apologies like a prayer, begging forgiveness to Amanda, to Nick, to whatever god was out there and could save him from that dammnation.

Nick didn’t think anyone was listening.

He couldn’t look to Beto’s outstretched hand, fingers extended toward him, palm up, an open invitation. What would happen if he took it? His mind filled with the possibilities of it, instantly, vivid and unstoppable. He would climb onto the bed, feed his cock into Beto’s mouth first, fucking his throat while Tyler kept pounding his arse, using both of them at once. Or maybe he’s just push Tyler aside, and take his place. He would slide his cock straight into that perfect heat while Tyler watched, desperate and jealous. He would let every ounce of frustration, every bit of guilt and rage and aching want pour out of him, hips snapping hard, hands gripping golden skin, taking Beto exactly the way he’d been dreaming about for months. Rough. Deep. Merciless. Until Beto was moaning his name instead of Tyler’s. Until there was nothing left but sweat and skin and the sound of bodies colliding.

All he had to do was take that hand.

Nick took a step forward.

His fingers twitched at his side, as if they already knew what they wanted, ready to slide between Beto’s, to let himself be pulled into the bed, into the heat, into the sin.

Another step.

No.

Go away.

Right now.

Nick did just that, stumbling out of the room like he was as drunk as Jaden had been, legs unsteady, vision blurring at the edges. He slammed the door behind him with every ounce of strength he had left, the bang echoing down the hallway like a gunshot, trying to put every possible barrier between himself and that temptation, that beautiful, golden ruin waiting on the bed. He swore he could still hear Beto’s low, mocking laugh in the air behind him, curling around his ears like smoke.

He lunged for the first door he saw, thankfully the floor’s bathroom and not someone’s room and shoved inside, ignoring the two lads at the urinals and the one brushing his teeth at the mirror. Their heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of a half-naked, wild-eyed Nick storming past them, but he didn’t care. He barrelled straight into the nearest stall, slammed the door, locked it with shaking fingers, and leaned back against it, chest heaving. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. The image was burned behind his eyelids. He could still hear Tyler’s broken apologies, still see Beto’s hand reaching out, still feel the pull in his own body screaming at him to go back, to take it, to finally give in. He pressed his forehead hard against the cold stall door, eyes squeezed shut, breathing ragged. It was all he could do not to slam his head against it again and again until the world went black, because that felt like the only way he wouldn’t turn around and walk straight back into that room.

Nick didn’t even need to touch himself to know how hard he was. His cock was like iron, straining painfully against the pouch of his jockstrap. But he grabbed it anyway, palm pressing down hard through the shorts, willing the traitorous thing to calm down, to just fucking stop.

A wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain crashed through him. His hips jerked forward on instinct and a broken moan tore from his lips before he could stop it.

“Fuck—” he whispered, voice cracking.

He shut his eyes even harder, teeth gritted, telling himself to be strong, to control it, to think of Charlie, of Houston, of anything but the golden body sprawled on Tyler’s bed. But it was useless.

He was losing.

He had already lost.

If Tyler, loyal Tyler, who had loved his girlfriend Amanda since they were in kindergarten together, who as far as Nick knew had never even looked at another bloke like that, couldn’t resist Beto…

Then what fucking chance did Nick have?

In a frantic, desperate moment, Nick shoved his shorts and jockstrap down, letting them fall forgotten around his ankles. He was already painfully hard, pulsing with every hammering beat of his heart. He grabbed himself without thinking, the grip bruising tight, while his other hand shot to his mouth, teeth biting hard into his palm to trap every sound inside. He began to stroke, fast, relentless, the same desperate, consuming obsession he’d just watched tear Tyler apart. His mind was drowning in it: Beto pinned beneath Tyler, those golden legs hitched high, his perfect arse taking every thrust, full pecs bouncing, beautiful mouth falling open on shattered sounds. Nick saw himself there instead, deep inside that tight, scorching heat, driving hard and without mercy, making that infuriating, gorgeous demon cry out for him.

It only took a few savage strokes.

The orgasm hit him like a freight train, violent and all-consuming. Nick came hard against the stall door with a choked, muffled groan, thick white ropes of cum splattering across the wood in powerful, uncontrollable bursts. One, two, three, four heavy shots, each one more intense than the last, his cock jerking violently in his fist as he kept stroking through it, milking every last drop. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t thinking of Charlie while he came, only Beto, only that golden body, only that temptation.

His whole body trembled with the violence of the release, legs shaking so badly that the moment the last weak spurt left him, they gave out completely. Nick slid down to the toilet collapsing in a sweaty, exhausted heap on the cold porcelain, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his loose grip, thick streaks of cum painted across the door and dripping down his knuckles.

He lay there afterward in the specific silence of having done something he couldn’t take back, chest tight, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation. The shame crashed over him in waves so heavy he could barely breathe through it. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Long enough for the cold of the porcelain to seep through his shorts, for his breathing to even out, for the two lads outside the stall to finish at the urinals and leave without knowing what had just happened three feet away from them. The ordinary sounds of the bathroom, a tap running, someone’s phone playing music in the corridor outside, felt obscene. The world just carrying on like that.

Nick looked down at his hand.

He’d done that thinking about Beto. Not caught off guard, not half-asleep, not in some blurry, half-formed dream he could dismiss by morning. Wide awake. Deliberate. Beto’s legs locked around Tyler’s narrow hips, Beto’s hand reaching out for him, Beto’s voice saying wanna join us, Nico like it was the most natural thing in the world. Nick had stood at the edge of that and he hadn’t been disgusted. He’d been desperate. He’d wanted it so badly. He recalled how his hands had actually moved toward the bed before something in him, how he almost finally gave in before something dragged him back.

And then he’d come in a toilet stall thinking about it anyway.

Which meant what, exactly? That he was faithful? That he’d done the right thing? He’d just wanked over his boyfriend’s best friend in a shared bathroom while that same friend was getting fucked in his dorm a couple room doom. There was no version of that where Nick got to feel like a good person. There was no version of that where he looked Charlie in the eye tonight and didn’t feel like something rotten.

He cleaned up mechanically. Toilet roll. Bin. Pulled his shorts up. Buckled the jockstrap back into place over a cock that had the nerve to give one last, satisfied twitch like it was proud of itself.

You absolute bastard, Nick thought, and he wasn’t sure anymore who he was talking to.

When Nick pushed out of the stall, he wasn’t even surprised to see Beto there, perched on top of the sink, waiting for him.

Somewhere between the gym and the art class and that bathroom at the Eaton Building, some exhausted part of Nick’s brain had apparently filed Beto Montenegro under inevitable, right alongside death and taxes and Harp doing something stupid at parties. Nick didn’t flinch, didn’t stumble, didn’t do anything dramatic at all. He just stopped walking. Stood there on the full glare of the fluorescent light and looked at him the way you looked at a bill you’d been ignoring for weeks. Still there, then.

Beto was wearing nothing but a pair of loose linen shorts, soft blue. Bare feet swinging off the edge of the marble, lazy and easy, like a kid waiting outside a sweet shop. No shirt. Of course no bloody shirt. His hair was still slightly wrecked, dark strands falling across his forehead in that way that probably took him no effort whatsoever and looked like it had taken an hour. And his skin, Christ. That deep, particular glow that came from recent exertion, warm and luminous, a flush still sitting high on his cheekbones like a watercolour wash. He looked, Nick thought, with the specific misery of a man watching his own house burn down, absolutely luminous. Better than he’d any right to. Freshly fucked and glowing with it, like pleasure was just his natural state, like his body had been put together specifically to look like this in the aftermath of something Nick couldn’t get out of his head no matter how hard he tried.

And God help him, his mind went there anyway. The question arrived uninvited and parked itself front and centre before Nick could do a single thing about it: had Tyler finished inside him? Had he, at the very end, with those wretched broken apologies still falling from his lips, gone completely and given Beto everything? Nick’s gut twisted sharp at the thought. The truly unbearable part, the part that made him want to turn round and go back inside and not come out until approximately never, was that he couldn’t work out whether what he felt was revulsion or envy. He suspected, miserably, it was both.

Beto’s eyes found him across the path without any urgency at all, like he’d known precisely which door Nick would come stumbling out of and had simply sat down to wait. That slow, catastrophic smirk spread across his full lips.

“Enjoyed the show, irmão?” he asked, warm and conversational, the way you’d ask someone if they’d caught the match last night, if they’d had a decent kip, if the queue at the coffee shop had been bad. Utterly, infuriatingly casual.

“You’ve got to stop doing this, Beto.”

It came out wrong. Nick had meant it to land like a warning, a threat, something firm and final with a bit of steel behind it. Instead it came out the way it felt: ragged at the edges, the voice of a man who’d been running for months and could feel his legs going. Desperate. He sounded desperate to his own ears, and from the way Beto’s expression shifted, the slight tilt of his head, the slow blink, he’d heard it too. He knew he was getting close to the finish line.

He tipped his head to one side, and his lips pushed forward into a pout, soft and full and completely, devastatingly attractive.

“That’s a no, then?” Beto said, the pout dissolving slowly back into that smirk like morning frost burning off. “It was for you, you know. All of it.” A small, easy shrug of one shoulder. “Wanted you to see what you’re missing, Nico.”

Nick’s fist closed at his side. He felt his nails bite into his palm, four small points of pain, and he held onto them like a lifeline, something real to focus on while the rest of him tried not to come apart at the seams. He wanted to hit him. Properly. Not a shove like in the Eaton Building bathroom, but an actual, full-weight swing. He wanted to feel his knuckles connect with that beautiful, smug uinous face and just stop it. Stop the smirk, stop the voice, stop the whole unbearable thing Beto did simply by existing within Nick’s line of sight.

“You can’t just — “ He stopped. Dropped his voice. He’d started too loud and the irony was he wanted to shout, wanted to absolutely roar at this man, but his throat seemed to understand that he couldn’t. He started again, lower, each word bitten off. “You can’t go playing with people’s lives like that. Ty’s got a girlfriend. A girlfriend he loves, right, a girl he’s been with since he was a bloody kid and talks about marrying. You can’t just… “ He gestured back toward the bathroom door, furious and helpless at once, jaw tight. “You can’t seduce him into — into that, just to, what? Get at me? So I’d walk in and see? Is that it?”

“Yup”, Beto said, simply.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, mate?”

For just a fraction of a second, something moved behind Beto’s eyes. Something quick and dark, there and gone before Nick could get a proper look at it, like a fish turning deep underwater. Annoyance, maybe. Or something rawer than that. But it vanished as fast as it had come, swallowed back down beneath that habitual, maddening composure, and then Beto was just Beto again, smooth and unbothered, hopping down from the marble wall with the easy grace of someone who’d never been rattled by anything in his life.

“Stop being so dramatic, irmão.” He rolled his eyes, not unkindly, which somehow made it worse. “Tyler’s no victim. I didn’t force him to do shit. I told him what I wanted, he said yes. Hell, I eventrold him I wanted you to walk in and see us.” Another small shrug, like this was all perfectly reasonable, like he was explaining why he’d ordered a different coffee. “He fucked me because he wanted to, Nick.”

He stepped closer in that predatory way he did, like a tiger getting ready to pounce on its prey, that way Nick had come to dread and anticipate in equal measure, until there was barely a foot of warm California air between them. His eyes made one long, unhurried journey down Nick’s body and back up again, taking in the bare chest, the jockstrap strap visible above the low waistband of the practice shorts. Then his teeth caught his lower lip, before his gaze finally, lazily, climbed back up to meet Nick’s.

“Just like you want to,” he said quietly.

The anger arrived like a gift. Nick seized it with both hands. Welcomed it the way a drowning man welcomed something solid, anything solid, because fury he knew how to carry. Fury had a shape to it, a weight and a direction. It sat clean and righteous in his chest and drowned out everything underneath it, all the want and the shame and that sick, treacherous heat that had been living in his gut for months like a coal that wouldn’t go out. Good. Let it be rage. Let it be nothing but rage, because rage wouldn’t get him damned, rage wouldn’t make him reach out and put his hands on those golden shoulders and pull him in. Rage was safe.

“You need to stay the fuck away from me,” Nick snarled. “And you need to stay the hell away from Tyler. And you need to —”

He stopped.

Because Beto was still looking at him like that. Like he could see straight through every word Nick was saying to the thing underneath it, the thing Nick had just done in a toilet stall, the thing he’d almost done upstairs. Like the fury was a glass wall and Beto was standing on the other side of it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain of what he saw. Then the corner of his mouth curved up.

“It can happen in Houston,” he said, just like that, calm and easy. Like Nick’s fury was a light breeze he’d barely noticed, or worse, and Nick suspected this was closer to the truth, like he’d noticed it completely and was having a lovely time with it.

Nick stared at him. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Beto tilted his head. “Houston. Just you and me, Nico. After the final whistle, hm? You win the trophy, you’re flying, everyone’s celebrating.” A small, devastating smile. “And then it’s just us. No interruptions this time. What you think?”

“What do I… “ Nick let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite anything else. “Are you out of your mind, mate? What the bloody hell are you on about, Houston?”

“Oh,” he said, just as innocent as the devil. “Charlie didn’t tell you? I’m going to Houston, irmão. Thought it would be nice. Support you and the boys.”

The bottom of Nick’s stomach dropped clean away. Beto would be there. Nick’s mind started doing the maths without his permission and he didn’t like any of the sums it was coming up with. A hotel. Away from campus. Away from Charlie, away from the Sharks piling back to their dorms, away from shared bathrooms and dorm corridors and the constant ambient presence of a hundred people who knew his face. Just a win, and the high of it, and Beto in the same building, and no Charlie in the stands to look up to, no anchor to remind him of everything worth protecting. Nick felt it, the cold, creeping certainty that in Houston, far from home, with the adrenaline of the biggest win of his life still electric in his blood and Beto there, just there…

“Y-you can’t.” The stammer came out before Nick could stop it, ugly and exposed, and he hated it, hated the way his voice cracked on something so simple. “You can’t go. You can’t be there.”

He watched Beto’s face with the sick, helpless attention of someone watching a match they already knew the result of. Watched the full, slow smile spread across those lips like sunrise, lighting up his whole face with something that wasn’t warmth exactly but looked enough like it to be dangerous.

“Why not, Nico? You sound afraid, irmão” Beto said , almost tender. He took one small step closer. “Worried something’s gonna happen?”

“Nothing,” Nick said. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

He said it and tried to feel the truth of it somewhere in his chest, tried to locate the Nick Nelson who had hugged Charlie in pitch after the semifinal, who’d held Charlie on the beach under the stars, who’d sat in that sauna and told Harp it’s not just sex, not for me, and said it like he believed it.

He found nothing. Just the echo of his own voice sounding unconvincing in the bathroom air.

“Oh,” Beto said.

Just that. One syllable, barely anything, barely a word at all.

“We’ll see about that, Nico.”

He held Nick’s gaze for one last, infinite second. Then he turned, unhurried, and walked away outside the bathroom, not once looking over his shoulder. As if he already knew there was no need. As if the conversation had gone exactly the way he’d expected it to, had ended exactly where he’d planned, and now there was simply nothing left to do but wait.

Nick stood and watched him go. He didn’t move. His feet had apparently decided they were done taking instructions for the day and had planted themselves to the bathroom floor while the rest of him tried to work out what had just happened, what was still happening, what was going to happen in Houston in a hotel room with no Charlie and no witnesses and Beto looking like that after a win that would leave Nick half out of his mind with adrenaline and relief and the desperate, animal need to put it somewhere.

From out in the corridor came the ordinary sounds of a Saturday afternoon in Seaview Hall. A door slamming two rooms down, the particular bang of it that meant someone had let it go rather than pulled it shut. A group of girls passing in the hall, one of them saying something that made the others shriek with laughter, the sound bright and careless and fading as they moved away toward the stairwell. Ordinary Saturday. Ordinary afternoon. The world completely indifferent to the fact that Nick Nelson was standing alone in the gent’s bathroom on the third floor of Seavier Hall, left alone by the man who was going to ruin his life walking away from him, and feeling, underneath all the terror and the fury and the shame…

Relief.

That was the part he couldn’t look at directly. The part that lived in the darkest corner of everything he was trying not to be. Because Houston meant a decision, meant the thing he’d been white-knuckling his way past for months finally had a date, a place, a room number. And some small, wretched, treacherous part of Nick, buried so deep he could almost pretend it wasn’t there… was glad.

He thought about Charlie. About about his blue eyes and his pretty lips about the smell of vanilla candles and the way Charlie said love you, Nicky in that small, quiet voice before sleep, like it was the easiest truth in the world. About everything they’d crossed an ocean to build together, every ordinary, perfect, irreplaceable thing. He thought about all of it with the focused desperation of a man pressing both hands against a wound.

And underneath it, quiet and patient and utterly certain of itself, the want sat there.

Waiting.

Houston was in six days.

—

Houston is in six days. Charlie won’t be there. Beto will. And Nick is standing in a bathroom feeling something he really, really doesn’t want to feel.

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