1

-North-

I DON'Tusually come to the bleachers at night, but I have a big football game coming up and it's got me too wired to sleep. I'm the football team's star player—which is great, don't get me wrong—but it's a lot of pressure sometimes. It's weighing on me extra heavily tonight, and I came here thinking maybe if I get some extra drills in, get my body pumping, then I'll be able to sleep.

The rows of benches, which are usually lit up by the flood lights, are dark and shadowy, and it's kinda eerie—prime slasher movie setting. Although I'm pretty sure you only get murdered if you're doing sexy shit, and drills are far from sexy. So I should be fine.

I dump my bag down on a bench and fish a beaten-up packet of cigarettes out of my pocket, and a lighter. I suck the smoke into my lungs and sigh it out slowly through my nose in a wispy cloud.

It feels good and bad at the same time, my secret vice. Makes me feel like a rebellious bad boy for once. No one knows I smoke, and I'm trying to quit because I know it's not good for my athletic prospects, but my impulse control isn't great at the best of times, and I'm feeling jangly tonight.

With the shameful cigarette perched between my lips, I have my jacket half off when I notice a dark duffel bag on the bench next to mine. I didn't spot it in the shadows. It's hanging open, but I can't see what's inside from this angle. Maybe someone forgot it at practice earlier. I vaguely recognize it, but I can't remember—

The thud thud thud of feet on compacted ground rises up from below and I look around quickly. I'm not alone. The cigarette is out of my mouth and under my shoe before I even register it's happened.

Through the darkness I can just make out a dark figure at the far end of the field. They're moving fast and getting closer. I squint. It must be one of the guys. Josh? But he's not that fast. Maybe Randy?

I'm about to call out to them when the moon comes out from behind a wisp of cloud and the runner comes into focus. Tall and pale, wearing only loose shorts that cling to his hips, dark hair plastered to his neck with sweat, broad shoulders pumping as he runs.

Shit.Him.

I duck back slightly.

Malcolm Blackwood has always hated me, and I don't know why. And, as much as I wish it didn't, it bothers the hell out of me. I'm not used to being disliked. Everyone loves me, because, well, I'm lovable as hell. I'm probably in the running for the most popular guy in Langley College, all I have to do is smile at someone, give them a flash of the pearly whites, and we're lifelong friends. Hell, I've got women practically lining for a chance to get with me. An opportunity I'm certain I'd make the most of if I had the time or energy. As it is, I've never had a particularly high sex drive.

But Malcolm Blackwood is different. No matter how brightly I smile at him, or how much I compliment his game, he just goes quiet and looks at me with his cold, hard eyes like he despises the ground I walk on. He's barely spoken to me at all since I joined the team. And I have no idea what I've done to deserve it. So you could say he rubs me the wrong way.

To be honest, he scares me a little bit. He's so big and grumpy, and super intense, something about him just feels kinda—well, not really dangerous but . . . raw. I'm a confident guy, no one could argue with that, but he makes me nervous.

So, I don't speak up. Just seeing him has worn off the slight buzz of the nicotine. Forget about drills, I'll go back to my dorm and do pushups until I pass out.

But as I turn away, for some unknown reason, I hesitate. There's something mesmerizing about him. His speed is impressive, but it's more than that. I've never seen him with his top off before, which is weird now that I think about it. I've seen everyone else on the team practically bare butt naked in the showers, but he always hangs back until we've finished. As his path takes him past my hiding spot, the moonlight catches on his back. I stare. He's got a scar across his shoulders, stretching almost from one side to the other. The tight pink line stands out against his pale skin, shiny and reflective. How did he get it? It must have been something bad to leave a mark that big.

I'm staring now, unable to drag my eyes away from the way his body moves, the smooth slide of his muscles under sweat-slicked skin. His wide shoulders and long legs, the hard mounds of his abs.

He runs hard from one end of the field to the other, pushing himself until he is absolutely drenched in sweat, even in the cold air. I don't understand how he can keep going at this pace. Surely he has to stop soon—

He falls and my heart does a double tap as he lands on his hands and knees, breathing hard. I can't see his face well with his head bowed behind a curtain of damp hair, but from here he looks . . . upset. Maybe I should go down and give him a hand or something, see if he's hurt himself.

I'm about to step out of my shadowy hiding place when, in one sharp movement, he yanks at the loose waistband of his shorts. I stiffen and stop.

Before I can look away, his shorts are down around his knees, pooled on the ground, and my eyes bug. He's not wearing any underwear. His cock is huge; long and heavy, and half-hard in the moon light.

What the fuck? This is weird. This is so weird. I should stop looking. I should leave.

But I don't look away. I can't. I can't even blink. And as I watch he spits into his palm, grasps his now hard dick in his fist and starts to pump it, hunched over himself and groaning so loudly it reaches me all the way up here. The image is primal, almost violent. And fuck, I'm transfixed.

My whole body is frozen in place, so even if I wanted to look away, I can't. But . . . I don't want to.

I'm straight, always have been, but right now he looks like some kind of heathen sex god. To my shock, a hot flush comes over me, making my body tingle, and my own cock starts to swell.

What the fuck. What the fuck. This is wrong. This is so wrong. My head screams at me. What am I doing? I should leave.

Instead, my hand reaches into my pocket of it's own free will and brings out my phone. With no input from my brain, I raise it in front of me and press record. I know I shouldn't, I know it's massively creepy and invasive, but it's a need I don't understand that's so powerful, denying it isn't even an option. And like I said, shitty impulse control. But I'm not thinking about that. All I'm thinking about is the way his body strains, his sweat-slicked skin, his face twisted in furious pleasure as he tips his head up.

I shift to get closer, and my knee knocks against something. I look down in time to see Malcolm's bag teeter on the edge of the bench.

"No," I hiss.

It tumbles, and I jerk in a belated attempt to catch it, but I'm too slow, and it hits the ground with a heavy thud that echoes across the stadium. The motion sends something shiny and metal clattering out onto the ground at my feet, and I blink at it. A pair of handcuffs. Why does he have handcuffs in his bag?

"Is someone there?"

On the field, Malcolm's head has snapped up, glistening with sweat, his eyes alert. He scans the bleachers, passing straight over me, and I duck backward and snatch my phone away.

I grab my bag and turn and run with my phone clenched in my hand. There's no point in trying to be sneaky now. As I run, my feet pound and echo around the bleachers, almost as loud as my heart.