Chapter 15

15

Luke

Lifting up my shirt, I angle my body until I have a good view of my side in the mirror. Wincing, I run my fingers carefully over my ribs. Not broken, according to the medical staff, but bruised enough to keep me benched for our next game. Already, the bruise has darkened to a sickening black color, and the laces from the ball are visible, stamped into my skin like some sort of reverse tattoo. Sighing, I carefully pull my shirt back down. I need to find an icepack. Turning around, I find Marcos' dark eyes on me across the room.

"All right?" He calls. I nod, but it must not look convincing enough because he walks over. He's half-undressed, still wearing his uniform pants but absent of his cleats and shirt.

"I'm good," I tell him when he's close enough to hear without me raising my voice. "Not broken."

"Looks bad," he notes, and I shrug the shoulder opposite of my not-broken ribs .

"Part of the game," I say, and he nods. All of us have been hit by a pitch at one point or another. It sucks, but not something to get unduly worked up about.

"Max has the night off," Marcos notes, and I nod because he'd already told me so. "I wasn't sure what your plans were, but if you were going to be with Max, I'll probably go out with some of the guys."

"You don't have to leave your apartment just because I'm going to be there."

"No, I know. I was wanting to go out tonight, but I usually stay home if…" He trails off, breaking eye contact and looking around the crowded locker room. It doesn't matter, I already know what he was going to say: that he usually stays home if Max is going to be there, so he doesn't have to be alone.

"I'll be with Max," I assure him, and he nods gratefully.

"Okay, cool." Full up on chit-chat, he walks away and back over to his locker.

Since I was pulled from the game early, I'm already changed and ready to go. I stop into the training room on my way out, grabbing an icepack for the drive home and call Max. He picks up on the first ring; there's clanging in the background and he's out of breath.

"Am I interrupting a workout?" I ask, tossing my bag into the trunk and popping open the driver's side door.

"Hey, no, not at all. I was listening to your game while I worked out—are you okay? The announcer said you got hit with a pitch."

"I'm fine. Bruised ribs, nothing to get excited about."

"Fuck, Luke, I'm sorry," he says, sounding worried. "Are you on the way back? Want to meet at my apartment? I've got some Arnica at home and tons of icepacks. We can just take it easy tonight. "

I grin, propping my phone between my shoulder and ear as I turn the key in the ignition. "Are you offering to rub Arnica gel onto my poor, bruised body?"

"Well, I was, until you made it sound pervy."

"I'm going to need you to kiss it better."

"I'm hanging up now," he says, trying and failing to sound annoyed. "I'll see you at my place."

Laughing, I toss my phone into the passenger seat and try to get my seatbelt in a position that doesn't make my chest feel like it's on fire. All jokes aside, my ribs really do fucking hurt and Arnica gel sounds incredible. I drive slowly, trying not to jostle my brakes any more than needed—the seatbelt straps directly across my bruised side and every slight bump has me gritting my teeth against the pain. When I pull up outside Max's apartment building, I unclip the belt and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, taking a couple deep breaths before going inside.

"Maxy?" I call, cracking open his front door and peeking inside. He steps around the corner from the kitchen, smiling wide when he sees me.

"Hey," he says, leaning in to kiss me but carefully keeping his hands down by his sides. Well, that simply won't do. I hook my fingers in his belt loops and pull him toward me, smiling into the kiss when I feel his hands land on my shoulders.

"Take your shirt off," he instructs as I crowd him against the wall, kissing his jaw.

"Bossy," I note, and he pats my butt.

"Let me see."

Sighing, I rest my head down on his shoulder for a second before stepping back and toeing off my shoes. I walk back to his bedroom, tugging my shirt off as I go. Before I can preface that it isn't as bad as it looks, I hear the sharp intake of breath and feel his cool hands on my skin.

"Luke," he breathes, fingers coasting gently down my stomach, well away from the bruise.

"It looks worse than it is," I cajole, and he looks at me incredulously.

"I can see the imprint of the baseball ."

"That'll go away."

He rolls his eyes so far back in his head, they're liable to get stuck. "Grab a towel from the bathroom. I'll be right back."

Doing as he says, I toss a clean towel onto the bed and sit down to wait for him to return. Standing back up almost immediately, I take off my pants too, feeling odd without my shirt on. Max walks back in, arms loaded; he casts an appraising eye over my body, cheeks flushing slightly. I grin.

"Bruise first," he says, reading my mind. "Spread that towel out and lay down. You're getting a massage."

I practically throw myself down on the bed in my haste to begin. Tucking one of Max's pillows under my face, I take a nice, deep inhale before I turn my face and rest my cheek down. He sits down beside me, one leg bent up and brushing my thigh. I close my eyes when I feel his fingertips ghost over my side; the touch is lighter than a breath of air—there's not an ounce of pain when he touches my ribs.

He cracks open the bottle of Arnica and the mattress shifts again as he moves closer to me. This time there is a little bit of pain as he concentrates his efforts directly on the bruising. Still, his fingers are gentle as he works the cream into my skin. I smile against the pillow, enjoying all the fuss he's making over something as inconsequential as a bruise .

"Anywhere else hurt?" He asks, voice soft as though trying to maintain the peacefulness of the moment.

"Shoulders are kind of sore," I mumble, cracking an eye and watching him shift until he's straddling my waist. His legs are spread so wide that none of his weight is resting on me, but even so, my dick notices the change in position. I'm going to be dry humping the mattress soon, if this massage gets any sexier.

He places his hands on my shoulders, kneading gently as he searches for knots. I groan when he finds one, pressing into it with his thumb hard enough to hurt. It's clear he's someone who's experienced many a deep tissue massage in his time—the man knows how to use his thumbs. Gentling his grip, his strokes turn soothing for a minute before he digs back into the muscles, trying to unlock the knots. It feels good, while also making me feel a little dizzy.

"All right?" He asks, and I groan. He leans down to kiss the back of my neck, below my hairline but above where my upper back is smeared with gel.

"Remember what I said about you being a torturer?" I ask, turning my head so my voice isn't muffled by the pillow. He chuckles, breath ghosting against my skin, and kisses me again. I have to shift against the mattress as my dick really starts to take an interest in things.

"Anywhere else?" He asks, an amused lilt to his voice that says he knows exactly how much of a tease he's being.

"A few places below the waist could use some attention," I admit, and my skin pebbles with anticipation as the bed shifts, moving as he goes to kneel over my legs. If I'd had half a brain, I would have taken all my clothes off, not just my pants and shirt.

He pulls my boxer briefs up my leg a bit, trying to get the fabric out of the way, before adding more Arnica to his hands. My pulse jumps when he finally wraps his hands around my left thigh, even though it's clear from the motions of his thumbs that he's actually trying to give me a massage and not turn me on. I try to relax, even though my libido is in a tizzy with most of my clothes off and his hands on me. Think unsexy thoughts, Luke. This is just another post-game massage from the training staff .

Of course—seeing as my face is mashed up against a pillow that smells of Max—my brain decides to supply me with other thoughts. Thoughts of each separate time Max and I have had sex, each one revealing a more comfortable and adventurous Max. Thoughts of one particular night when he laid flat on his back and let me explore him, the unspoken trust leaving me breathless and feeling defensive of him.

He moves to my right leg, thumbs brushing along my hamstrings and catching on my leg hair. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but I really think I might die if this continues any longer. I need to come now .

"Maxy," I mumble, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Mm?"

"I'm going to embarrass myself and ruin your bedspread if we don't wrap this up."

"You're lying on a towel," he reminds me. I lift my head up to look at him over my shoulder and he laughs at whatever he sees in my face. Abandoning my legs, he steps off the bed and comes back to sit beside me, eyeing my ribs. "We can't do anything tonight, Luke, it'll hurt."

Pushing myself up so that I'm propped up on my elbows, I give him an incredulous look. "Half of my bloodstream is ibuprofen right now, I'm fine. "

"You don't look fine," he says with trepidation. I push myself back until I can pull the towel off the bed and toss it to the floor. Moving back until I'm in a seated position with my back against the headboard, I face Max. His eyes track over my torso and down over my legs, heat crawling across the tops of his cheekbones. He rubs a hand over the bed, looking down and breaking eye contact with me.

"I'm fine," I tell him, "but we can just hang out, that's all right. Would you pass me my phone? And come sit up here by me, I want to show you something."

He gets up and retrieves my jeans from the floor, pulling my phone from the pocket and handing it to me before he settles next to me, leg pressed against mine. Reaching over and grasping his chin, I pull his face toward me for a thank-you-for-the-massage kiss, before unlocking my phone and scrolling through my albums.

"What are you looking for?"

"I finished working on the beach pictures from our first date. I wanted to show you," I tell him, before finding the correct album and handing it to him.

He holds the phone close to his face, tucking his chin as he swipes through the photos. He's giving it his undivided attention, so I take the opportunity to give him my own—performing a visual check of the parts of him I can see. He's filled out in these past few weeks, the byproduct of eating in his weight category for the first time in over a year. His skin looks fuller, too, the blueish tinge gone from under his eyes, and the sallow complexion covered by a healthy flush. I hope it means he's happier and not feeling quite as adrift as he'd been before.

"Oh," he gasps, and I lean over to see which picture he's stopped on, even though I'm pretty sure I know. Sure enough, it's the one I took of him as he was walking toward me across the sand, hands full and hair feathered out around the sides of his ball cap. His feet are bare and there is color high in his face: embarrassment at being photographed was what I had originally thought, but after getting to know him I realize it had nothing to do with the camera and everything to do with being the center of attention. He would have been just as embarrassed if I'd simply stood there and watched him.

"I didn't think you would keep this one," he says, and I scoff.

"I'm a photographer, Max, I appreciate beautiful things. I'm not going to delete a picture of you ." Shaking my head, I nudge him with my shoulder. "It's a good picture, right?"

"Yeah," he says, handing the phone back. "Those are really good, Luke."

I shrug, accepting the phone but setting it off to the side on his nightstand. "Not hard to take good pictures of a beach sunrise, or handsome men."

"Just accept the compliment."

"You're right," I laugh, settling in closer to him and pressing our sides together, "thank you."

"I have a picture of you, too," he says, and immediately flushes a deep crimson. I sit up, turning toward him and grinning.

"Maxy."

"I took it while you were sleeping," he admits, looking properly embarrassed. I tip my head back and laugh.

"Let me see it, you creep." I wait for him to grab his phone, peeking over as he unlocks the screen. "Is it set as your background photo?"

"No, shut up." Shaking his head, he hands me his phone. It is indeed a photograph of me sleeping. Sleeping in this bed, in fact—arm tucked under the pillow and curled toward where Max was obviously sleeping next to me. My arm is stretched awkwardly forward, hand flat on the bed, as though it had been wrapped over another body. I look up at Max, who's watching me carefully as though worried I might be pissed that he took a picture of me without my knowing. I hand the phone back.

"Why were you awake?"

He looks surprised at the question, and it takes him a second to answer as he decides whether to demure or tell the truth. He tries to shrug it off, smiling in a self-depreciating sort of way. "I had a nightmare."

"You did? You should have woken me up."

He shakes his head. "I didn't want to bother you. Besides, look how cute you are when you sleep."

"I wish you'd wake me up if you need me. I hadn't realized you were still having trouble sleeping," I tell him, frowning. I was, in fact, just ten minutes ago thinking about how well-rested he'd been looking.

"I did need you, and you were there. I just…laid back down and went to sleep. So, you did help."

"Mm. You can wake me up, though, okay? It's not a bother, and you should know that by now," I gently chide him. "Even if you do take creepy stalker photos of me."

"Well, we can't all be professional photographers," he says, looking at the picture and smiling to himself. "You know what, maybe I will put this as my background."

Laughing, I pull the phone out of his hands, open up the camera and flip it around. "Come here," I say, tugging him to my side and snapping a picture of us before he can even think to get embarrassed.

He looks at it, expression inscrutable, as he really does set it as his background photo. Tapping his thigh, I nod toward his phone. "Send that to me."

It's not a picture that's going to be winning any awards; our faces are smushed together, and my eyes are crinkled from how wide I'm smiling. Max is halfway between a neutral expression and a grin, copper hair and golden eyes bright. It's our first picture together, I realize. Such a simple thing, and yet my throat feels a little tight when I think about it. You're in deep now, Luke. There will be no coming back from Max.

"Here," Max says, and I jolt when he presses an icepack to my ribs. "You need to stay on top of your icing."

"Where did you even get that?"

He laughs, gesturing over the side of the bed. "I brought a couple in when you got here. Ice for five minutes and then we'll put more Arnica on it. After that, maybe we'll fool around a bit, if you're a well-behaved patient."

"Mm, want to play doctor?" I suggest, and he puts a palm in my face, shoving me playfully.

"God, you're incorrigible. Hold your ice on and sit still," he tells me sternly.

"Sure, Doctor, whatever you say."

I can tell it's Bryce coming down to my room by the sound of his tread on the stairs. Spinning around in my desk chair, I wait for him to tap on my door before I call out for him to come in. He pushes the door wide and leans, shoulder resting against the doorframe, hands pushed casually in the pockets of his jeans.

"Hey," I greet him, using the opportunity to take a break from my homework and roll out my neck. "What's up? "

"You busy tonight?"

"Homework," I answer, chin to my chest as I knead my shoulder.

"Max coming over?"

I look up at him. "I'm not sure. He's at practice right now and up until an hour ago I was supposed to be working. They called and told me not to come in tonight, so." I shrug. Right now my plans are no plans.

"Been awhile since we've been able to hang out," he notes, and I immediately feel bad even though I know that's not his intent. He's right. I've never been this tied down with another guy before—one-night stands don't usually infringe on best friend time.

"Yeah, sorry about that," I start, but he waves this off, grimacing.

"I'm not looking for an apology, bro, chill. We're cool. I just wanted to see if you were interested in joining me tonight. Pigskin House is having a party tonight, which means I have to go."

I grimace. Bryce is the kicker for the football team, which means he's obligated to at least make an appearance. Usually, I wouldn't mind tagging along, but I'm sure as hell not inviting Max and I have to admit that I've lost my taste for college parties in any capacity. But Bryce is my best friend and it's been a while since we've done anything together—I owe him.

"Sure, why not? I'll meet up with Max tomorrow, give him a break from me tonight." I smile, but Bryce only cocks his head at me, dark eyes on mine.

"Why don't you invite him?"

"Parties aren't really his scene," I say casually, shrugging. Bryce nods .

"All right. Leave in an hour?" I nod and he turns to leave, pausing and speaking back over his shoulder to me. "I like Max. I'm glad you found somebody."

I grin at him. Bryce, for as long as I've known him, has never been single. He is the king of coupledom. "I guess you were right all along. Turns out having one person is better than having multiple."

"I told you so," he sings as he leaves my room and walks up the stairs. Snorting, I shake my head and get up from my desk, stretching my arms above my head and groaning. I pick up my phone to leave Max a long, rambling voicemail for when he gets out of practice and then get ready for the party. We haven't even gotten there yet, and already I'm hoping that this covers me for the rest of the semester; if this is the last college party I have to attend, so be it.

Bryce and I end up having to park four blocks away from the party, unable to find a space any closer. I'd almost forgotten that parties at the Pig were like this: packed with co-eds and randoms who wandered in off the street, a mass of bodies and booze and too loud music. They could be fun, if one was in the mood or looking for an easy hook-up, but with each step toward the house my stomach curdles further. I am not in the mood for this.

"We don't have to stay long," Bryce says casually, looking at the brightly lit house up the block. We can hear the music from here. "Make the rounds with my teammates, play a few rounds of beer pong, and then I'll drop you off at Max's on the way home, yeah?"

"I can survive one night without him."

"Mm hm, right. And that's why you look like I'm walking you to the gallows instead of to a party. "

I sigh, trying to shake off my bad mood. "Sorry. Is Taylor coming?"

"No worries, man. Nah, she's not into the party scene. She said she'll be happy staying home, watching Lost and eating junk food."

"That actually does sound better," I admit, as we walk up the sidewalk toward the open front door.

Pigskin House—so named because it's always roomed by football players—is a massive, six-bedroom mansion. The main living room is open enough to be considered a ballroom, which, maybe it was at some point; now, though, it's mainly used as a makeshift club during parties. Already, even though it's still pretty early in the evening, the room is packed with bodies and smells sweetly of alcohol and spilled drinks. Bryce and I don't even have to discuss it before we pass by toward the kitchen. Neither of us will be humping any strangers tonight.

Because everything here is massive and over-done, the kitchen is three times larger than any kitchen, that isn't industrial, has a right to be. The two massive islands are covered in alcohol and red plastic cups, with the occasional snack thrown in as though somebody had an afterthought about the guests getting hungry. Again, without having to discuss the matter, Bryce finds us two unopened beers; both of us try to honor our athletic scholarships as much as we can, which means not getting plastered on cheap vodka and being hungover before a game.

Somebody bumps into me, sloshing their drink over my feet and onto the floor. The bass from the speakers is so loud, I can barely hear the yelled sorry! even though it's damn near shouted into my ear. Stepping out of the way and putting my back to the wall, I wait for Bryce to scan the crowd, looking for any of his football friends. My phone buzzes in my pocket; I pull it out to see a text message from Max, which has the dual effect of making me smile like an idiot, while also making me feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. I don't want to be here.

I heard about that party, I think some of the guys are going to be there. I hope you have a good time—don't worry about me, I'll probably call it an early night. Practice was rough today.

Bad rough or good rough?

Bad. Vas got hurt.

At practice??

Full contact practice. He went into the boards bad—lost an edge and went down on a knee right before Robertson hit him. It was an accident.

Damn. I hope he's okay.

Hey, aren't you at a party? Why are you texting me, go have fun.

I'm pretty sure the most fun I'll be having tonight is when we leave.

I watch the three little dots that indicate Max is replying when a hand on my arm startles me. Looking up, I see a blonde girl standing so close to me her chest is brushing my arm. She's pretty: short hair cut above her shoulders, big blue eyes, and the kind of body that has the guys standing behind her picking their jaws up off the floor. She smiles at me and sidles closer .

"Hi," she says.

"Gay," I reply, pointing a finger at my chest. She sighs and pats my arm twice before letting go.

"Naturally." Lifting her glass in a silent salute, she disappears into the crowd. I go back to my phone, wanting to see if Max replied, when Bryce reappears at my side.

"It smells like ass in here," he says, scrunching up his nose and gazing around. I laugh.

"Somebody puked in that corner," I tell him, pointing to the offending pile of vomit. He gives a heavy sigh and takes a swig from his beer. Somebody sidles up to him, another blonde girl I don't recognize, but he shakes his head before she can say anything. She turns around, off to find a different football player.

"Let's go outside," he says, grimacing at the pile of sick on the floor. I nod, tucking my phone back into my pocket and following him through the maze of rooms until we reach the open back door.

There's a pool, naturally, which is filled with male and female students in various stages of undress. The music is quieter out here and the air fresher. We skirt around the edges of the pool, cognizant of anyone who might think it's funny to try and push us in fully clothed, until we make it to the grassy part of the yard. Somebody started a fire in the pit, which seems like a recipe for disaster to me. I hope Bryce and I are long gone by the time this party gets out of hand enough for shit to go up in flames.

"There," Bryce says, pointing toward a group of people cloistered around some patio furniture. He starts walking over so I follow him, even though I don't see anybody I know. Probably, it's a group of his teammates.

A shout goes up when the group sees Bryce approaching, and a lot of backslapping ensues as they all greet each other, acting as though it's been weeks since they've laid eyes on one another. Bryce introduces me, to a lot less welcoming of an effect, and somebody passes me a new beer even though mine is still mostly full. I lean back against a brick half-wall that's behind me, and listen to the conversation. The group is speckled through with girls hanging off the arms of some of the guys, or, in a few cases, having spirited make out sessions.

"Fantastic," a big black guy standing across from me says, mouth twisting up into the semblance of a sneer. "Look who's joining us."

Bryce, who's leaned against the wall next to me, looks over and tenses. I crane my neck and see two guys strolling across the grass toward the group. I don't recognize either.

"Friends of yours?" I ask Bryce. He frowns.

"No. Teammates."

The pair join us before he can say any more, and I notice that their addition to the group has already chased off some of the others. Several of the guys have wrapped their arms around the shoulders of their girls and steered them away. Beside me, Bryce is no longer leaned back in a casual recline, but is standing stiff and uncomfortable, mouth pinched into a severe line.

"Hey, man," one of the newcomers says to him. He has a sneering sort of unfriendly voice; the kind of voice that implies he thinks he's better than you and that you're the butt end of a joke nobody except him knows.

"Hi," Bryce replies, voice flat. "Luke, this is Theo, he plays running back. And that's Cruz, his little sidekick."

"Fuck you," Cruz says, and Bryce shrugs. I lift my beer in silent greeting.

"Luke," Theo says, eyes performing a lazy crawl from my feet to my face. He's not a bad looking guy, with his dark blonde hair, straight nose, and jaw lightly peppered with scruff. In fact, he's exactly the kind of guy I might have once approached for a quick fuck, if he didn't have a permanent sneer that served as an immediate turnoff. I raise my eyebrows at him, and he smiles. "Having fun?"

"Not really," I admit, and his smile grows wider.

"Well, my room is upstairs if you've got the urge to liven things up," he says, throwing out the offer as casually as if he just invited me to coffee. Beside me, Bryce's arm is so tense it feels like granite.

"He's not interested," he snaps, before I can say anything. Theo shrugs, indifferently, and his friend snickers. Around us, several more people peel off from the group, escaping back into the house.

"Whatever, man, calm down. I've already got something lined up for later anyway," Theo tells us, looking over his shoulder and fiddling with his pocket. His friend smirks again. I stand up, looking at Bryce.

"Want to head out?" I ask, and he nods, throwing back the rest of his beer. I'm desperate to get back to the car and hear what the deal is with this Theo guy. Whatever it is, it must be bad enough that his fellow football teammates—who are usually loyal to a fault—don't like him.

"So soon?" Theo asks.

"I've got someplace else to be," I tell him, thinking about that last unanswered text Max sent me.

"Oh, right. I heard you've been enjoying my sloppy seconds." Theo smirks as Cruz outright laughs at this, the pair sharing a look that speaks volumes. It takes my brain a second to register the words.

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask, confused .

"Maybe I heard wrong," he shrugs again. "Word was you were dicking down SCU's little hockey star." He raises his beer in a salute. "Good for you."

I stare at him, aware that Bryce is still beside me and that we're still in a crowded backyard, but uncaring of anybody but Theo. This guy—this slimy, douchebag of a guy—would never have a chance with Max. Sloppy seconds , he'd said, when I know for a fact Max hasn't so much as looked at another guy in over a year. My skin buzzes, and I think Bryce might be saying something but I can't hear him over the blood rushing in my ears. Sloppy seconds.

"You heard right, if you heard that I'm seeing Max Kuemper," I tell him, trying to think over the alarm bells firing in my head. He snaps his fingers, grinning.

"That's his name!" He laughs, but only Cruz joins in. "Like I said, good for you. He was fun, but not quite enough fight in him for me. I prefer a little more excitement, if you catch my drift."

"No," I answer, just as Bryce says: "What the hell, Theo."

"Let's go, Luke, we're leaving." Bryce puts a hand on my shoulder but I shake him off. I barely even recognize my own voice when I speak directly to Theo—low and calm. Bryce looks at me, sharply, as though he doesn't recognize it either.

"What do you mean, not quite enough fight in him ?"

Theo shrugs again. The movement grates on my nerves—I want to dislocate his fucking shoulders and wipe that smirk off his face. "I mean, where's the fun when they just lay there, right? If that's your thing, cool, but I need a little more than that. I want a little struggle with the begging. Rough, you know?"

"Theo, seriously, shut the fuck up," Bryce snaps. "What's your problem? "

My skin feels too tight and my scalp prickles with discomfort. My chest feels like it's on fire, and I have to remind myself to breathe as the pounding in my head intensifies, and my heart rate kicks up. Theo's fingers are brushing his pocket again, so casually I bet he doesn't even know he's doing it. Every nerve in my body feels electrified, but my mind is oddly calm as I look at that hand; I wonder if I'd find a roofie in his pocket if I searched him.

I want a little struggle with the begging. I want a little struggle with the begging.

"When was this? Sorry, it's just that Max never mentioned you." My voice still sounds wrong. Distantly, as though I'm separate from my own body, I feel Bryce's hand wrap around my bicep.

"Jesus, I don't know. Last year sometime. It's not like I keep a record of everybody I've ever fucked," Theo says, and Cruz laughs again. "Wasn't exactly memorable."

"No," I say softly, letting my beer bottle fall to the grass with a soft thump, "so unmemorable that you couldn't even be bothered to remember his name, in fact."

The burning feeling in my chest increases, and I realize suddenly that I'm shaking. Bryce, who's still holding my arm, pitches his voice low enough that the others can't hear him and tells me that it's time for us to go. I shake my head. Rage—blind, barely controlled rage—crashes through me like waves. When I try to take a step forward, Bryce holds me back.

Theo's watching me, unconcerned and still with that smirk on his face. His lips move over the rim of his beer bottle, but I can't hear what he's saying. I can't hear anything except Max's scared voice in my head, asking me to stop seconds before he had a panic attack; Max's voice, heavy with shame as he told me that he doesn't like to be held down.

"You're a fucking rapist."

My voice cracks across the space between us like a whip, and Bryce's hand tightens to the point of pain on my arm. I don't look at him. I don't look at anyone except Theo who's still fucking leering at me, like the accusation is funny. Next to him, Cruz is no longer smiling, eyes bouncing around between Theo, Bryce and I. He looks afraid.

"He never said no," Theo says, and shrugs. Again. I take another step forward and this time Bryce lets me. His hand is no longer on my arm, but I know he's still behind me.

"Because you fucking drugged him. You made sure he couldn't form the fucking words," I spit, quickly losing any control I had on my anger.

Theo shrugs, and this time I snap. He can see me coming, and raises an arm to shield his face; instead of throwing the punch that he expects, I lower myself and catch him around the middle, bringing him straight to the ground. We hit hard, and I can tell he's stunned—unused to being brought down without pads to cushion his body and a helmet to protect his head. Planting a knee directly into his stomach, I sink my fist into his smug fucking face, putting everything I can behind it. His head snaps back with a satisfying thump against the ground.

I get in a few good shots before he starts fighting back in earnest. I've always been more of a lover than a fighter, but I find, to my relief, that all one needs to succeed in a brawl is unadulterated fury. Theo manages to get a hand up, but his blow lacks any heat and merely glances off of my shoulder. One of his teeth cuts my knuckle as I do my best to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face .

A sharp pain in my ribs sends me keeling to the side, and I lose my hold on Theo. He takes advantage, flipping us over just as I see a foot swinging for my face. I bring my forearms up but the blow never lands. Thanks Bryce , I think, and grab ahold of Theo's shirt, wanting to make sure he doesn't get away. I'm going to kill this motherfucker.

I can't keep track of anything but Theo; I have no idea what else is going on, or who's around us. It's not until he lands a solid crack across my cheekbone that the world around us comes back to life. Sound returns, and it's as though everybody is shouting directly into my eardrums; if my hands weren't already busy, I'd cover my ears.

Somehow, I manage to get back on top of Theo, this time leaning all of my weight into the knee I've got pressed against his shoulder. There is a satisfying pop and he screams—actually screams— and I lean into it a little harder. I'd like to see you shrug now, you piece of shit. I punch him in the face again, and am rewarded with another crunch of cartilage as his nose breaks.

One of his hands scrabbles against my back as he tries to find purchase. I ignore it and apply myself to seeing just how bloody I can make his face—intent on nothing but teaching him a lesson he should have learned long ago. I don't even notice the flashing lights until I'm being pulled off of Theo; for a second, I think it might be one of his friends coming to his rescue, but I'm shoved down, hard, face-first into the grass with what is unmistakably a knee planted between my shoulder blades. I try to push up, but my arms are twisted behind my back and there is a sharp pain across my wrist as handcuffs are clicked into place. The police.

I turn my head to the side, resting my cheek on the ground, and look over to see Theo take a swing at the cop bending over him. He's shouting, bloody saliva flying out of his mouth, as he's flipped over and cuffed. His face looks like a piece of raw meat. I smile.

The officer kneeling on my back lets up, grips my shoulder, and pulls me around until I'm in a seated position. I'm breathing hard and my vision is starting to swim; people are still shouting and everything is so loud . I'm sure the cop is talking to me but damned if I can hear him. I look around and jolt when I see Bryce in handcuffs as well, mouth moving rapidly as he talks over his shoulder to the female officer who's got him by the arm.

"No," I say, unsure who I'm even talking to. "He didn't do anything."

Nobody seems to hear me, or if they do, they don't care. I'm pulled up to standing and someone starts patting down my legs and chest, as though they expect to find a weapon. The ground tilts dangerously, and I become suddenly aware of how badly my hands hurt. It feels like somebody sandpapered my knuckles.

"He's clear," the cop says, after lifting my pant legs and checking that I don't have a fucking shiv stuffed in my sock.

"This one, too," the female cop says, hand on my best friend's elbow. He's stopped talking, and when I open my mouth to speak to him, he gives a single, sharp shake of his head.

"I've got something."

All of our heads swivel toward the officer kneeling next to where Theo is still face-down on the grass. He holds up a row of blister packs, all containing a single white pill.

"Let's go," the officer holding my arm pulls me and I stumble, trying to keep Theo in my line of sight. He's shouting again, voice muffled by the grass but still discernible.

"That's not mine! That's not mine!"

I try to twist around but am prevented by the handcuffs and the firm grip on my arm. Already, I'm too far away to hear what the officer is saying to Theo; too far away to do anything but be led through the backyard and out the side gate. Four police cars are parked in the street, lights sending blue and red flashes across the house and lawn. As I watch, another car pulls up and two more officers climb out.

"We're taking these two in. Two more back there," someone behind me says, and as I'm brought to a halt next to a police car, I look over and see Bryce being helped into the backseat of another.

The door is popped and a hand finds my head, pushing it down as I'm directed inside the vehicle. My eyes swim as the vehicle lurches; I know the officer is talking to me, but I can't understand the words. Bending forward at the waist, I close my eyes and will myself not to be sick. My shoulders are screaming, already filled with the pins-and-needles pain of being held in an uncomfortable position for too long.

When the car lurches into motion, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. Eyes screwed closed, body bent almost double, I concentrate on taking deep breaths through my nose. You will not be sick. You will not be sick.

When we get to the police station, my upper body is in agony. I stumble again, when I'm helped from the car, but a strong hand holds me up and steers me inside.

"Am I under arrest?" My own voice comes as a shock and I flinch. I hadn't even meant to ask that .

"Not yet," I'm told, as we buzz through a door that looks exactly like the kind of door used to contain people who are under arrest. The room has a table and chairs and nothing else; as I look, I see one of the chairs and the table is bolted to the ground.

The officer pulls me to a stop and I have to bite back a sob when the cuffs are removed and my arms freed. The return of blood flow to my arms hurts worse than the absence of it, and this time I think I really might be sick as stomach acid crawls up my throat. Somehow, I end up seated, and, even more miraculously, I don't throw up.

"Blow," I'm told, and I lean forward to wrap my lips around the breathalyzer.

"I'm not drunk," I say, to absolutely no effect.

"I'll be back," is all I get in return, and I watch as the cop swipes his badge to leave the room and the door slams behind him. He left my hands loose. I stare at the door, waiting for him to return and restrain me again, but it remains firmly closed.

I hold my hands up where I can see them, palms facing down. I'm still shaking, but no matter how much I try to control it, I can't. The knuckles on both hands are split and bloody. Great smears of red cover the backs of my hands, and the skin is already inflamed. A deeper gouge on my right hand is still weeping, pain throbbing from my knuckles and radiating up my arms. Dropping my hands back into my lap, I try not to think about what hands like these mean for my baseball season.

Resting my cheek down against the cool tabletop, I try to calm the rapid beating of my heart. You're not under arrest , I remind myself, and then have to wonder if I even care. What I care about is Bryce, probably in another room just like mine, probably only in trouble because of me. I want that cop to come back; I want to explain myself and make sure he knows what happened and why.

The door opens after what feels like hours later, and I jolt upright, cold sweat immediately breaking out along the back of my neck. It's a different officer than the one who brought me in; this one is older, gray-haired and beefy where the cop who'd cuffed me had been young and fit. He's carrying a slim folder as well as a legal pad, which he sets down on the table next to a plastic bag that has my phone and wallet inside.

"Are you thirsty, Mr. Kelly?" He asks, and I shake my head, mutely. He nods and takes a seat across from me. "My name is Officer Bruce Reynolds."

"Am I under arrest?" I ask, staring at the folder sitting in front of him.

"No."

"Is Bryce under arrest?"

"No."

I wait, but he doesn't seem in any hurry to elaborate. I look around the room, trying to avoid eye contact. My gaze lands on his watch. "What time is it?"

"Just after midnight," he answers, before sighing. "Would you like to tell me what happened tonight, Mr. Kelly?"

"Yeah," I say, before straightening and firming up my voice. "Yeah, I would. Bryce and I went to a party at the Pig, and a couple of his teammates—Theo and Cruz, sorry I don't know their full names—came over and," I'm picking up steam now, rage and disgust returning to my bloodstream and bolstering me, "that piece of shit Theo starting talking about my boyfriend Max. Max Kuemper. That's K-U-E-M-P-E-R. "

I wait, in case he wants to write any of this down. He doesn't, but sits there silently waiting for me to continue. I clench my shaking hands together in my lap, grimacing when some of the cuts reopen.

"He…he was saying…okay, I need to back up. Last year, Max got roofied at a party and somebody assaulted him. And tonight, fucking Theo started saying all this shit about…about how he'd slept with Max but it was…he said a bunch of stuff about how when he got with Max last year it wasn't fun because there wasn't enough fight or begging or some shit," I'm panting, barely able to catch my breath and get the words out. Distantly, I know I'm probably not making sense, but the words tumble from my mouth before I can straighten them out into proper sentences. "He practically admitted he r—raped him. He said Max didn't say no, but he was drugged ."

I gulp a mouthful of air, rubbing the fingers of my left hand over the knuckles on my right, trying to use the pain to ground me. I'm going to cry or be sick—maybe both—and I need to make sure he understands what I'm saying before I do.

"That Theo guy raped him. And then he was bragging about it, fucking smiling like he hadn't done anything wrong. Like he'd gotten away with it." My voice breaks on a sob and I raise a hand to rub my palm over my face. I need to keep it together. Losing my shit now won't help Max or Bryce.

"Let me get you some water, Mr. Kelly," Officer Reynolds says in a surprisingly gentle voice, standing and leaving the room. He's back barely thirty seconds later, water bottle in hand. He puts it down in front of me before sitting back down.

"Thank you," I mumble, grasping the bottle in my shaking hands and taking a swig .

"So, you heard all that about your friend and lost control," he says, and I nod. "Understandable."

"Bryce didn't do anything, though. Bryce is innocent."

"You're not under arrest," he reminds me. "Neither of you are."

"But Theo is, right? Can I…can I press charges? For what he did to Max?" I know next to nothing about the justice system, beyond what I've seen in movies. Officer Reynolds taps his folder, mouth turned down in a frown.

"No, son, you can't press charges against him for something he said." He holds up a hand before I can argue. "But he is under arrest, yes. Mr. Theodore Cox was arrested for trying to assault an officer and for being in possession of Rohypnol, which is a Schedule IV substance under the Controlled Substances Act."

"Okay," I say, unsure of what sort of charges those things might induce.

"A certain Robert Cruz was also brought in. He's had a few things to tell us as well. Most of it about Mr. Cox, and some of it concerning your friend Max Kuemper, as well."

Thinking about the way he laughed when Theo was talking about Max, I fire up at once. "That motherfucker was probably involved. I would bet anything, sir. He was laughing and smiling when Theo was talking, like he found it funny. Like he thought the whole thing was a joke ."

Officer Reynolds sighs again, and opens up the folder in front of him, pulling out a sheet of paper. He angles it away from me, hiding the contents. There is a label affixed to the front of the file: Max Kuemper, followed by the date and a case number. I look away. I don't want to see what's in there.

"According to Mr. Cruz, an assault on Max Kuemper was carried out by Theodore Cox over a year ago, on the night of October the 9 th . Mr. Cruz admits to being the one who put the Rohypnol into his drink, as well as the one who invited him into the upstairs bedroom under the pretense of showing him to the bathroom after Mr. Kuemper began to feel the effects of the drug. Rohypnol, you see, is a very potent drug, Mr. Kelly, and they gave him too much. They'd wanted him pliable, not unconscious."

My stomach lurches and I close my eyes. Officer Reynolds stops talking, waiting for me to give him my undivided attention before he continues in a hard, steady voice.

"We have a rape kit on file for Mr. Kuemper and the DNA will be tested against Mr. Cox's once he is finished in booking," he tells me calmly, "and in a couple of weeks, we'll have the results."

"Weeks?" I repeat, incredulous. He smiles, sadly.

"This isn't television, Mr. Kelly. These things take time. But coupled with the detailed statement from Mr. Cruz and the presence of Rohypnol on his person tonight, I feel confident in telling you that Mr. Cox will be held accountable for his actions."

"I…so, what happens now?"

"Now, Mr. Kelly, I recommend you go to the hospital and have that hand looked at." He aims a pointed glare at my right hand, which is resting on the tabletop. It looks like I've shoved it through a meat grinder.

"I can just…leave?"

"Yes. You're not under arrest," he says, for the third time. "Mr. Cox has been advised by a Public Defender that—given the severity of the evidence and the nature of the crime—it would be best for him to not pursue assault charges against you. He has decided to cooperate with that advice at this point in time. You are free to go. "

"And…Bryce, too?"

"Bryce, too," he says kindly. I stand up too fast, and have to catch myself on the table. Officer Reynolds stands as well, tucking his papers back into Max's folder and stepping toward the door. He unlocks it and I follow him through, barely able to believe my luck. "Just through there," he tells me, pointing toward another door.

Bryce is seated in the lobby, elbows planted on his spread knees and face hidden behind his hands. The tremors that have plagued me since this whole nightmare began seem to increase, until I'm having some sort of vertical seizure. I'm in so much pain, and I got my best friend handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car in front of half the student body of SCU. I try to say his name but it comes out a strangled mess. His head pops up, face anguished as he looks at me.

"Luke," he breathes, standing up and taking two long strides toward me before yanking me into a rib-crushing hug. " Luke . Jesus Christ, are you all right? Fuck. Fuck ."

His fingers are clenched against my shoulder blade, as though he's actively trying to grab hold of any part of me he can. I press my face into his shoulder and fight back tears. I will not cry; not here.

"Are you all right?" He asks again, giving me a little shake.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Bryce. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean for you?—."

"No. We're not fucking doing that," he says fiercely, dropping his arms and stepping back. "Come on. Let's get out of here. We need to get you to a hospital. I already called an Uber."

I try to convince him I don't need a hospital, but he won't hear it. His face is set, and every argument I make is met with a firm no. Your hand is broken , he tells me, as if this is something that matters to me even a little bit. I want to go see Max. I want to lay down beside him and inhale his clean, fresh scent; put a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat. I want to verify—with my own two eyes—that he's safe. The need behind this is so strong, I can't think beyond it. Who the fuck even cares about a broken hand?

Bryce cares. He brings me into the hospital, fills out my forms and hands over my insurance card. He explains what happened to the doctor, and he stands behind me as they stitch me back up. I feel nothing when they tell me I've broken three bones. No more baseball , I think, numbly, before asking if we can leave now. Bryce puts a quelling hand on my shoulder; I close my eyes, willing myself to be patient. Max is safe at home, in bed, and he'll still be there once you're discharged.

Bryce orders us another Uber, and it's waiting for us as we walk out of the hospital. It's 2 a.m. and I'm well past the point of exhaustion. My right hand, stitched, wrapped, and one step away from mummified, is throbbing with pain. Rolling my head along the back of the car seat, I wait for Bryce to look at me.

"I'm sorry, Bryce."

"I already told you not to do that," he says gruffly. Grimacing, he looks away and out the window. "I won't say anything about Max."

"I know," I whisper.

"We'll go pick up my car and then I can drop you off, okay?" He looks back over at me. "You want to go to Max's, right?"

"Right."

Bryce nods, resting his head against the window and closing his eyes. We're not the kind of friends that say I love you, but I want to in this moment. I want to tell him what it means to me, knowing that he had my back even when it looked like we were both being arrested. Reaching across the dark car, I wrap my fingers around his wrist where his hand is resting on the seat between us. He looks over.

"I love you, man," I tell him, and he gives me a weak smile. "And thanks for having my back."

"I love you, too."

I stand outside Max's front door, broken hand cradled to my chest as I scroll through the contacts on my phone until I find the one I'm looking for. I don't bother texting, but click his name and listen as it rings.

"Hello?" Marcos answers, voice rough with sleep.

"Hey, it's me," I say, and then, when I'm met with silence, add: "Luke."

"Are you okay?" He asks, and the question is so unexpectedly kind I have to clear my throat before I speak again.

"Can you come to the front door, please?"

"Luke, it's nearly three in the morning, what are you?—."

"Marcos, please. Please. " My voice breaks and I hear him breathe in sharply. The call disconnects and I take a step back from the door. I know he's coming.

I hear the deadbolt click back and then he's there, basketball shorts skewed across his hips and chest bare. He's barefoot, but steps out and closes the door carefully behind him. He rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to dispel the sleep.

"Max is sleeping, Luke," he says, before getting a good look at me. His eyes widen and he takes a step forward, frowning. "What happened? "

"Theodore Cox and Robert Cruz. They play for the football team."

"What—."

"They're the ones who hurt Max."

If I'd pulled out a gun and asked for his wallet, he'd look less surprised. I wait, giving him time to shuffle through his mental yearbook and try to put faces to the names. Judging by the scowl, he's not having any luck.

"I don't know who they are," he says.

"I was at a party tonight, at the Pig. They were there and…and Theo just admitted what he did. He said it right to my face—bragged about it like it was something to be proud of. And then, after the cops showed up, they found Rohypnol in his pocket."

Marcos stares at me, eyes nearly dark in the dim light of the hallway. His feet have to be freezing on the concrete floor.

"Are you okay?" He asks again, quietly this time, and I see his eyes drop to my bandaged hand.

"Not really," I admit. "I had to listen to some piece of shit talk about raping Max like it was nothing, my hand is broken, I was handcuffed and brought into the police department like a fucking criminal, and I'm—I'm just really tired, Marcos."

"Okay," he says, nodding and reaching behind him for the door.

"That's it? You're not going to ask…well, anything?"

He looks at me like I've started speaking in tongues. "Luke. You look awful, and you've had a really bad night. Yeah, I've got questions, but they can wait until tomorrow. Just…come in, and try not to freak Max out."

Gratefully, I follow him through the front door. The vestibule light is on, lending me visibility as I wearily remove my shoes and tuck them back by the door. Marcos waits for me to finish, eyes unreadable.

"Try not to scare him," he reminds me, voice barely above a whisper. I know what he's asking—he's asking me not to tell Max what happened until tomorrow. He's asking for one more night where Max doesn't know the details of the worst night of his life.

"I won't," I promise. Marcos nods and leaves me to it, padding off into the dark toward his room.

I crack Max's door open, using the light in the hallway to send a triangle of visibility over his bed. He's curled on his side, nothing more than a lump beneath the covers; I stand there, just looking at him, for long enough that he stirs. Lifting his head up, he peers blearily at the open doorway, squinting into the light.

"Marcos?" He asks.

"It's me," I whisper, and the smile that blooms over his face is heartbreaking in its intensity.

"Luke," he murmurs, laying his head back down on the pillow like it's too much work keeping it aloft.

I step inside and close the door, the latch clicking quietly behind me. Stripping down and leaving my clothes piled in the center of the room, I carefully walk over to his side of the bed and sit down next to him. When I touch his shoulder, he's warm with sleep—solid and whole beneath my hand. Shifting again, he props himself up on one elbow.

"Luke?"

"Can I stay here, tonight?" I ask, jumping, slightly, when one of his hands finds my face in the dark. He's sitting up, now, face close enough to mine that I can feel his breath on my skin.

"What's wrong?" He asks, which is a question I absolutely cannot answer tonight. Leaning forward, I find his shoulder with my chin, wrapping an arm around him and trying to convey with a hug that nothing is wrong right now, because I'm here. He leans into me, both arms banding around my middle immediately.

"Hey, baby," he says in a sleepy drawl. I squeeze my eyes shut and tuck my face into the warmth of his neck. My hands, where they're resting on his back above his shirt, are gentle enough that he hasn't noticed the presence of bandages yet, and the room is far too dark for him to notice the bruising on my face. "Come lay down," he says, rubbing my back.

I don't need telling twice. Carefully extracting myself from his arms, I wait for him to scoot over before I slide in beside him under the covers. I'm in the spot he just vacated—warm from his body heat and the faint scent of mint from his shampoo on his pillow. I'd known he was home and safe, but now I know ; I feel wrung dry and as though I could sleep for days.

I wait for him to settle into his new spot, curled up with arms and legs in whatever position is most comfortable, before I move closer. Grimacing in pain when I jostle my right hand too much, I press against his back to spoon him, tucking my less-fucked-up hand over his side. He sighs, unconsciously shoving himself further back into me, and mumbles something I can't discern.

I try not to think about it. I try to think happy thoughts about beach dates, about sunny baseball games, and the way Max's hair looks when he takes off his helmet. I try not to think about him being drugged until he was pliable , or of bruises that didn't come from hockey practice. It takes me a lot longer to fall asleep than I'd thought it would, with my thoughts a chaotic mess of Max, past and present. He sleeps soundly—barely moving an inch all night except for when he'd push himself backward into me, blindly seeking heat and safety.

For once, it's me who is plagued by nightmares, falling asleep only to wake up gasping, hands and arms throbbing with pain as I hold tighter to a sleeping Max.