I Know You're Watching

Dean's POV

The moment the professor finished speaking, I hitched my backpack strap higher on my shoulder and edged along the wall toward the exit.

Wall-hugging, head down, footsteps silent—I'd been perfecting this routine at home for four years. One slip, and I'd catch the disdainful once-over from either parent.

Two months at this new school had taught me a modified version of the same survival shuffle, but my sprained ankle from last week forced me back against the walls.

The hallway was packed. Someone's shoulder slammed into mine as they passed, followed by laughter rippling behind me.

I heard someone shout "Watch it!"—couldn't tell if it was directed at me, but it didn't matter. I kept my head down and kept moving.

"Hey, freak." Their tone played at joking, but the malice underneath came through clear.

Three guys in hockey hoodies were coming toward me, their eyes crawling over me with mockery.

I didn't break stride. Head lower, backpack strap clutched tighter, another half-inch closer to the wall.

A hockey puck rolled to a stop at my feet.

I stopped, crouched down, picked it up. My thumb traced the scratch along the rubber edge almost reflexively before I stood and held it out.

One of them caught it, tossed it up, caught it again.

Curtis, the team captain everyone worshipped, wasn't here today. His teammate Brendan stepped forward. "You work the hallway like a doorman every day or what?"

The other two whistled and jeered behind him.

I held my breath, fingers digging into my palms hard enough to break skin.

Brendan didn't get a reaction. Apparently bored, he shrugged and turned away.

I limped forward, shoulder scraping against the painted wall. Well done, Dean. Your social skills are about as solid as loose baseboard trim.

The rink entrance was at the end of the second-floor corridor. I pushed through the door and cold air slapped me across the face.

Two o'clock in the afternoon. The hockey team hadn't started practice yet. Two maintenance workers were operating the Zamboni machine on the empty ice.

The mechanical roar filled the cavernous space and made my teeth ache.

The equipment room door had a faded sign nailed to it: "Student Equipment Assistant." I shoved the door open and dumped my bag on the shelf beneath the pegboard. My job description was simple: organize gear, set up cones, sharpen skates, mop floors—basically every dirty job nobody else wanted.

Everyone knew I was the poor transfer student from the Neighborhood, surviving on scholarship money and rink labor, walking around like a stray dog expecting to get kicked.

What they didn't know: every night back in the dorm, I logged into an encrypted forum under the anonymous handle "Ice_King" and updated the LGBTQ+ novel I'd been writing for two months.

I pulled out my phone and leaned against the wall, unlocking the screen.

The page was still open to last night's encrypted forum—domain name just a string of gibberish characters.

I'd started an anonymous serial in the creative section: Checking Orders: The Cold Captain Barebacking His Teammate.

Hunter, the protagonist in my story, was everything I could never be in real life—a walking bonfire. Arrogant, crude, untouchable, pathologically controlling.

And in the world I'd written, he'd pin his teammate against the locker room wall—or any corner, really—and fuck him senseless.

Yeah. The teammate in the story was me.

I'd written Hunter vivid and alive, taking everything I'd never dared to want in reality: attention, possession, that almost explosive physical need.

Just thinking about the real-life inspiration for Hunter sent heat flooding through my lower abdomen.

Last night I'd posted Chapter Seventeen. The most explicit thing I'd written yet.

Hunter stepped out of the shower stall, toweling water from his blond hair. Droplets traced the lines of his abs before disappearing at the edge of the towel hanging loose around his hips. "Seen enough?"

My throat tightened. "I wasn't—"

But Hunter had already turned around. The towel dropped.

I'd never seen another man's cock this close before. Half-hard, the purplish head partially exposed beyond the foreskin.

"Then look properly." Hunter stepped closer, backing me against the wall, gripping my jaw. His thumb pushed into my mouth. "Suck."

I sank to my knees.

He hit the back of my throat and I could barely breathe, saliva running uncontrolled from the corners of my mouth. "Mmph—"

Hunter gripped my hair and fucked my mouth steadily, every thrust pushing me to the edge of gagging.

He came hard, hot bitter cum splashing across my tongue. Before I could catch my breath, he hauled me up and shoved me face-first against the wall.

Two fingers pushed into my hole. I couldn't stop the moan. "Hunter, wait—too deep!"

Hunter's fingers were long and strong, knuckles roughened with calluses from years gripping hockey sticks. That coarse texture dragged across my inner walls and my thighs trembled uncontrollably.

"Here?"

"Hunter, don't—" I cried out. Hunter laughed low and added a third finger. The stretch was too much, my hole aching and full, but I didn't want him to stop.

His hot cockhead pressed against my entrance, rubbing against it twice, slicking itself with the fluid leaking from inside me, then drove in to the hilt without mercy, burying himself balls-deep in my ass. He even commented in that rough voice, "So tight. Cock-hungry slut."

My body was completely filled. His head ground against the most sensitive spot inside and I had nothing to hold onto, just his relentless pounding.

My sobbing moans echoed through the locker room. But being fucked by Hunter hurt so good—don't stop—

The update ended there. The view count was still climbing, with a dozen new comments.

I scrolled through a few. Mostly plot discussion and anticipation for the next chapter.

[Holy shit he fucked him against the locker room wall! Crazy!!!]

[You edged us for like ten chapters with him coming in his pants, finally some real action.]

[You write with real authenticity. The details about Captain "Hunter"... are you on the team? Though honestly, isn't the teammate character kind of pathetic?]

[Fuck, this chapter's hot]

But when my finger stopped on one particular comment, my heart seized.

Actually, an account called SWEET had been commenting under every update for the past two weeks. At first it was technical corrections about hockey details in my writing. Then the comments gradually became personal.

[When you write him fucking his teammate, do you get hard?]

[Well written. Have you tasted him?]

That boundary-crossing tone was too familiar.

I'd deleted that comment, but the next day it reappeared under the new chapter—different wording, same meaning.

Ding—

A notification popped up at the top of my screen. [I know you're watching]

My heartbeat stuttered. I waited maybe half a minute, confirming that SWEET wasn't sending anything else, before shoving my phone back in my pocket and turning to deal with the damn ice resurfacer.

The mop handle was thicker than my wrist, and only one wheel on the bucket could turn, the other jammed. I swore under my breath and had to crouch down to pry at the stuck wheel with my hands.

This shithole couldn't even provide a functional bucket, but they had money to buy new helmets for the hockey team—three helmets worth my entire year's tuition. I'd done that math about eight hundred times.

Whatever. Calm down, Dean. New school, new environment. Don't fuck this up.

I stood without steadying myself properly, and my already-twisted knee made a sickening crack.

Pain shot from the surface straight to the bone. I sucked in a sharp breath.

"Need help?"

I turned. A guy in a gray work jacket stood in the doorway, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight, brown hair slightly messy, expression neutral.

I'd seen him before. Assistant coach for the hockey team. What was his name... Abel. Right.

"I'm fine," I said.

But he didn't leave. Instead he walked over to the bucket, crouched down, and worked the stuck wheel.

Click. The bucket was fixed.

"That third wheel's always been an issue. Next time don't drag it—lift it first, then set it down."

"Thanks..." I muttered.

"Just call me Abel." He looked me up and down for a long moment, then extended his right hand. I hesitated before taking it.

His hand was dry, knuckles thick, palm calloused. "Mike mentioned you're the new student video assistant?"

"Yes, Coach. Still learning."

Abel smiled slightly, his gaze sweeping over the equipment checklist in my hand. "Don't sell yourself short. I saw the training analysis report you wrote last week. Thorough work. Even our analytics team doesn't bother with that level of detail."

My ears burned. I mumbled another thanks.

Abel gave my shoulder a casual pat. "Tomorrow afternoon there's an intrasquad scrimmage. You'll be in the video booth—ask me if you need anything."

He turned and left, unhurried.

I finished cleaning up, went back to the dorm, showered, and collapsed on my bed, pulling the covers over my head.

Too exhausted today. I wasn't planning to update the chapter, but I still opened the forum to browse.

The next second, I noticed a comment under my serial had been upvoted to the top.

My finger froze above the screen. Cold sweat traced down my spine.