DoYou Know Why They Call You Freak?

Dean's POV

A comment from an unknown ID: Tomorrow noon, come to The Rink. Your legs were clamped so tight when you wrote Chapter 16—let me take a look at them. Or I'll print out what you wrote and paste it on the door of the Equipment Room where you work.

Outside the dorm, rain was falling. The massive iron-gray roof of the Ice Arena crouched across half a football field away, a few lights still burning above the stands.

Who could possibly know I wrote that story? Who would choose the Locker Room as the meeting place?

But I would keep writing—every detail of Curtis fucking me senseless. Because that was the only way anyone would ever see me.

I stared at the comment pinned to the top of my screen, goosebumps rising along my spine, my heart hammering like a war drum.

What was the tone of this message? Teasing? Threatening?

Go? Don't go? What if it was a trap?

What if someone just wanted to humiliate me—the way my father had, exposing my privacy in public, watching me squirm with nowhere to hide?

My mind churned through the comments on the post. But soon, a more specific image replaced them.

Curtis's eyes, bluer than the ocean, and the curve of his waist and hips in that tight training gear. I'd once jerked off to his jersey after he'd left it in the equipment room. I came so hard that time I disgusted myself afterward.

I closed my eyes and reached down again.

This time, my fantasy was more detailed. Curtis looked down at me from above, his veined cock pressed against my lips, his voice low and commanding: "Open up. Be good."

I came a second time—filthy, shameful, and unable to stop.

The next morning, I forced myself to act normal as I limped out of bed.

My pants were wet again. I changed into clean ones and stuffed the soiled pair deep into the bottom of the laundry basket before heading to Sports Physiology.

After morning classes ended, I walked out of the building. Sunlight filtered through leaves, casting shadows on the pavement. I crossed the western part of campus, where maple trees lined the path, and found myself walking toward the hockey arena, as if possessed.

I told myself I was just going to look. Just to confirm whether the person who left that comment was the asshole I imagined.

I pushed open the half-closed door and stepped inside. The Locker Room was empty—a few towels piled on the benches, water stains on the floor.

No one was there.

Relief washed over me. I leaned against a locker and gave a self-mocking smirk.

Fuck, Dean. You're pathetic.

Then, with a loud bang, the door behind me slammed shut.

I whipped around. A tall shadow fell over my entire body.

It was Curtis. He wore a black training T-shirt that outlined the perfect triangle of his shoulders, his forearms hard and defined. A towel draped over one shoulder.

Why was he here? That comment—had he sent it? Had he found my story?

Curtis looked startled too, his brow furrowing as if he hadn't expected to find me here either.

His tone was flat as he asked, "What are you doing here?"

I came. Curtis came. This couldn't be a coincidence. But if he really was the one who left the comment, why didn't he just say so? Why act like he'd stumbled into me by accident?

I hesitated for a second, my gaze darting away. "Did you... need something from me?"

Curtis didn't answer. He stepped around me, opened a locker, and casually pulled out a wristguard. "You got cornered by Brendan and his crew yesterday. You've been limping."

I froze for a second, my face going pale. "I'm fine."

"If you're fine, stop wandering around." Curtis's blue eyes fixed on me like he'd just remembered something. "You know there's been something going around the team lately."

He stepped forward. I instinctively backed up until my back hit the locker. We were less than an arm's length apart.

Curtis's clean soap scent mixed with something distinctly male washed over me. The smell made my lower abdomen clench, my inner thighs involuntarily pressing together.

"Someone's been writing stuff about the hockey team. Writing about the captain pinning a teammate in the Locker Room and—"

He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "—fucking him."

All the blood in my body rushed to my head. My fingers dug into my palms.

Curtis looked at me calmly and asked, "You think whoever wrote that story—were they writing about something real, or was it all made up?"

I feigned ignorance, breathing shallowly, my voice trembling. "I... don't know."

I clenched my fists. Blood seeped through the bandage wrapped around my hand.

He leaned in closer. "You know what? The way you're acting right now—nervous as hell—you look exactly like the character in that porn story."

My heart pounded faster. Before I could dodge, he reached up and gripped my chin, his thumb pressing against my lower lip.

Instantly, I thought of a chapter I'd written in Checking Orders: The Cold Captain Barebacking His Teammate.

Curtis's fingers slid into his mouth, the head of his cock pushing past his throat. My inner thighs twitched uncontrollably.

My cock was already hardening in my pants, but I forced myself to stay calm. "I don't think I've read that story."

Curtis paused, as if recalling something, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. "I heard it was pretty explicit. I haven't read it myself—but Brendan and the guys have been going on about it. Something about the captain fucking his teammate until he couldn't even cry anymore."

My heart felt like it was about to leap out of my throat.

His tone sounded like he was just repeating gossip, but the way those blue eyes stared at me made me think he actually knew something.

Right now, his thumb was stroking my chin. A wave of humiliation crashed over me.

What if this was just a coincidence? A coincidence so precise he'd even noticed my limp? What the hell did Curtis want?

Curtis glanced down at my hand. "How'd you do that?"

I froze, loosening my grip, remembering the cut on the side of my palm from yesterday when I'd been disassembling a skate blade.

Curtis asked again, impatient. "I asked you a question. What happened to your hand?"

My first instinct was to run, but my legs wouldn't obey. Worse still, the thing between my legs was starting to stiffen from his low voice and the oppressive proximity.

In front of him, I was just an invisible rink lackey, while he was the emperor of this ice. How could I react to him like this?

"None of your business," I croaked out.

Curtis raised an eyebrow with interest and stepped even closer.

He stopped in front of me and grabbed my hand, clicking his tongue. "Did you disinfect it?"

My eyes widened in disbelief. "What?"

"Change it. Don't let it get infected." He slowly pulled a roll of medical gauze from his pocket and began rewrapping my hand.

Throughout the entire process, he said nothing. The warmth of his fingertips seeped through the thin layer of gauze onto my skin. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

I stood frozen, my breathing shallow and rapid. This was the first time I'd seen his eyes this close. Pale blue, with a ring of deep blue around the pupils.

Why would Curtis carry medical gauze? Hockey players always do. For quick treatment of minor injuries. He didn't bring it specifically for me.

Just as I was lost in thought, Curtis spoke again. "Hey, do you know why they call you freak?"

Was he humiliating me? Offering a carrot before the stick? The question left me speechless, my throat tightening, my mind buzzing.

I reacted instinctively—lowering my head and biting down on the base of Curtis's finger. My teeth pressed in, deliberately adding force.

Curtis didn't even frown. His pupils just contracted slightly.

He pulled his hand back. Seeing the faint teeth marks on his thumb, he let out a short laugh. "Not bad. You've got some bite."

Curtis stepped back, no longer blocking my path. He turned toward the door, glancing back over his shoulder, his profile sharp and angular in the shadows. He repeated the question. "Do you know why they call you freak?"

He answered himself. "You know exactly why."

"Because you are—"

I stood alone against the cold locker, legs weak, my back drenched in sweat. The erection between my legs throbbed painfully, showing no signs of subsiding.

During the afternoon scrimmage, I stood in the video area holding the camera, distracted. Abel appeared beside me at some point and tapped my shoulder. "You don't look so good."

Yeah, of course I didn't look good—I'd written an anonymous fantasy story and was about to get caught by the subject himself. But I just gave a faint smile and said dismissively, "It's just the heat today."

That night, back in my dorm, I stared at the neatly wrapped bandage on my wrist. Curtis's wrapping technique was textbook perfect.

A notification popped up on my phone: Got your hand touched and now your dick's about to explode, isn't it?

Today in the locker room, it had been just Curtis and me. No third person could have known about the bandaging.

If he'd read those obscenely explicit words and came to expose me, why would he touch me? Would someone toying with me care about the cut on my hand?

And what did this new message mean?

I didn't dare assume it was Curtis himself, but this bastard—what the hell did he want?