Dean's POV

The three days Curtis was away, I went to class as usual, worked my shifts at the Equipment Room, everything running on schedule.

But every time I pushed open the door to the Equipment Storage Room, I'd pause for half a second, waiting for someone who wouldn't be there to appear at the corner of the hallway.

Thursday night around eleven, I shouldn't have still been at the rink that late, but I "happened" to be organizing some game footage until that hour.

The rumble of the bus engine came from outside, followed by a rush of chaotic footsteps pouring in, and I couldn't help gripping my mouse tighter.

I stared at the rink entrance as Curtis walked in first, wearing his team jacket, his blond hair soaked with sweat, a fresh red mark on the back of his neck—probably scraped by a stick during the game.

Behind him followed Brendan and two other players, and as they passed the Equipment Room door, Brendan glanced inside and whistled when he saw me: "Yo, the night watchman's still here."

I didn't look up, but I felt Curtis's gaze cut through the half-open door and land on me.

He raised a hand and waved Brendan and the others off: "You guys go ahead."

Curtis walked in and pushed the door shut behind him, then came over to the desk and looked down at the paused game footage on my screen.

"You watching today's game footage?"

"Yeah. Analytics team needs it, coach asked me to organize it." I answered calmly, though my heart was already pounding faster.

Curtis pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, his long legs spread wide, knees nearly bumping my chair.

He tilted his head and looked at me, his scrutinizing gaze so direct it bordered on offensive.

I felt sweat break out on my back under his stare, soaking through my T-shirt cold and clammy, and I spoke first: "What exactly do you want?"

Curtis glanced at me, then reached out and grabbed my hand wrapped in gauze, the corner of his mouth curling up in a reckless grin, "What do you think I want?"

His smile made my whole body tense up, and I kept my head down, saying in a muffled voice: "You said those things to me in the locker room, wrapped my hand in bandages—are you just messing with me?"

Curtis didn't answer, instead holding my bandaged hand up to eye level and lightly rubbing the frayed spot on the gauze, "You didn't change it."

My heartbeat skipped.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping low: "Still wearing the bandage I wrapped for you—can't bear to change it?"

I lied, "I wrapped it myself."

Curtis scoffed, his thumb pressing the bandage again, "This is the knot I tied. It's different from yours."

He remembered what kind of knot he'd tied, could even recognize it at a glance. I froze completely in my chair.

Curtis released my hand and tilted his head to look at me, "You're here every day hauling cones and sharpening skates—how much do they pay you per month?"

Every day I shuffled around the rink looking grimy, lugging water buckets with a limp, and he'd seen it all. What embarrassed me most wasn't being poor—it was Curtis seeing it.

My voice came out hoarse: "What does how much I make have to do with you?"

But Curtis didn't get angry, instead speaking in a tone like he was issuing orders: "Starting next week, you're with me. Carrying equipment, recording data, running errands."

It felt like when my father had pointed at my nose and said "this family can't raise something like you"—the feeling of being pitied, of being given charity.

I didn't want this handout, especially not from Curtis.

My pride kicked in, my voice shaking: "Why should I..."

Curtis cut me off, completely ignoring my resistance, "I'll talk to Abel. You'll still get your regular pay, won't have to lug those broken buckets around anymore."

I gripped the mouse tighter. Getting close to him, observing him, verifying whether that comment was from him—this was a good opportunity. But my heart resisted, because if I accepted, I'd become the pitiful creature in his eyes who needed taking care of.

But what if that comment was from him? He'd cornered me in the locker room, said those things to rattle me. I could only get close to him to find out the truth.

I asked: "Why me?"

Curtis had already straightened up and backed toward the door. He turned back, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, "Because you've been pretty busy writing things lately."

He pushed the door open and left, and I collapsed back against the chair, gasping for air.

What did he mean by "writing things"? The training analysis reports I submitted to Abel every week, or the chapters where I stuffed him into my sexual fantasies?

It could be either one—Curtis was always this ambiguous.

Damn it.

Over the next few days, I really did become Curtis's errand boy.

Monday morning at six, I waited for Curtis at the gym entrance.

He tossed his gym bag at me, said "keep up," and strode into the equipment area.

I gripped the bag strap, cursing myself internally: Dean, stop smelling it.

I sat on a bench in the corner, clutching my recording clipboard, watching him do bench presses. After each set he'd glance at me to make sure I was recording, then continue.

Tuesday afternoon, he stood near the blue line shooting puck after puck into the empty net while I sat on the bench tracking his shooting percentage, but as I counted my gaze kept drifting to the arc of his waist and hips twisting with each shot.

Dean, can't you control yourself? Stop looking at things you shouldn't be looking at, you're supposed to be working.

I pinched the inside of my thigh hard enough to make me wince, finally dragging my eyes back to the clipboard.

Thursday, Curtis texted me to wait downstairs at his dorm, said he was going to a frat party.

I stood outside his dorm in my old hoodie, one of the zipper pulls missing and barely held together with a safety pin.

I'd spent half an hour before leaving trying to fix it, feeling more and more like a shabby stray dog.

Curtis looked me up and down, his brow furrowing, "You're wearing that?"

I kept my head down, "I... don't have anything else."

Curtis clicked his tongue, turned back into his room, and pulled out a navy blue sweatshirt and tossed it to me: "Wear this."

When I pulled the sweatshirt over my head I went blank for a moment, the collar brushing past my chin, his scent flooding from my nose into my chest cavity, nearly making me lose my balance.

Curtis had already walked several steps ahead, and I clutched the sleeves and followed, finally pushing down the heat rising from my waist.

The basement was dimly lit, music pounding.

As soon as Curtis entered he was surrounded by people clapping his shoulders and handing him beers, and he moved through the crowd with an ease I could never possess in my lifetime.

I huddled in a corner of the couch, gripping a can of soda, not even daring to open it for fear of making some noise that would draw attention.

About two hours later, Curtis came over carrying two drinks and sat down next to me.

His outer thigh pressed against my outer thigh. Through the fabric, I felt the heat from his leg branding me like iron.

Curtis casually draped his arm on the couch back behind me, the position looking from outside like he had his arm around my shoulders, though his hand didn't actually touch me.

I should have kept my mouth shut, waited until it was over and gone back to the dorm, but I wanted too badly to know if the comment under that post was from him—I was sick of the feeling of my heart suspended in mid-air every night before bed as I refreshed the page.

Maybe it was wearing Curtis's sweatshirt that made me bolder.

I gripped the Coke Curtis had handed me, my palms sweaty, and couldn't stop myself from asking: "Curtis, do you... go online much?"

He raised an eyebrow, "What, want to ask me to play games?"

"No. I mean, do you go on forums?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to bite my own tongue—anyone asked such a direct question would find it strange.

Curtis took a drink, his throat working, "Sure. Watch game highlights, tactical analysis, sometimes scroll through—"

He paused, "Sometimes scroll through things people write."

He smiled: "Why are you asking?"

"Just curious." I lowered my head to drink my Coke, not daring to meet his eyes at all, because something in my crotch was already heating up and swelling, and my legs unconsciously pressed tighter together.

Curtis asked me casually, "You write things?"

I immediately choked on a mouthful, the Coke burning up my nose, sour and sharp, "What?"

Curtis's hand slid down from the couch back and brushed my shoulder, his gaze settling on my face as he spoke matter-of-factly, "I've read a couple of the analysis reports you write for Abel. Pretty detailed writing."

"No, it's just... homework." I wiped my mouth, my ears burning hot.

Curtis made a sound of acknowledgment and didn't press further. But his thigh was still pressed against my body, and I felt my cock half-hardening in my pants, itching and burning.

By the time the party broke up it was nearly one in the morning. I walked beside Curtis back to the dorms, the autumn night wind pouring into the sweatshirt collar, and I hunched my neck, "Tomorrow morning six o'clock, gym."

"Got it."

Curtis didn't leave right away, looked at me for a few seconds, then suddenly reached out and ruffled my hair gently.

"Go back and get some sleep early." Curtis turned and went through the building entrance.

I stood there in place, the warmth of his palm still lingering in my hair.

Back in my dorm, after washing up and lying in bed, all I could see when I closed my eyes were today's scenes.

In the gym, the veins bulging on Curtis's neck as he did bench presses. On the training rink, the lean waistline exposed when his T-shirt rode up as he bent to pick up a puck.

And at the party, the scalding temperature of his thigh pressed against mine. And just now, the gentleness of him ruffling my hair. I turned over, burying my face in the sweatshirt Curtis had given me today, breathing in his scent.

My cock pressed hard against the blanket and I shifted slightly, letting out a low gasp.

Unable to sleep, I habitually unlocked my phone, planning to log into the forum to check.

Before the homepage even loaded, a notification popped up at the top of the screen: [You're being played with. You should know that, right.]

I stared at those words for a long time, my heart sinking bit by bit.

I couldn't help urging Memory again, "The IP address for [SWEET]—still no leads?"