Curtis's POV

After hockey practice ended, Brendan urged me again, even saying I couldn't even handle a little gay from the logistics team.

I yelled at him to shut up and stop talking nonsense.

Dean's shitty novel made me laugh half the night in my apartment. A rabbit crouching in a corner—who the fuck compares themselves to a rabbit crouching in a corner?

I read two chapters and threw it away, then picked it back up. Read to chapter three without finishing, read to chapter seven—fuck, I forgot which chapter I read to.

After the away game ended, Dean was hanging his camera preparing to leave when he got bumped backward by players coming and going on the field. I immediately stepped forward and grabbed his thin arm.

Dean turned back to look at me in surprise, his face instantly flushing red.

I remembered the expression on Dean's face when he lowered his head in front of Ralph. I can still see it now when I close my eyes—a kind of resigned calm, like someone who's been pushed so many times he doesn't even try to block it anymore.

I looked down at him. "Got bumped and didn't say a word? Same as when you got cornered last time?"

He shook his head too fast, so fast it made my anger surge.

"I checked the surveillance footage," I said. "Wednesday afternoon, second period."

Dean's head jerked up to look at me, pupils contracting sharply.

I moved half a step closer, one hand pulling his collar down toward his shoulder. His whole body gripped the camera tighter and leaned back. "Curtis, don't..."

"Don't move," I raised my right hand against the wall, caging him in. "The injury on your shoulder, the knee you sprained before, what those guys called you in the hallway."

"You think I'm deaf or blind?"

Dean pressed his trembling lips together, unable to get a single word out.

I changed the subject. "You've been living in the dorm this whole time?"

He finally straightened up, looking at me confused. "Yeah."

"Take this. My apartment key."

He looked down at the key lying in my palm, his brow furrowing. His brown eyes shifted left and right, his voice hoarse. "Curtis—"

I immediately cut him off, afraid he'd say something about refusing. "Don't fucking tell me no. I'm giving it to you to take, not to push away."

"Why give it to me?" he asked.

I answered with righteous bullshit, lies like garbage. "Don't want others treating you like a pushover. The dorm has such strict curfew—if something happens, you won't even have a place to go."

Still, this didn't stop me from filing the key-giving under some process in my "bet operation manual," telling myself this was just one more means to make my prey inescapable.

Give him a key, let him have a place to stay, keep Ralph and his crew from touching him. Simple as that.

After I got back to the apartment, I took a shower, threw my practice gear in the washing machine, and sat on the couch with a beer.

Some game replay was on TV. I wasn't really watching—my mind kept replaying the image of him clutching the key in his fist.

At 10:40 PM, the doorbell rang.

I thought it was takeout and went to answer barefoot.

It was Dean standing in the doorway, holding his backpack, wearing an old hoodie. He didn't look up, his voice muffled in his chest. "The dorm... not really convenient tonight."

I stepped aside to let him in.

He entered with the same posture as every time I'd known him—walking close to the wall, scanning every corner of the living room before setting his backpack down by his feet.

I leaned against the doorframe watching him take off his shoes. The hem of his hoodie rode up, revealing a stretch of blindingly white skin on his lower back.

My gaze pinned there, unable to move. Only now did I see clearly—Dean actually had a small mole above his left dimple of Venus.

After changing shoes, Dean walked to the windowsill and touched the dry soil of the plant. "It's dying."

"Forgot to water it."

"If you're busy, I... could do it."

I grunted, tossing a pillow and blanket on the armrest. "You sleep here. Get up at six. Don't oversleep."

He nodded, holding the pillow and standing there like a stray dog brought home—both wary and hopeful.

That look made my lower abdomen tighten.

Before bed, Dean took a towel into the bathroom to shower. I stared at that frosted door, imagining him standing naked inside.

Water flowing over his collarbone, chest, and between his legs—his cock and hole.

The words in those novels were written by him, but the Hunter in them was me.

His hole had been fucked by me for seventeen chapters in the novel. "Hunter's fingers explored his hole." "Hunter's cockhead forced open his throat."

When he gripped his cock in the bathroom, what was he thinking about?

Was it me too? Or the fictional me in his writing—Hunter?

He came out after showering, wearing an old T-shirt, hair not dried. Water droplets slid down from his nape along his spine, disappearing into his waistband.

"Your hair's not dry."

He replied, "Yeah, it's fine not to dry it."

My tone was almost commanding. "Dry it. I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning to you having a cold, training with a bright red nose."

Just like that, Dean moved into my apartment. More accurately, he frequently appeared in my apartment.

An extra carton of milk appeared in the fridge, not a brand I usually bought. A few novels appeared on the coffee table. An extra pair of sneakers several sizes smaller than mine appeared in the entryway.

My life was quietly invaded by these minute details, more thoroughly than if he himself had walked in.

At first I would get close and tease him, then I escalated. After practice when I got back to the apartment, he'd be curled up on the couch watching game footage, and I'd sit over, leg pressing against his leg.

Sometimes I'd rest my ankle on his knee. He'd glance at me, then expressionlessly push my foot away.

Once I deliberately put my arm across the back of the couch, perfectly positioning it to cage him in.

He looked down at his phone, motionless for nearly twenty minutes, but his ears were red enough to drip blood.

Damn wooden block. My fucking arm went numb.

Wasn't he writing novels with such enthusiasm? Can't get it up in front of a real person?

That day Dean was bent over writing. His pale nape was exposed.

"What are you writing so seriously?" I unscrewed the cap and took a sip of water.

"Analyzing last week's matchup data." He didn't look up. "Your team's third-period defensive positioning had problems. The left flank gap was too big—if the opponent adjusts their fast break rhythm—"

He suddenly stopped, probably realizing he was lecturing again. He looked up at me, a bit awkwardly pressing his lips together. "Never mind, you don't want to hear this stuff."

"Keep going. Don't stop." I surprised even myself saying that.

He paused, then pointed at a diagram he'd drawn and started explaining.

I leaned against the headboard watching him, watching his finger point at the paper indicating positions.

He'd just showered. His lashes were especially dark with water on them. When he talked about things that interested him, his eyes would light up.

I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been with someone like this. No drinking, no kissing, no sex. Just quietly sitting in the same space, seriously listening to another person talk.

I started losing track. Getting close to him—was it because of the bet, or because I wanted to be close to him?

Giving him the key—was it to circle him in my territory, or because I fucking didn't want him going back to that cold dorm every night?

Dean finished explaining, put away all the materials, and sat on the armrest scrolling through his phone.

I walked over and pulled the phone from his hand. He looked up at me, puzzlement in his eyes, lips slightly pouting like a child whose candy was taken.

"Stop looking." I tossed the phone to the other end of the coffee table, glancing at my room. "Come here."

He didn't move. I walked over and pulled him onto the bed.

"Curtis." His voice was small as a mosquito. "You, don't get so close. It's hot."

I didn't listen, my whole body impatiently pressing against him.

His voice trembled more. "What exactly do you want?"

"You don't know what I want?" I raised the corner of my mouth, looking at him with eyes full of mockery.

I lowered my head close to behind his ear, lips almost brushing past. "Sleep here tonight. I want to look at you. Look everywhere."

I held him tight, fingers exploring under the hem of his T-shirt from his lower back, palm against his skin, slowly moving up from his tailbone.

Every time I did this he'd hold his breath, his whole back stiffening.

"Curtis, you..."

"You..." He spoke softly, carefully asking, "Why did you give me the key?"

I'd already answered this question. Now that Dean asked again, I replied, "You're wandering around The Rink wearing my clothes—anyone can see you belong to me. Plus you do the work better than Abel and those guys. Don't waste it."

I opened my mouth, teeth gently biting his earlobe. His whole body shuddered like an electric current passed through, gripping the hem of my shirt.

Without question, his reaction pleased me.

His physical response became a kind of proof more powerful than words.

At least on a physical level, my touch made him react, and he didn't even try to hide it.

"Curtis..." His voice was so hoarse it was almost gone.

I pulled back some distance, looking at the deeper bite marks on his lips. His chest heaved violently, head tilted back, eyes covered with a layer of mist, looking at me all soft.

That look—really fucking begging to be fucked.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

The text read: "I have a new idea. Go practice it quickly."

I locked the phone screen and tossed it aside. Though my lower body ached with hardness, this text pulled my desire back.

I didn't continue. Dean just obediently slept in my arms, spine fitting against my chest, impossibly soft.

Could I still treat him as a bet?