They Made Me a Bet, So I Made Them a Joke

It was 1:00 AM on a Tuesday, and I was three Red Bulls deep into a biochemistry textbook.

My phone buzzed against the desk.

I didn't even need to look to know who it was. Orion Kensington.

He was the co-captain of the Weston University hockey team. Oh, and he was my boyfriend Finley's childhood best friend.

I grabbed my phone, expecting another dumb meme. Instead, my screen lit up with a photo.

My brain stuttered. It was a mirror selfie. Orion was shirtless, his phone obscuring his face. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was the angle. It was pulled dangerously low, showcasing a sharp V-line and a sliver of something that definitely shouldn't be in my DMs.

The waistband of his boxers sat low enough that I could see the thick base of his cock pressing against the fabric, deliberate and unmistakable. His abs were carved deep, the kind you only got from obsessive training and zero body fat.

A second later, a voice memo popped up.

I hit play, my thumb hovering over the block button. I was ready to send this straight to Finley.

"Bro, I swear to God she's made of ice," Orion's voice crackled through the speaker. He sounded out of breath, frustrated. "I've been dropping hints for weeks. Nothing. She won't put out, she won't even bite. I'm going all out tonight. Just remember, man—if I actually bag her, don't go flipping out on me. A deal's a deal."

My blood ran cold.

A deal? Before I could process what I just heard, the chat screen refreshed.

Orion unsent a message.

Then, a new text bubbled up. [Oops. Wrong chat. Ignore that, Chaz. You didn't hear that voice note, did you?]

My fingers trembled. I typed back quickly. [Hear what? I was in the shower.]

[Cool. Just sent a stupid audio to the wrong person.]

He thought I was an idiot. He really thought I was that stupid.

I didn't save the voice note in time, but I sure as hell screenshotted the picture the second it loaded. I pulled up Finley's contact. We'd been doing the long-distance thing for a year. I loved him. I trusted him.

I hit call. It rang three times before he picked up.

"Chazzer?" Finley's voice was thick with sleep. Or maybe alcohol. "It's late, babe. What's up?"

"Someone just sent me a naked picture," I said, my voice deadpan.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. The lazy, sleepy vibe instantly vanished.

"What the fuck?" Finley snapped. "Who? Are you hooking up with someone behind my back? Is that what this is? You're telling me so you don't feel guilty?"

I blinked, staring at my bedroom wall.

Are you hooking up with someone? That was his first reaction? Not Are you okay? Not Who's harassing my girlfriend? He went straight to the defensive. Straight to accusing me.

"No, Finley," I said, my voice tight. "It was Orion."

Dead silence.

Five seconds passed. Then ten.

"Oh," Finley breathed out, his voice suddenly relaxed. Almost relieved. "Bro, it's just Orion? Jesus, you scared me. He's probably just drunk and messing around. He's my boy, you know how he is. Just delete it."

"He's sending your girlfriend dick pics, Finley."

"He's a joke, Chaz. Let it go. I'm going back to sleep."

Click. He hung up on me.

I sat in the quiet of my dorm room, the silence deafening. None of this made sense. Finley was the most fiercely territorial guy I knew. Last month, a guy at a frat party bumped into my shoulder and Finley nearly broke his jaw.

But Orion sent me a half-naked photo and talked about "bagging" me in a voice note, and Finley didn't care?

If I actually bag her, don't go flipping out on me.

Something was so, so wrong.

I slammed my textbook shut. I opened my laptop, pulled up the Delta Airlines website, and booked the first flight out to Lockhart. It boarded Wednesday morning at 5:00 AM.

I packed a small duffel. My phone lit up again. Another selfie from Orion. This time he was in bed, sheets pulled low. [Can't sleep. Wish someone was here to keep me company.]

I powered my phone off completely and shoved it in my bag.

By the time my plane touched down, it was 9:00 AM. The Lockhart campus was freezing. I didn't care. I dragged my duffel bag straight toward the hockey team's upperclassmen housing.

I knew Finley's schedule. He didn't have morning practice on Wednesdays.

I walked up the stairs to the second floor. Room 214.

I reached for the handle, intending to knock. But it was already turned. The door was cracked open an inch.

I froze.

There was a sound coming from inside. A wet, rhythmic slapping noise.

Then, a moan. High-pitched, breathy, and disgustingly familiar.

"God, Finn... right there."