We've just won the Eastern League Challenger Cup, a victory everyone expected from us the moment the season began. We were the best-performing team from day one, and tonight we proved it again. I should be riding the high of it. Ten touchdowns under my name. A stadium roaring. My teammates buzzing with pride.
And I am happy—just not in the way I should be.
There's something underneath it, a weight I've been carrying for months, maybe years. It isn't about being gay. This is 2025; no one blinks at that anymore. If only it were that simple.
No, my problem is messier. What I want... feels far more complicated than just saying I like men. What I want needs trust, surrender, the kind of safety most people never earn from me. And the worst part—the part that twists like a blade—is that the only person I feel remotely safe wanting it with is my best friend.
The same best friend who is currently in the middle of the dance floor, moving with a woman he met fifteen minutes ago like she's the only light in the room. I don't know how he does it—how he charms people with a couple of words and a smile that feels like summer. How he burns brighter than anyone I've ever known. How he slips into every heart without trying, like it's his second nature.
And how easily, effortlessly, he does all of that while I stand here, pretending my chest isn't collapsing inward every time he pulls someone else close.
I grip my third glass of whiskey a little tighter when she presses her ass against him... and he lets her. His hands settle on her waist, easy and sure, his lips brushing her neck. Whatever he whispers makes her blush so hard it hurts to look at.
I wonder what he's saying.
If he's calling her beautiful.
If he's telling her all the ways he'll take her apart tonight.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
I throw back the last swallow of whiskey and gesture for another.
"Dude, you were insane in the game today," someone says beside me. A guy, smiling too brightly, holding out his hand.
"Thanks," I manage, forcing a smile as I shake it. I try to focus on the win, on the celebration, but all I want is to disappear into my hotel room and sulk in the dark like a pathetic cliché. Because that's what I do now, isn't it? Sit around imagining every stupid what-if that will never happen.
My teeth grind together when the woman rolls her hips against Arin's crotch. His shirt is plastered to his back with sweat, outlining every line of his ridiculous body. We all train, sure, but he has genetics that should be illegal. Everything about him looks effortless. Easy. Perfect.
I pretend I'm not staring at him like hunger wearing the mask of hatred.
But my eyes keep finding him.
They always do.
"Can I buy you a drink?" the guy asks again, still lingering too close. "I'm Grant, by the way."
I nod stiffly. "I'm good," I say, hoping he takes the hint and leaves me alone.
"I'm the local head of Freeda Fitness Watch," the man says, sliding beside me with the confidence of someone who thinks he owns the room. "We were actually considering you for our brand ambassador."
I blink at him, not sure why he's approaching me here of all places. "You should talk to my manager."
"Oh, I will," he says easily. "Though honestly? Didn't think you'd be hard to reach. Big players like you don't get flooded with offers the way the... flashier boys do."
A prickle crawls up my spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, pretending innocence. "Just saying. You're the powerhouse of the team, no doubt, but brands love faces. Personalities." He tilts his head toward the dance floor. "Your friend Arin? He's got that... sparkle."
My jaw aches. I say nothing. That's mistake number one.
The man takes my silence as an invitation.
"You know how it is. He's all over social media. Photogenic. Charming. Marketable."
Then he adds, with a little smirk, "Even though he's nowhere near your level on-field."
I feel the heat rise under my skin, but still I stay still.
Mistake number two.
He leans a little closer. "Must be frustrating, huh? Doing all the heavy lifting on the pitch, the tackles, the carries, the tries—while he gets half the credit and twice the sponsors."
My fingers curl around my glass, knuckles white. "Walk away," I say quietly. "Right now."
But the man only laughs. "Relax. I'm complimenting you. You're the star. You're the one carrying the team. You probably score half the damn season for them. But him?" He snorts. "He's just a pretty boy winger who gets by on vibes. You stare at him enough—you should know."
My heartbeat stutters.
And that's the moment he goes too far.
"You're jealous, aren't you?" he says. "I've seen the way you look at him. Must burn that he gets everything you don't. Fans. Brands. Sex. Though I guess you're not into girls anyway—"
I don't let him finish.
The rage flips, instantaneous, white-hot.
I shove him back, voice rough. "Back. Off."
He stumbles, then straightens, face twisting. "Or what?"
My fist answers before my brain does.
A single punch, clean and sharp, cracks against his jaw.
He crashes into a barstool, knocking it over with a clatter.
He lunges back, wild, swinging. I duck and push forward. Someone screams. People scatter. Glass shatters. The music wobbles.
"You motherfucker!" he yells, grabbing a napkin dispenser like he's going to throw it. "No wonder brands avoid you. Hotheaded prick—just a violent loser with big muscles—"
"I'll shove your fucking brand up your ass!" I roar back, stepping toward him again.
Hands clamp around me from behind just as I'm about to swing again.
"Rafe."Arin's voice slices through the chaos, low, steady, the kind of command that digs right under my ribs. "Stop."
He drags my arms down, pinning them to my sides, and suddenly every inch of him is pressed against me. His chest against my back. His breath warm at my ear. His hold firm, unshakeable.
We've been in close contact a thousand times on the field, tackles, scrums, collisions but this... this feels different. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the heat in his grip. Maybe it's the fact that there are no jerseys, no helmets, no crowd. Just him and me and the thundering inside my chest.
His scent wraps around me, citrus, sweat, something dark and warm from whatever drink he'd had and it hits me so hard my knees almost give. For a second, for one reckless heartbeat, I imagine letting myself fall into him. Letting myself want.
But I don't get that luxury.
Not with Arin. Not with my best friend. Not with someone who's supposed to be straight, someone I cannot risk losing. He's the only relationship in my life that doesn't feel broken. I can't destroy that with whatever mess is inside me.
The guy I hit yells something crude, but I barely hear it. My whole world narrows to the way Arin steps in front of me, his arm stretched out, shielding me like he's daring the universe to try again.
"Walk away," Arin says, voice low enough to tremble the air.
The man hesitates, eyes flicking between us, him furious, me breathing like a cornered animal. I hold the man's gaze, daring him to push it further.
He doesn't. He steps back. Then another. Then he dusts himself off and melts into the crowd.
My pulse is still hammering. My fists shake with adrenaline and shame. I can already see tomorrow's headlines, my manager's panicked voice telling me to get anger management therapy, to "work on myself," to stop ruining my own career.
If only anger was the biggest thing I needed help with. It's not. Not even close.
Arin turns back to me, gaze softening as if my anger is something he can soothe with just his eyes.
"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get you out of here."
His hand slides around my wrist, warm and grounding. I let him lead me, even though my chest is tight and my head is spinning. I glance up at him, the alcohol loosening every inhibition I usually guard so fiercely. I avoid being around him when I'm drunk, but tonight I drank too much — something I know I'll regret, like a lot of things from this night.
Outside, the cold air bites at my skin. I stumble, but Arin's grip tightens, pulling me flush against his side. I think I give him a shit-eating grin, and he actually smiles back before guiding me into a cab that seems to appear out of nowhere.
Then he takes me back to the hotel.