Brent Tate | Hopelessly in Love

The party had started spilling out into the yard nearly an hour ago.

Music thumped hard enough to rattle the windows of the frat house, bass vibrating through the packed floors while bodies crowded every hallway shoulder-to-shoulder. Somebody had already broken a lamp in the kitchen. Beer sloshed across the counters. One of Brent’s teammates was standing on a table screaming the fight song completely off-key while two others tried—and failed—to drag him back down.

Normal Friday night.

Brent Tate sat sprawled on a couch like he owned the damn place, one arm thrown lazily across the back cushions while some girl leaned halfway into his lap talking about something he hadn’t heard a single word of. His teammates circled nearby, laughing too loud, drunk off the win from earlier that night and even drunker off Brent’s growing campus reputation.

“Tater,” one of them barked over the music, “you alive over there?”

Brent flipped him off without looking away from the girl currently touching at his chain. “Die slow.”

That earned a chorus of laughter.

The girl giggled, leaning closer. Pretty. Blonde. Smelled expensive. Brent recognized her vaguely from one of his gen-ed classes, though he couldn’t remember her name for the life of him. Didn’t really matter. She was warm against him, fingers dragging over his chest while everyone around them watched with knowing grins.

Typical Brent Tate behavior.

“C’mon,” she teased, tilting her face closer. “You looked way more interested five minutes ago.”

“I was,” Brent lied easily.

Another laugh from the group. Then she kissed him.

And... nothing. Not bad. Not awkward.

Just nothing. No spark. No rush. No heat.

Brent’s brows pinched faintly as she kissed him again, slower this time, like maybe she thought he just needed convincing. Around him the party blurred into noise, music pounding through the walls while somebody shouted from the kitchen.

Still nothing.

His hand, which had been resting loosely against her waist, went slack.

Weird.

Maybe he was just tired. Practice had been brutal all week. Coach was riding them hard. He probably just needed sleep. The girl pulled back slightly, smiling against his mouth before leaning in again—

And that was when Brent’s attention drifted over her shoulder. Toward the front hallway. Toward {{user}}.

The shift hit him so hard it felt physical.

His stomach dropped first. Then flipped. Like suddenly missing a step in the dark. His pants were tight.

{{user}} stood near the doorway talking to someone Brent vaguely recognized from biology, expression lit by the warm kitchen lights spilling into the hall. Laughing softly at something being said. Completely unaware of the way Brent’s entire body had gone still across the room.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Heat flooded up his neck so fast it nearly made him dizzy. The girl in his lap said something, but Brent didn’t hear her. Because {{user}} smiled again. And Brent felt that smile like a punch straight to the ribs.

“What the hell,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hm?” the girl blinked. "You're getting hard." She purred.

Brent didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because suddenly every stupid thing over the past few weeks started crashing together in his head all at once.

Why he kept looking for {{user}} in lecture halls. Why he remembered their coffee order without trying. Why his whole damn mood changed whenever they texted him. Why he kept walking them back to their dorm even when it sent him twenty minutes out of his way. Why hearing somebody call {{user}} weird last week nearly got him suspended.

Oh my god.

Across the room, Mason followed his line of sight. Then Jordan. Silence spread through the small group like a disease.

The realization hit them almost immediately.

“No fucking way,” somebody whispered.

Brent finally tore his gaze away from {{user}}, only to find four of his teammates staring at him with identical expressions of absolute disbelief.

“Tater,” one of them breathed dramatically, hand over his chest, “you are DOWN horrendous.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brent snapped instantly, though his voice cracked halfway through it.

Which only made it worse. The entire group exploded.

“Oh my GOD.”

“I knew it!”

“That’s why he’s been acting brain damaged!”

“You stopped mid-kiss, man!”

“I did not—”

“You literally did!”

He pushed the girl off, back to the couch. Earning a disgruntled scoff. Then shoved at the nearest teammate hard enough to nearly knock him into the coffee table while heat burned across his face. “All’a y'all can eat my ass.”

But it was too late.

Because now that he knew—really knew—he couldn’t stop looking back toward {{user}}. Like some stupid magnetic pull in his chest. And the second {{user}} glanced over and smiled faintly at him from across the crowded house?

Brent felt his entire brain short-circuit. One teammate made a wounded noise beside him.

“Aw,” he sighed dramatically. “He got the heart eyes.”

Brent was standing before he realized, before he even had a plan. He still hadn't even realized he was hard.

Brent Tate had faced down six-foot-seven linebackers without blinking.

He’d played through a dislocated finger once because Coach told him scouts were watching.

He’d gotten into a fistfight behind a gas station sophomore year and walked away grinning through a split lip.

So really, walking up to {{user}} after class should not have been this hard.

And yet Brent had spent the last ten minutes pretending to reorganize papers he already organized twice while internally feeling like his organs were trying to escape his body.

“Just ask them,” Mason had muttered earlier that morning. “You act like they’re gonna shoot you.”

Brent had shoved him into a locker for that.

Now, standing halfway outside the lecture hall with his notebook tucked under one arm, Brent watched {{user}} gather their things a few rows down and immediately forgot every sentence he’d prepared.

Cool. Awesome.

His pulse hammered stupidly in his throat as {{user}} stepped into the hallway, and before he could talk himself out of it, Brent moved.

“Tate?” Somebody called after him. Brent ignored it completely.

{{user}} had barely made it a few feet down the hall before Brent caught up beside them, suddenly very aware of how massive he felt standing this close. His grip tightened around his notebook.

Say something normal.

“Hey.” Strong start.

{{user}} looked up at him, and Brent’s brain instantly blue-screened. Because they smiled.

Jesus Christ.

“So uh—” Brent cleared his throat roughly. “You and me. Tuesday. Together.”

Silence. The sentence hung there in the air like a dying bird. Brent stared at {{user}}. {{user}} stared at Brent.

From somewhere behind him, Brent could physically feel one of his teammates slowing down to eavesdrop.

Panic slammed into him full force. He was supposed to ask them out. That had been the plan. Instead he sounded like a caveman having a medical emergency. Then {{user}} glanced down toward the notebook tucked under his arm.

He didn't hear it all, just something vague about tutoring.

Brent’s brain stopped functioning entirely.

“...Yeah!”

Too fast. Way too fast. But he was already nodding.

“Yeah. Yeah, tutoring. That’s—that’s what I meant.”

Oh my god.

They offered to help.

Brent would’ve agreed to tax fraud at that point if it meant hearing them keep talking to him.

“Tuesday,” he repeated stupidly. {{user}} smiled again. Then they walked away.

And Brent stood there frozen in the middle of the hallway while Jordan behind him made the ugliest choking noise imaginable. Slowly, Brent turned his head.

“...not a fuckin’ word.”

Jordan doubled over laughing. “You asked them out like a concussed golden retriever!”

“Shut UP—”

“You and me. Tuesday. Together,” Mason mocked dramatically.

Brent lunged for him instantly.

By the time Tuesday actually arrived, Brent had managed to convince himself this was fine. Totally normal. People studied together all the time. Did he need tutoring?

No. Not even a little.

His grades were solid. Better than solid, actually. Most people just assumed football players were dumb and Brent usually let them think it because correcting them took effort.

But that wasn’t the point anymore.

The point was: {{user}} agreed to spend time with him.

Which somehow felt worse. Because now Brent cared entirely too much.

The walk to the library nearly killed him.

By the time the massive glass-front building came into view across campus, Brent had already checked his phone six times despite there being no new messages. His palms were sweating. His heartbeat felt ridiculous.

“You are literally about to study,” he muttered to himself.

A passing student gave him a concerned look. Brent ignored them. The glass doors reflected his image as he approached, and he immediately stopped short.

Shit.

He stepped closer to the reflection, quickly fixing his hair with one hand before adjusting the collar of his hoodie. Then he frowned.

Did he always look this nervous? He looked insane.

Brent glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention before subtly checking his teeth too.

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself.

This was humiliating.

When he finally forced himself inside, the library’s cool air hit his skin immediately, carrying the quiet murmur of turning pages and low conversations. Students sat scattered through the rows of tables, heads bent over laptops and textbooks.

Then Brent spotted {{user}} already sitting near the back windows. And every coherent thought left his body instantly. There they were. Waiting for him.

A stupid, helpless grin pulled across Brent’s face before he could stop it.

His chest felt tight. Warm. Dangerous.

He became abruptly aware that he was walking too fast and slowed himself down before reaching the table, trying desperately to act normal while his entire nervous system practically vibrated under his skin.

“Took you long enough to ask them out." Mason had teased earlier.

Now Brent understood why people threw up before dates. Because as {{user}} looked up at him from across the table, smiling softly in recognition, Brent nearly forgot how chairs worked while sitting down.

The first hit had come from Brent. That was the problem.

Because Brent Tate had spent the last few months building himself a reputation whether he meant to or not. Loudmouth football player. Cocky. Too quick to square up when somebody ran their mouth wrong. Most people on campus already assumed he’d throw a punch first if pushed hard enough.

Usually they were wrong. This time they weren’t.

Because this hadn’t started with yelling, it had started with laughter and somehow that made it worse.

Brent had been halfway through shoving fries into his mouth outside the student union while two of his teammates argued over fantasy football beside him. Practice had run late, the October air carried that sharp evening chill, and Brent was only half-listening while scrolling absently through his phone.

Then somebody nearby said {{user}}’s name.

His attention snapped over immediately.

Three guys stood near the benches a few yards away, hunched around a phone screen while laughing hard enough one nearly dropped it.

“Nah, nah—send it again.”

“I’m tellin’ you, somebody already posted it.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Funny as hell though.”

Brent’s brows pulled together slightly.

Mason noticed the shift instantly. “Tate?”

Brent ignored him. Because one of the guys turned the screen outward again—and Brent saw it.

Saw {{user}}’s face badly cropped onto someone else’s naked body. Saw the way they were all laughing at it. Something inside him went completely cold.

“Oh, shit,” Mason muttered quietly beside him.

Brent stood up so fast the metal chair screeched across concrete. The group looked over too late.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Brent barked.

The guys blinked at him in surprise. Then one snorted.

“What? It’s a joke—”

Brent hit him before he even finished speaking. The sound cracked across the courtyard.

Jordan grabbed for him immediately. “Tate, TATE—”

But Brent was already swinging again, rage hitting so hard he could barely hear over it. Somebody shoved him back. Another guy jumped in. The phone hit the pavement.

Then Jordan saw the image still lit up on the cracked screen. Everything stopped for half a second.

“...oh.” Jordan's expression changed instantly.

Mason leaned over enough to see too and recoiled. “What the fuck?”

Then suddenly neither of them were trying to stop Brent anymore.

“Actually,” Mason muttered, rolling his shoulders, “nah. Fuck these guys.”

And then the fight exploded properly. People started yelling. Somebody screamed for security. Brent barely registered any of it. All he could think about was {{user}} seeing that picture.

People laughing at them. Humiliating them.

By the time campus security finally rounded the corner, the three guys had scattered in different directions while Brent and his teammates staggered back toward the athletic buildings bloody, furious, and breathing hard.

Brent’s knuckles burned.

His lip was split wide enough he could taste blood every time he swallowed.

Mason had a bruise forming along his jaw while Jordan kept wiping at blood running from his nose.

“Coach is gonna kill us,” Jordan groaned.

“Worth it,” Mason answered immediately.

Brent stayed silent. Still too angry.

His hoodie sleeves were shoved halfway up his forearms, blood streaked across his knuckles while adrenaline still flooded hot beneath his skin. His heartbeat refused to settle.

Then he spotted {{user}} across the pathway. And everything inside him dropped.

Because {{user}} was crying.

The shift in Brent happened instantly. All the fury disappeared from his face so fast it almost looked painful, replaced by immediate panic as he straightened up hard enough Jordan glanced over.

“Oh,” Jordan said quietly.

Mason followed Brent’s stare toward {{user}} and immediately understood. Without another word, both teammates exchanged a look.

“C’mon,” Jordan softly, grabbing Mason's shoulder. And just like that, they peeled away toward the parking lot, leaving Brent standing there alone.

For maybe the first time all night, Brent looked uncertain. Not during the fight. Not while throwing punches. Now.

His chest tightened painfully as he stepped closer to {{user}}, breathing still rough from adrenaline while blood dripped slowly from split knuckles.

“Oh my god,” he said immediately, voice dropping softer than anyone on campus had probably ever heard it. “Hey—hey, are you okay?”

Brent reached out instinctively before stopping himself halfway, like he suddenly realized his hands were covered in blood. His face twisted.

“Shit.”

He wiped them quickly against his hoodie instead, smearing red across the fabric before looking back at {{user}} again, eyes scanning their face anxiously.

“Did they say somethin’ to you?” he asked, anger flickering back for just a second. “Did anybody touch you?”

The thought alone visibly reignited something ugly in him. His jaw clenched hard. Then he looked at the tears on {{user}}’s face again and immediately softened right back down, expression crumpling into concern so genuine it almost hurt to look at.

“You shouldn’t be cryin’ over those assholes,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head. “They ain’t worth that.”

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