Cuck your rival? pt 2

The night air was thick with the humidity that clung to Baton Rouge like a second skin. You stood at the entrance of the Pi Kappa Alpha house, staring down two fraternity brothers who looked like they'd been assigned gate duty and weren't happy about it. The bass from inside vibrated through the porch boards beneath your feet, and the red glow from interior lights spilled through curtained windows. Behind you, the street was lined with cars, and groups of people shuffled past, flashing IDs and flashing smiles, slipping into the party like it was nothing.

The phone in your pocket still had the anonymous text glowing on its screen. Just an address, a time, and the words: Come tonight. Trust me. No signature, no name, no explanation. It had arrived that afternoon from a number unrecognized on your contacts list.

"Look, man, we've told you three times now," the taller one said, arms crossed over his Pike letter hoodie. "Name's not on the list."

The shorter one, stocky with a backwards cap, was already shaking his head before you could even respond.

"Could be anyone sent that, bro. We got a full house tonight. Xavier's got the whole team here celebrating after the sweep against Ole Miss. It's tight."

The name landed on the conversation like a familiar weight. Xavier Slait. The golden boy of LSU baseball. The rival who had shadowed your life since childhood like a competition you never agreed to enter.

The tall one shrugged, not unkindly but with finality. "Just how it is tonight, man. Sorry."

The muffled thump of music mocked through the walls. People continued to flow past, some glancing with mild curiosity. The porch felt smaller with every second of standing there being denied entry when everyone else just waltzed through.

Then the front door swung open.

And there she was.

Jenny Traeger stepped onto the porch like she'd been painted there—chestnut waves loose over her shoulders, a silky emerald dress catching the porch light in a way that made the cheap string bulbs look intentional. Her lips were that shade of red that always seemed like a statement, and her brown eyes swept the scene with the quiet precision of someone cataloguing everything before deciding what mattered.

They landed on you.

Her expression didn't shift dramatically—Jenny wasn't the type for theatrics—but something flickered there. Recognition. Maybe amusement. Definitely something deliberate.

"Hey," she said, her voice warm and unhurried, carrying that soft Louisiana lilt. "What's going on out here?"

The tall Pike brother straightened up almost imperceptibly. Everyone knew Jenny. Xavier's girlfriend. Pi Phi senior. The kind of girl who could walk into a room and make it rearrange itself around her without raising her voice.

"Just checking the list," the stocky one said quickly. "This guy says he got an invite, but—"

"I invited him."

The words were simple, delivered with the same easy confidence Jenny brought to everything. She said it the way someone might mention they preferred the lighting in one room over another—like a matter of taste, not something that required justification.

Both brothers blinked.

"Oh." The tall one scratched the back of his neck, glancing at his buddy. "Uh, Jenny, you sure? Because Xavier's—"

"I know where Xavier is," Jenny said, her smile pleasant, almost sweet, but with a thread of steel beneath it that carried unmistakable weight. "And I'm telling you he'd be a lot more annoyed if you turned away someone his girlfriend personally invited, don't you think? Let's not make this weird."

She let that hang in the air for just a moment—long enough for the implication to land. Not a threat exactly. More like a gentle reminder that she was Xavier Slait's girlfriend, and that carried weight in this house tonight.

The two brothers exchanged a glance. Then the stocky one stepped aside.

"Yeah, no, totally. Go ahead. My bad."

Jenny's smile widened fractionally—just enough to be gracious. She turned to you and gestured with a casual, come-with-me motion.

"Come on," she said. "It's loud inside, but you'll survive."

You followed her through the doorway, the bass hitting like a wall as the party swallowed the entrance whole. Bodies everywhere. Cheap vodka. Someone's playlist cycling through the same three songs Pike always played. The living room was a crush of people, red cups, and the specific chaos of a Saturday night that had been building for hours.

Jenny navigated it effortlessly, threading through clusters of people who smiled at her, called her name, reached out to touch her arm. She acknowledged them with warmth but didn't stop, guiding toward a quieter corner near the staircase where the music was slightly less deafening.

She turned to you, and up close, the faint scent of something floral and expensive drifted over. Her eyes held with that particular intensity she had—the one that made it feel like she was reading more than a face.

"Full disclosure," she murmured, leaning just close enough that her voice wouldn't carry. Her lips barely moved, and anyone watching would've thought she was simply making small talk. "Xavier doesn't know I invited you."

A beat of silence between you.

"I sent the text."

She pulled back, just slightly, and there it was—that quiet, knowing look. The one that said she'd thought this through. The one that suggested Jenny Traeger was playing a game of her own.

"So," she said, her voice returning to its normal, pleasant register. "Try to look like you belong here. I'll handle the rest."

The corner near the staircase had started to feel almost safe. Jenny was mid-sentence, something about a painting she'd seen at the Ogden Museum last month, her fingers tracing the rim of a cup she hadn't sipped from, when a shadow cut across the light.

The crowd seemed to part without being asked. That was always the thing about Xavier Slait—he didn't have to push through a room. The room just moved.

He stopped in front of both of you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with the controlled breathing of someone who was choosing to be angry rather than just feeling it. He was still in his post-game clothes—black athletic polo, fitted jeans, the silver chain he always wore catching the red light. His dark hair was pushed back, and his blue eyes were locked onto you like a fastball aimed at the ribs.

"What the fuck," he said. Not shouted. Xavier never had to shout. "Are you doing in my house?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His gaze slid to Jenny, and something harder flickered there—not the petty annoyance he wore for you, but something genuinely wounded underneath the hostility.

"You invited him?" His voice was low enough that only the three of you could hear it over the music. "Seriously, Jen?"

Jenny didn't flinch. She straightened slightly, chin lifting in that composed way she had, like she was deciding how much of the truth she wanted to offer.

"I did," she said simply.

Xavier exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked for a second, and then he turned back to you, pointing a finger directly at your chest.

"Fine. You're here. I'm not gonna make a scene because that's exactly what you want, isn't it?" His lip curled. "But you follow my rules tonight or I'll drag you out myself. Got it?"

He started counting off on his fingers like he was reading from a list he'd already prepared in his head.

"One. You don't go down that hallway." He pointed toward the back of the house where a narrow corridor disappeared into darkness. "That's the team's space tonight. You don't belong there. Two. You don't drink anything from this party. I don't trust you to be able to handle what's in half these cups and I'm not babysitting you if you pass out on my floor. Three. You need to take a piss, you go outside. Around the side of the house. You don't use the bathrooms in here."

Each rule landed like a separate slap, delivered with the casual cruelty of someone who had been humiliating you since middle school and had refined the practice into an art form.

Then Xavier's expression shifted. The anger cooled into something colder. More deliberate. He turned fully to Jenny, and his voice dropped to a tone you'd never heard him use with her before—controlled, clipped, almost businesslike.

"And you," he said. "You knew tonight was for the brothers. You knew I planned this whole thing weeks ago. Team celebration. No outside drama. No distractions. And you brought him here anyway."

Jenny opened her mouth to respond, but Xavier held up a hand.

"No. I don't want to hear it right now." He stepped closer to her, not threateningly, but with the gravity of someone issuing a verdict. "So here's what's happening. He's your responsibility tonight. You don't leave his side. You brought him, you babysit him. And you keep him the hell away from me. I don't want to see him. I don't want to hear about him. I want to enjoy one night with my team without his face being part of it."

He held Jenny's gaze for a long moment, something passing between them that felt older and more complicated than this single argument—like a dozen small tensions finally surfacing in one ugly, public fracture.

Then Xavier looked back at you one final time. His expression was pure dismissal, like you were furniture he'd tripped over.

"Stay out of my way," he said.

And then he turned and walked back into the crowd, swallowed almost immediately by the bodies and the noise and the red cups and the laughter that resumed like nothing had happened.

The corner went quiet. The music kept thumping, but the space around you and Jenny felt suddenly very small.

Jenny stood perfectly still for a moment, her fingers still resting on the rim of her untouched cup. Her expression was unreadable—not embarrassed, not angry, not defeated. Just... calculating. Like she was filing this moment away somewhere precise for later use.

Then she lifted the cup to her lips and took her first sip of the evening.

"Well," she said, her voice carrying that same composed warmth, though there was something sharper underneath it now—something that hadn't been there before Xavier arrived. "That went about how I expected."

She turned to you, and her eyes caught the light. There was no apology in them. But there was something that looked almost like solidarity.

"Rules are rules, I guess," she murmured. "But he's wrong about one thing."

She let the pause hang.

"You're not my responsibility. You're my guest." A faint smile touched the corner of her red lips. "There's a difference."

The backyard had become Xavier's domain. Through the sliding glass doors, his voice carried in bursts—loud, commanding, the sound of a captain rallying his team around the firepit someone had dragged onto the Pike patio. You could see the glow of flames reflecting off baseball caps and beer bottles, silhouettes crowding around him like he was holding court.

Inside, the party had shifted. The living room had thinned out slightly as more people migrated toward the yard, and the energy had settled into something looser. Jenny had steered both of you toward the kitchen island where a cluster of Pi Phi girls had claimed territory—four of them perched on barstools and countertop edges like they owned the place, which in terms of social real estate, they practically did.

The circle had formed naturally. Drinks in hand, laughter easy, the kind of huddle that happened at every party where the sorority girls took a collective breath between rounds of being looked at. Jenny fit into it effortlessly, her hip leaning against the counter, her body angled just enough to keep you in the conversation without making it obvious that she was keeping you in the conversation.

The girls were polite to you at first. The kind of politeness that was really assessment—eyes flicking over, sizing up why Jenny Traeger was babysitting someone who wasn't Xavier Slait. There was Harper, blonde and sharp, who ran Pi Phi's social committee. Next to her was Maren, dark-haired and watching everything with the quiet amusement of someone who collected gossip like currency. And then there was Beth, petite and freckled, who had the particular energy of someone who had been waiting for an opportunity all night and had just found it.

"So," Harper said, swirling whatever was in her red cup with practiced elegance. "Jenny. Where's Xavier? He's been out there for like an hour."

"He's with the team," Jenny said, easy as breathing. "Celebrating."

"Mm." Harper's eyes slid to you for half a second, then back to Jenny. "And you're in here."

"Last I checked."

Maren covered her smile with her cup. Beth was less subtle. She was grinning already, like a cat that had cornered something small and was deciding whether to play with it or eat it.

"Jenny," Beth said, leaning forward on her stool. "Can I be honest with you?"

"You usually are."

"You look bored."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "I look fine."

"You look like you need something to do," Beth corrected, and her grin widened. "And I think I have an idea."

Harper caught it immediately. You could see the shift—her eyes lighting up, the corners of her mouth twitching. Even Maren sat up slightly, the observer becoming a participant.

The energy at the island changed. It was subtle but unmistakable, like the moment before someone pulls a lever and the floor drops out.

"Oh no," Jenny said, but she was smiling. That dangerous kind of smile that meant she already knew what was coming and was deciding whether to be entertained or offended. "Beth."

"Seven minutes in heaven," Beth announced, spreading her hands like she was revealing a magic trick. "Closet's right there." She pointed down the short hallway off the kitchen where a coat closet sat, half-hidden behind a decorative partition. "You and—" she gestured at you with her cup, sloshing liquid dangerously close to the edge, "—seven minutes. Together. In the dark."

Harper immediately clapped once, sharp and delighted. "Oh my God, yes."

"Maren, back me up," Beth said.

"I'm just observing," Maren said, but she was already pulling out her phone.

Jenny looked at Beth. Then at Harper. Then at the closet. Her expression cycled through something rapid—amusement, calculation, recognition. She saw exactly what this was. The girls thought they had her. Jenny Traeger, Xavier Slait's perfect girlfriend, locked in a closet with another guy while her boyfriend was thirty feet away through the wall. The story would write itself. The texts would fly before the seven minutes were up. It was the kind of moment that lived forever in sorority lore, and every single one of them knew it.

They were waiting for her to blush. To laugh it off. To say no, and give them the satisfaction of watching Jenny Traeger be the one who couldn't take a dare for once.

Jenny set her cup down on the counter with a soft, deliberate click.

"Okay."

The word was quiet. Almost bored.

And then she moved.

Her hand found your wrist—not grabbing, not rough, but firm. Certain. The kind of grip that didn't ask permission because the decision had already been made somewhere behind those brown eyes before Beth had even finished the suggestion.

The kitchen erupted. Harper shrieked. Beth nearly fell off her stool. Maren's phone was already recording.

"JENNY!" Beth screamed. "Oh my God she actually—"

But Jenny was already walking, pulling you with her toward the closet with the unhurried stride of someone who refused to be rushed by her own spectacle. Her heels clicked against the tile, then went silent on the hallway carpet. The closet door was a cheap folding thing, the kind that stuck at the top, and Jenny shouldered it open with a graceless efficiency that somehow still looked good on her.

The closet was small. Coats. A spare blanket. The smell of someone's forgotten cologne mixed with cedar hangers.

She pulled you inside, and the door folded shut behind both of you, sealing out the kitchen light and the screaming and the phone cameras and the entire party.

Darkness.

Close quarters.

The muffled sounds of the party became a distant, thumping heartbeat through the walls. Somewhere outside, Xavier was laughing with his team. Inside the kitchen, the girls were probably hyperventilating.

In the closet, it was quiet enough to hear breathing.

Jenny hadn't let go of your wrist yet.

In the dark, her voice came low, close, threaded with something that was half-laugh, half-dare.

"Well," she murmured. "That backfired on them, didn't it?"

The notification had come through twenty minutes ago. Xavier's phone buzzing against his thigh in the middle of a story about the seventh inning when Chadwick had robbed a home run over the center field wall. He'd glanced at the screen, muttered something about cold fries, and pushed through the front door into the humid night air to meet the dasher idling at the curb in a silver Civic.

The exchange was quick. Two bags. Grease already soaking through the bottom. He tipped on the app without looking, grabbed the food, and shouldered back through the front door where a cluster of guys were already reaching like starved animals.

"Yo, save me the jalapeño poppers or I'm cutting everyone off," Xavier said, dropping the bags on the entry table. "And don't touch the extra sauce, that's mine."

Hands descended on the food immediately. Someone thanked him. Someone else was already arguing over wings. The normalcy of it was almost comforting—his guys, his house, his night. Everything exactly the way he'd planned it.

Xavier stood in the doorway for a second, letting the AC bleed out past him into the night. He rolled his neck, cracked something loud enough that Carter looked up from a wing and said "dude" with his mouth full. The party hummed behind him. The backyard was alive with firepit glow and laughter and the particular energy of a team that had just swept a conference rival. Everything was good. Everything was his.

Then he heard it.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just a sound from around the side of the house—a short, sharp intake of breath that didn't match the rhythm of the party. The backyard was loud with music and voices and someone arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich, but this sound came from the left. The narrow alley between the Pike house and the neighboring property, where the dumpsters sat behind a wooden fence and the floodlight had been broken since September.

Xavier paused. Frowned. Probably a couple sneaking off. It wouldn't be the first time. That alley was a known spot, though most people had the decency to at least find a car.

He stepped back outside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The porch was empty now. The string lights hummed their quiet electric song. He walked to the edge of the steps, glanced left toward the alley, and almost turned back. Almost went to the backyard where his guys were waiting. Almost minded his own business.

Something made him keep walking.

The side of the house was dark. The floodlight above the service door was still dead, casting the narrow walkway in shadow and the faint orange bleed of a streetlamp two properties over. The wooden fence ran parallel to the building, leaving barely enough room for two people to walk side by side. The dumpsters were pushed against the far wall, lids closed, and beyond them the alley curved toward the backyard where the firepit glowed and the bass thumped.

His sneakers whispered against the concrete. The sounds grew louder as he rounded the corner—ragged breathing, the wet shift of skin against skin, a low moan that echoed off the brick walls and died somewhere above the roofline.

Between the dumpsters and the service door, in the deep shadow where neither light source quite reached, two figures were pressed against the brick wall.

Xavier stopped walking.

His brain processed it in pieces, like a photograph developing slowly in a darkroom, each detail emerging one at a time until the full image assembled itself and there was nowhere left to hide from it. The emerald dress first—bunched up, pushed high, that silky fabric he'd watched Jenny put on hours ago while he sat on the edge of her bed telling her she looked good. Her chestnut hair, loose and wild, falling forward over her face as her head tipped back against the brick with a sound he'd never heard her make, not once in the year and a half they'd been together. Her hands gripping—

His stomach dropped.

And then the second figure registered. The shoulders. The shape. The angle of the head buried against Jenny's neck, her fingers twisted in hair that wasn't his. The specific way Jenny's legs were wrapped around a waist that wasn't his. The kissing. The rhythm. The urgency. The total, consuming absence of shame.

You.

For three full seconds, Xavier Slait stood in that dark alley and didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. The sounds hit him before the full picture did—Jenny's breath ragged and broken in a way he'd never heard from her, not like this, not this uncontrolled, not this desperate, not this hungry, and underneath it the low, rhythmic reality of two bodies moving together in the dark like they'd forgotten the party existed. Like they'd forgotten the world existed. Like they'd forgotten he existed.

The grease stain on his fingers suddenly felt like the only real thing in the world. Everything else—the party, the sweep, the firepit, the boys inside arguing over wings—all of it dissolved into something meaningless and distant, like a radio station fading out of range.

The alley was silent except for them. The backyard was thirty feet away and a thousand miles. The party continued without him, and that was the worst part somehow—not that it was happening, but that it didn't care. The world kept spinning. The music kept playing. His guys kept eating his food. And Jenny—his Jenny, the girl who sat beside him at every game, who wore his jersey, who everyone in Baton Rouge knew as his—was pressed against a wall in the dark with you like he was nothing. Like he had never been anything.

His jaw was clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands hung at his sides, not fists, not shaking, just empty. Hanging. Useless. He stood there in the dark, ten feet away, behind a dumpster, and he didn't leave. Didn't step forward. Didn't call out her name. Didn't scream. Didn't do any of the things the movies told you a man was supposed to do when his world collapsed.

He just stood there.

And felt it fall apart.

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