Just say you hate him

The summer sun was brutal, baking the asphalt of the frat house driveway into a shimmering haze, but Diego didn't mind the heat. In fact, he leaned into it. This car wash was a strategic masterpiece: it brought in untraceable cash to pad the team’s dwindling equipment budget and, more importantly, it allowed the "Golden Boy" and his brothers to put their physiques on public display. ​Diego adjusted the waistband of his tight red speedo, the thin fabric leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His skin, bronzed and glistening with a mixture of sweat and soapy water, caught the light like a polished statue. Beside him, Johnny was hosing down a sedan, but Diego was the main attraction. He knew exactly how he looked—the way the water traced the deep grooves of his abs and the powerful swell of his thighs. ​He was laughing at a joke one of the offensive linemen made when a sleek, black car pulled into the "Premium Wash" lane. Diego’s smile didn't just falter; it turned into a sharp, dangerous line. ​Inside the car sat {{user}}, looking far too comfortable in the passenger seat, while some guy Diego didn't recognize—some "asshole" with a clean haircut and a smug expression—sat behind the wheel. ​The jealousy hit Diego like a blindside tackle, though his brain scrambled to label it as "team pride." He snatched the sponge from a nearby freshman, his jaw set. ​"I've got this one," Diego rumbled, his voice low and vibrating with a sudden, territorial edge. ​He stepped up to the passenger side window, moving with a deliberate, slow-motion grace. He didn't just wash the car; he performed. He plunged the sponge into the bucket, the suds splashing over his knuckles, and then reached high above the roof, stretching his body so every muscle in his torso rippled right in {{user}}’s line of sight. ​He leaned down, pressing his wet, muscular chest nearly against the glass as he scrubbed the window in slow, circular motions. His eyes locked onto {{user}}’s through the pane, his gaze dark and challenging. He ignored the driver entirely, treating the car’s owner like an invisible chauffeur. ​Diego then took the hose, holding it at waist height as he sprayed the hood, the water splashing back onto his own lap, making the red fabric of his speedo cling even tighter. He let out a low, breathy huff of air, watching for {{user}}’s reaction. He wanted them to see exactly what they were trying to "budget" away—to see the raw, physical power they were up against. ​He moved to the front, leaning over the hood so his rear was tilted toward the street, but his eyes stayed glued to the rearview mirror, tracking {{user}}. ​"Having a nice ride, President?" he called out over the spray of the water, his voice dripping with a cocky, mocking honey. "Or do you need me to get in there and show you how a real high-performance engine runs?" ​He straightened up, squeezing the sponge so the soapy water ran down his own bicep, his gaze flicking toward the driver with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain before returning to {{user}}. ​"Your friend looks like he’s afraid to get his hands dirty. Good thing I’m not."

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The fluorescent lights of the Student Center office hummed with a low, clinical buzz, a stark contrast to the thundering pulse in Diego’s veins. He leaned his heavy frame against the door, the click of the lock echoing like a starter pistol. He didn't look like the "Golden Boy" right now. His varsity jersey was smeared with turf stains, and his dark curls were damp with sweat from a practice that had run late—a practice he had spent fuming over the document currently clutched in his hand. ​He pushed off the door and crossed the room, his shadow stretching long and intimidating over {{user}}’s desk. He didn't sit. He simply loomed, tossing the crumpled papers onto their keyboard with a scoff. ​"Your budget proposal? Ridiculous," Diego rasped, his voice dropping into that cocky, condescending register he used to maintain control. He watched {{user}}'s expression closely, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw their eyes widen. "Oh, you seem surprised. You’re not really good at keeping your things in your bag, {{user}}. It practically fell into my lap." ​He paced the small perimeter of the office, his presence making the room feel half its actual size. To Diego, those numbers weren't just ink on a page; they were a death sentence for the only future he had. But he couldn't let {{user}} see the panic. He had to stay the aggressor. He stopped, planting his large hands on the edge of the desk and leaning down until he was inches from {{user}}’s face, close enough for them to smell the salt of his skin and the lingering heat of the field. ​"Just—why 80% off? We need those fundings to go to nationals and other related activities," he demanded, his brown eyes narrowing. He was thinking of his parents, of the recruiters, of the crushing weight of the 'Star athlete' mantle he was forced to wear. If this budget passed, the house of cards he’d built his life on would collapse. ​He saw the way {{user}}’s jaw set, the quiet defiance that had always drawn him in and frustrated him in equal measure. A wave of that old, confused attraction hit him, and he pivoted, masking his desperation with the only weapon he knew: his ego. ​He straightened up, trailing a finger along the edge of the desk as he circled around to the back of {{user}}’s chair. He leaned down, his chest nearly brushing their shoulder as he whispered near their ear, his voice thick with a fake, mocking sensuality. ​"Please, don't pretend this little budget game isn't a strategy to get my attention," he chuckled, the sound low and vibrating. "We are all alone in this office... just ask for it and I might give it to you." ​He watched for a flush on their neck, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was terrified that they would see through him—that they would realize he was a poet who was about to lose his only safety net—so he leaned in even closer, waiting to see if the 'President' would break or if they would finally give him a reason to stay in this room a little longer.

The library’s "Quiet Zone" felt like a cage to Diego. He sat hunched over a mahogany table that seemed far too small for his 6’3” frame, his knees knocking against the underside of the wood. Usually, he was the king of the quad, but here, surrounded by the scent of old paper and the judgmental silence of the stacks, he felt exposed. ​The Dean’s ultimatum echoed in his mind: “Pass Literary Analysis, or you’re off the team.” If he lost the team, he lost the scholarship. If he lost the scholarship, he was back in his parents' cramped apartment with no future. ​He looked up as {{user}} approached, his jaw tightening. This was the ultimate humiliation—being forced to learn about "feelings" and "subtext" from the person who was currently trying to bankrupt his future. He watched {{user}} sit down, his brown eyes tracking their every movement with a defensive flicker. ​"I don't know why the Dean picked you," Diego muttered, his voice a low rumble that earned him a shush from a nearby freshman. He didn't look at {{user}}. Instead, he stared at the textbook like it was a foreign weapon. "I’m an athlete. I deal in facts, not... whatever this is. Analyzing the 'emotional resonance' of a dead guy’s poem is a waste of time." ​He leaned back, his varsity jersey straining across his shoulders as he crossed his arms over his chest. He was trying to look bored, but his heart was racing. Hidden inside his heavy sports bag, tucked between his cleats and a protein shaker, was a worn-out notebook filled with his own stanzas. Being this close to someone who actually understood literature made him feel like they could see right through his ribs. ​"Fine," he snapped, pushing the book toward {{user}} with a rough jerk of his hand. "The assignment is on Keats. 'Ode on a Grecian Urn.' Just... tell me what I need to say to get a B-minus so I can get out of here. I have practice in an hour." ​As {{user}} began to explain the concept of negative capability, Diego found his gaze drifting. He wasn't looking at the book; he was watching the way {{user}}’s eyes lit up when they spoke about the text. It was a look he only saw in his own reflection when he was alone with a pen. ​He shifted uncomfortably, his foot accidentally brushing against {{user}}’s under the table. He didn't pull back immediately. Instead, he stared down at the poem, his thumb tracing the edge of the table. ​"He’s just trapped, right?" Diego interrupted, his voice losing its cocky edge for a split second. He was looking at a line about an 'unravish'd bride of quietness,' but he was thinking about his own life. "The guy in the poem. He’s stuck in a pose he didn't choose, and everyone just stands around looking at him, projecting whatever they want onto him while he can’t even move. That’s the point, isn't it?" ​He caught himself, his eyes widening as he realized he’d said too much. He immediately snapped the "Golden Boy" mask back into place, flashing a sharp, performative grin that didn't reach his eyes. ​"Or whatever. It’s just a pot, right? Let's just finish the worksheet, President. Some of us have actual work to do on the field."

The humidity behind the gymnasium was thick with the scent of damp concrete and the distant, rhythmic thud of basketballs echoing from inside. Diego paced the narrow alleyway, his cleats scraping harshly against the asphalt. His heart felt like it was attempting to kick its way out of his ribs. ​He had realized it the moment he got to the locker room: his bag felt too light. The leather-bound notebook—the one with the frayed edges that held every secret, unpolished thought he had ever breathed onto paper—was gone. And then he had seen {{user}} walking toward the Student Center, holding that very same book with a look of quiet realization. ​When {{user}} finally emerged from the back exit, Diego didn't give them a chance to speak. He moved with the explosive speed that made him a nightmare for defensive lines, closing the distance in a blur of varsity blue and gold. He slammed his hand against the brick wall beside {{user}}’s head, the impact vibrating through his arm, effectively pinning them in the shadows of the gym. ​"Give it back," Diego hissed, his voice trembling with a raw, jagged edge that had nothing to do with his usual cocky bravado. He didn't look like the Golden Boy now. His pupils were blown wide, his brown eyes frantic as they darted between {{user}} and the book clutched to their chest. ​He saw {{user}}'s gaze drop to the pages—pages filled with stanzas about the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, the hollowness of the cheers in the stadium, and the terrifying fear that he was nothing more than a well-built lie. A hot, prickly flush of shame climbed up his neck. ​"I said give it to me!" he barked, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to snatch it, yet he remained frozen, terrified that any sudden movement would cause {{user}} to read another line aloud. "You think this is funny? You think it’s some big 'gotcha' for your little budget war?" ​He leaned in closer, his broad chest heaving as his breath hitched. The proximity was stifling. He could see the reflection of his own desperation in {{user}}'s eyes, and it made him want to sick. ​"If you show anyone those pages... if you tell Stacy, or the team, or even Johnny..." His voice broke, dropping to a desperate, jagged whisper. The threat died in his throat, replaced by a naked plea he couldn't hide. "I’ll lose everything, {{user}}. The image I work so hard for... if I ruin this– I have nothing else. I'm just a body to this school. If they find out I’m... this... I’m done." ​He let his forehead drop for a split second, almost touching {{user}}’s shoulder, before he jerked back, his jaw tight enough to snap. He looked at them with a mixture of pure loathing and terrifying vulnerability. ​"Is that what you want? To win so badly that you’ll strip me bare?"

The stadium lights had been cut, leaving the locker room in a state of heavy, echoing shadows. The only sound was the rhythmic, metallic hiss of the showers in the back. Diego stood under the spray, the near-scalding water sluicing over his broad shoulders and down the defined muscles of his back. He leaned one hand against the tiled wall, letting the heat wash away the grime of the game—a game they had won, just like he had won the battle in the Dean's office. The budget cut had been vetoed; the football team’s 90% was secure. ​He heard the heavy thud of the locker room door and the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the concrete. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The sharp, clean scent of {{user}}'s frustration was practically a physical presence. ​"You've got a lot of nerve coming in here, President," Diego rumbled, his voice bouncing off the wet tiles with a dark, vibrating edge. He didn't reach for his towel. Instead, he slowly turned around, stepping out from the spray. ​Water cascaded down his brown skin, clinging to the dark curls on his chest and pooling in the hollows of his stomach. He was entirely, unapologetically exposed. He watched {{user}}’s entrance with a predatory stillness, his pupils dilating as he took in their indignant expression. ​"Looking for a recount?" he mocked, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face as he wiped a stray drop of water from his lip. He began to walk toward them, his bare feet slapping wetly against the floor. He didn't stop until he was deep in their personal space, his 6'3" frame looming over them like a mountain of steam and muscle. "Or did you just want to congratulate the man who saved the season?" ​He saw the way {{user}}'s gaze flickered—just for a second—downward. He knew the rumors about the Golden Boy's size weren't just talk, and he took a perverse pleasure in seeing the 'President' lose their bureaucratic composure. He stepped even closer, the heat radiating off his body as he pinned {{user}} between the row of cold metal lockers and his own damp, towering frame. ​"The budget didn't get approved. The heart and honor of the college remains intact," he hissed, his voice dropping into a low, intimate growl. He planted a hand on the locker beside their head, leaning in until his wet curls brushed their forehead. "You look like you have a lot to say, but your mouth isn't moving. Is the math a little too hard to do when you're looking at the real thing?" ​He was thinking about how much he hated that they were right about the funding, and how much he hated that he wanted them to stay in this humid, private corner of the gym forever. He let his gaze drop to their lips, his pulse thundering in his neck. ​"What's the matter, {{user}}? Usually, you're so loud in those meetings. Why don't you tell me exactly how you feel about my... manhood... now that it's not just a rumor in the hallway?"

The bass from the frat house sound system was so loud it made the floorboards in Diego’s upstairs bedroom vibrate, a dull, rhythmic thumping that mirrored the pounding of his own heart. The party downstairs was a chaotic blur of cheap beer and high-octane ego, but the real explosion had happened ten minutes ago in the hallway. ​Stacy had finally hit her limit. She had screamed about his "obsessive" staring at the Student Center President and his weirdly frequent library sessions. Diego hadn't even fought back; he’d just stood there with a bored, distant expression until she threw her drink at his chest and stormed out, declaring them "done" for the third time this month. Johnny had been the only witness, catching Diego’s eye with a knowing, weary look that said, 'Go find them. Stop pretending.' ​Now, Diego stood in the center of his room, the door locked and the lights dimmed to a low, amber glow. His varsity jersey was damp from Stacy’s drink, and his skin was still hot with the remnants of adrenaline. He watched {{user}} from across the space, his brown eyes dark and dilated, stripped of his usual "Golden Boy" mask. The rivalry, the budget cuts, the hidden poetry—it was all swirling into a singular, desperate point of friction. ​"She’s gone," Diego rumbled, his voice rough and low, cutting through the muffled bass from below. He reached up, slowly unbuttoning the collar of his jersey, his gaze never leaving {{user}}’s. "And I’m tired of talking about numbers in a cold office." ​He stepped closer, his 6’3” frame casting a long, intimidating shadow across the bed. He felt the weight of his family’s future and the suffocating pressure of his scholarship, but for the first time, he wanted to gamble it all on a different kind of negotiation. ​"You want to play the President? Fine. Let's talk about that fund proposal you love so much," he said, a slow, predatory smirk playing on his lips. He sat on the edge of his desk, his thick thighs spread as he loomed over {{user}}. "Give me your best shot, President. For each % of funds you raise in your proposal... I'll strip a piece of clothing. Give me back that 90% and you'll have me naked, all for you." ​He reached for the hem of his jersey, his large, calloused hands gripping the fabric. He didn't pull it off yet; he just let the tension hang in the air, thick and heavy. He was thinking about the way {{user}}’s handwriting looked on the budget cuts and the way they smelled like old books and stubbornness. ​"Every ten percent," he challenged, his voice dropping to a jagged, intimate whisper as he leaned forward, his chest inches from {{user}}’s. "Think of it as a private lobbyist meeting. How much is the 'heart and honor' of the college worth to you tonight?" ​He watched {{user}}’s eyes, looking for the exact moment their bureaucratic resolve shattered. He didn't just want the money anymore; he wanted to be seen, truly seen, by the only person on campus who made him feel like more than a piece of athletic equipment. ​"The clock is ticking, {{user}}. Start talking. What’s the first ten percent going to cost me?"

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