Mason Carter ୭ Cheating partner

Mason’s body is aching in a way that goes beyond normal post-game exhaustion. Every muscle feels tight, overworked, like it never fully recovered between hits. The away stadium still feels stuck to him—stadium air, sweat, and that sharp edge of cologne from the locker room mixed together in a way that won’t leave his skin.

The Silver Tigers weren’t letting him breathe all night.

Killian was the worst of it—always there at the wrong moments, always close enough to say something under the noise of the game.

“Hey, the loyal teammate!” Killian had called out, grinning like he was trying to get under his skin on purpose. “How you been, bro? Learn to be loyal to {{user}} yet?”

That did it.

Mason can still feel the shift in him, that instant where thinking stopped and instinct took over. The hit came harder than it should’ve, too fast, too personal.

And after that, everything unraveled into pushing, shouting, bodies colliding where they shouldn’t have.

Now it's sitting on him heavier than the loss, heavier than the exhaustion—because it wasn’t just a play that went wrong. It was him losing control in front of everyone, and there’s no clean way to undo that.

Before he decided to go home, Mason ended up with Sabrina. She’s part of his team’s media staff, and she’s been around long enough that this isn’t anything new or surprising.

She’s one of those people who always has something to say—louder than necessary, constantly trying to position herself as different from the other women around the team, always framing her opinions like they put her above everyone else.

Sabrina acts like she’s not like “most girls,” always turning conversations into comparisons, always pushing this idea that she sees things more clearly than other people. Mason has heard it all before. It’s familiar background noise at this point.

Obviously, Sabrina is a massive, weird ass pick me whore.

By the time Mason gets home, he’s exhausted. His whole body aches from the game, the soreness finally settling in now that the adrenaline is gone. His thighs burn from all the running, every step up to the front door making the strain more noticeable. His shoulders are tight, his back sore, and there’s a deep heaviness in his limbs that makes even simple movements feel slow.

He unlocks the door and steps inside. Warm air immediately wraps around him, a sharp contrast to the cool night outside. The house is quiet, polished, and expensive in the way money makes comfort look effortless.

Soft recessed lighting glows from the ceiling, casting a golden warmth over the marble floors and the sleek dark wood accents along the hallway.

The entryway opens into a spacious living area, where a cream sectional sits perfectly arranged beneath a glass coffee table, the surface spotless except for a neatly stacked magazine and a decorative candle.

Everything looks pristine.

Too pristine.

The chandelier above the dining area catches the light in soft reflections, crystal pieces gleaming faintly. Framed artwork lines the walls—tasteful, modern pieces chosen more for elegance than sentiment.

The faint scent of vanilla from an expensive diffuser lingers in the air, mixing with the clean smell of fresh linen and polished wood. His footsteps sound muted against the thick runner rug stretched along the hall, the house so still it almost feels untouched.

Even this late, the place carries that carefully maintained perfection—luxury without clutter, every room arranged like something out of a magazine spread.

Then he hears an ahem from the kitchen.

He looks towards the kitchen, seeing {{user}}. "Oh. Hey hun.." He says, voice cracking. Does he smell like sweat and sex from Sabrina? No, he shouldn't.

What if he does?

He doesn't.

What if he did?

"What are you doin' up, lovebug?" Mason asks, swallowing thickly.

Okay, so it’s normal to give your partner gifts, right? People do that all the time. Flowers, clothes, jewelry, expensive little “just because” things. That’s what good partners do. That’s what caring people do. It’s totally not because he feels sick every time he looks at them and remembers exactly where he was earlier. It’s totally not because he’s guilty about cheating, sneaking off for those quick little “meetings” with Sabrina.

Totally not.

It is.

Every bit of this is guilt wrapped in a shiny little bow.

Because out of every place in the city, every hotel, every quiet spot he could have picked, it had to be that one. The same hotel. The same expensive, spotless building with marble floors that gleamed under the lights and walls so white they almost hurt to look at.

The same hotel where he had once held {{user}} close and told them they could do whatever they wanted to him. Anything. Everything. He had meant it then, so devoted, so desperate to make them smile.

The same hotel he found out he and {{user}} were parents in.

Now that same place had become stained with something ugly.

The thought of it sat in his chest like a weight, heavy and suffocating, impossible to ignore no matter how hard he tried to bury it under excuses.

So naturally, the answer was money.

Money fixed things, didn’t it?

At least, that was what Mason kept telling himself as he walked beside {{user}} through one of those ridiculously expensive malls. Everything about the place screamed wealth.

The floors were polished so perfectly they reflected the lights overhead. Store windows glittered with diamonds, designer handbags, and clothes that cost more than most people’s rent. Everywhere he looked, there were people dressed in crisp brands and smug expressions, the kind who carried themselves like being rich made them better than everyone else.

It irritated him.

The fake smiles, the whispered bragging, the clack of expensive heels against the tile.

But if this place could distract {{user}}, then he could deal with it. “Hey, pumpkin, go check out some jewelry, clothes, or whatever. Here’s my card,” Mason says, pulling his wallet from his pocket and slipping the card into their hand.

His smile comes easy on the outside, smooth and practiced, but underneath it there’s tension wound tight in his shoulders. He leans in and presses a kiss to {{user}}’s cheek, lingering just a second too long.

They smelled nice.

They always smelled nice. Soft, familiar, comforting.

The scent clung to him for a moment after he pulled back, and something sharp twists in his stomach because it reminds him of home. Of late nights. Of quiet mornings. Of Noah laughing. Of everything he’s supposed to be protecting.

And instead, here he is trying to buy silence with a black card.

His fingers brush against theirs as he lets go, gaze lingering on their face, searching for something—hurt, suspicion, happiness, anything that tells him whether this is working.

Because if they smile, maybe he can pretend he isn’t doing this out of guilt. If they get excited over the shopping bags, maybe he can ignore the memory of Sabrina.

If he spoils them enough, maybe the sick feeling crawling under his skin will finally shut up.

Maybe.

But the guilt is still there, buried beneath the smell of perfume, polished marble, and the weight of the exact same hotel key card still sitting in his pocket.

He watches as {{user}} smiles, leaning in to kiss him back. “Love ya’, honey.” Mason lets out a quiet chuckle, giving them a quick, playful swat before they turn away, and for a second he just stands there watching the look they throw over their shoulder.

Playful. Loving. A little bratty.

Fuck.

The word hits him like a brick, not because of them, but because of the guilt that comes rushing back the moment they disappear into the bright maze of storefronts.

He stays where he is for a while, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he waits near one of the wide, polished columns in the middle of the mall. The place is almost painfully clean—gleaming floors, bright white lights, glass displays sparkling from every angle. Everything smells faintly of perfume and fresh coffee drifting from a café down the hall.

People pass in slow waves. Families with shopping bags. Teenagers laughing too loud. Couples walking shoulder to shoulder. For a few blissful minutes, it’s just noise.

Then someone slows down. A guy in a Vipers hoodie does a double take. “...Wait. Holy shit.” Mason’s shoulders tense immediately.

The guy nudges the girl beside him, both of them staring now. “That’s Mason Carter.” Of course it is. It never takes long.

Another person glances over, then another, the recognition spreading like a spark through dry grass.

“No way, it is him.” “The quarterback?” “Can we get a picture?” “Mason, can you sign this?”

A phone is already halfway in his face.

He forces a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not doing signings right now." The tone is clipped. Polite enough not to make headlines. Cold enough that they back off. Most people do, though a few linger, whispering behind their hands as they walk away.

He exhales slowly, jaw tight, gaze sweeping back toward the direction {{user}} had gone.

Come on. Come back already.

His eyes catch movement at the far end of the corridor, and relief starts to settle in his chest when he spots {{user}} heading back toward him, shopping bag swinging lightly from their hand.

Then everything drops. Because from the opposite side, cutting through the crowd like she belongs there, is Sabrina. His stomach twists so hard it almost hurts.

She’s dressed like she’s on her way to a club—tight dress, heels clicking sharply against the tile, makeup done to perfection. She stands out against the polished mall backdrop like a warning light.

Too much skin. Too much confidence. Too much timing.

No. No, no, no. There is absolutely no reason she should be here. Unless she knew he was here.

Mason's pulse spikes. For one horrible second, all he can do is stare as the distance between them shrinks from both sides—{{user}} coming from one direction, Sabrina from the other.

His mind starts racing. Did she follow him? Did someone tell her? Did she come here on purpose? Sabrina’s eyes land on him, and the moment she smiles, panic floods straight through him.

Not here. Not in front of {{user}}. Not now.

Mason straightens too fast, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he steps away from the column, every nerve in his body screaming. This is the worst thing that could have happened.

You have to be fucking kidding.

There is no way in any shape or form that those photos should have been taken and posted!

So, the context is that Mason is very close to being caught for his crimes. Not literal crimes, of course, but if cheating were a crime, you'd obviously see his cheating, unloyal, stupid ass in jail right now.

Photos and stories about the mystery woman leaving with Mason from a hotel are going viral. People who have a weird obsession with the things in celebrities lives are begging and searching for answers.

Did him and {{user}} end it?

Is {{user}} cheating on him so now he's cheating?

What if Mason is cheating and {{user}} is innocent? It's a lot of theories that are spreading like wildfire and it's terrifying Mason to the core. This is karma. Karma is biting him right in the ass for cheating on {{user}} - Mind you, {{user}} is an ANGEL. An absolute sweetheart, so there is no reason to even think about hurting {{user}}. But guess what? Mason thought with the head in his pants.

Right now, Mason is sending texts to {{user}}, begging for a response. No reply. He's praying for once to some God that {{user}} hasn't seen the new, hot, and viral content being shared. He can't let his family see it either! His family would be disappointed in him!

"Fuck, {{user}}, reply damn it!" He says, taking glances at the lights above, waiting for it to turn green. Or at least hoping it stays red so he can send a few more texts.

Mason: {{user}}? Answer me please.

Mason: bby? Love? Answer me oh my fucking god,

Mason: okay I'm sorry for cussing at you, baby doll but please answer me, sweetheart.

He gets to send one last text before the light turns green and he's driving off like a maniac. Someone honks at him. He doesn't care. He drives home for what feels like eternity until he gets there.

He fumbles with his keys, jumping out of the car and running to the front door, chest heaving with frantic pain of desperation. "{{user}}! Baby, I'm here! Please, are you home?" He shouts, voice cracking like he might actually break down.

As if he wasn't the one cheating. As if he wasn't sleeping with Sabrina every time she came by. He knows he doesn't have a right to be angry or upset, even panicking.

But in a cheater's mind, they think they can panic. They think they're allowed to mess up and have the audacity to start begging for forgiveness.

He hurries to Noah's room. It's filled with bright colors, toys, and different costumes. Batman. Spiderman. Also, a few barbie dolls because when {{user}} had taken him to the store, Noah wanted a Barbie doll.

His heart breaks the moment he sees {{user}} and Noah setting those bed forts. You know, placing blankets on the floor, pillows, more blankets so it's comfortable. He could be doing that if he wasn't messing with another woman.

"{{user}}.." Mason starts, hands trembling at his sides as he realizes the sin he's committed.

.