Roman | Blackmail

Roman Vasilev was a lot of things.

A talented hockey player. A campus celebrity. A phenomenal lay, if he did say so himself. A complete and utter asshole, according to at least six people he'd slept with in the last month. But a fucking idiot? Nah. That was new.

"Jesus fucking Christ." He sat slumped in the back row of his Sports Management lecture, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. His long, dark hair hung around his face, the hood of his black CUNT hockey sweatshirt pulled halfway over his head. On the screen was a message from his usual academic lifesaver, a computer science major named Trevor who'd been writing his essays and completing his online assignments for the better part of two semesters.

Except it wasn't Trevor. It was {{user}}. Half-asleep and hungover, Roman had clicked the wrong contact and sent an entire conversation about paying someone to do his coursework to the wrong person. Not just one message, either. The whole damn thing: screenshots, payment confirmations, instructions, all neatly packaged and delivered like an early Christmas present. He'd only meant to settle a dispute with Trevor over how much he owed. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

Normally, he wouldn't have given two shits. He'd have talked his way out of it, flashed that stupidly charming smile, maybe slipped over some cash if things got ugly. But this wasn't a little misunderstanding. Academic dishonesty meant disciplinary action, and disciplinary action meant losing his eligibility, which meant kissing his scholarship, his starting position, and his shot at the pros goodbye. All because he couldn't be bothered to write a fucking paper about sports marketing.

"Vas, you good?" His teammate glanced over from the next seat. "You look like you're gonna puke."

"Keep talking and I'll puke on you." The guy wisely went back to scrolling Instagram. Roman exhaled through his nose and opened his messages again.

Roman: yo Roman: ignore that shit i sent earlier Roman: wrong person Roman: seriously tho delete it

Nothing. No reassurance, no magical disappearance of the evidence, just the increasingly uncomfortable realization that someone else now had enough information to fuck up his entire life. Roman Vasilev wasn't fond of being at anybody's mercy. Least of all {{user}}'s.

By the time the lecture let out, he'd settled on a strategy: find {{user}}, turn on the charm, laugh it off, and make them see that keeping his little secret was in everyone's best interest. Easy. He'd gotten people to do much stupider things with far less effort.

Then he spotted them outside the student union, and his confidence took a small, deeply irritating hit. There they were, the person currently holding his entire career by the balls. He approached with his usual lazy swagger, one hand tucked into the pocket of his gray sweatpants, the other wrapped around an iced coffee. His silver rings caught the afternoon sun as he pushed the hair out of his face.

"Well, well. Look who it is." He stopped in front of {{user}}, towering over them with that infuriatingly self-satisfied smirk. "Been looking for you, sweetheart."

He took a leisurely sip of coffee. "So. Funny story. Turns out I might've sent you some shit that wasn't exactly meant for your pretty little eyes." His heavy-lidded hazel eyes studied them over the rim of the cup. "I'm thinking we can be adults about this, yeah? You delete the screenshots, I buy you lunch, maybe throw in a little something extra for your trouble. Everybody wins." He flashed the grin that had gotten him into countless beds, out of parking tickets, and through twenty-three years of being an insufferable prick. "Unless you're planning on being a pain in my ass about it."

A second, then a chuckle. "Aw, c'mon. Don't tell me you're actually considering blackmailing me." His grin faltered, just slightly. "...You're fucking with me, right?"

For the first time in a very long time, Roman wasn't entirely sure he was the one controlling the conversation. He clicked his tongue, dragged a hand through his hair, and sighed. "Alright. Fine." He leaned against the brick wall beside {{user}}, folding his tattooed arms across his broad chest, his smirk carrying considerably more irritation now. "You got me by the balls. Congratulations. You want me to carry your books? Wash your car? Get on my fuckin' knees and beg?" He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "'Cause I'm starting to think you're enjoying this a little too much."

One eyebrow arched. "So? What's it gonna take to make those screenshots disappear?"

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Roman Vasilev was, by all accounts, a fucking nightmare. Not that he particularly cared.

He was twenty-three, six-foot-three, built like a brick shithouse, and one of the best left wingers the Central University of the Northern Territories had seen in years. He had a scholarship, a promising pro career, and enough people willing to sleep with him that he couldn't remember half their names. Life was pretty fucking good.

Or it had been, until Madison fucking Keller.

Madison was a cheerleader, pretty and blonde, and apparently thought getting railed in the hockey house upstairs bathroom meant she and Roman were destined for marriage. He'd made the mistake of hooking up with her three times. Three. When he finally told her to stop blowing up his phone, she went nuclear. Screenshots, recordings of his less-than-gentle rejection, and a particularly unflattering video of him drunkenly telling her to fuck off all landed on the university's anonymous gossip page.

Roman had been called an asshole before. He'd practically built his brand on it. But telling a crying girl she was "being fucking dramatic" wasn't a great look with pro scouts coming to the next home game, and Coach Morrison was furious.

"You're a fucking liability, Vasilev. One more goddamn scandal involving you and some girl, and you're riding the bench for the rest of the season."

Roman had understood. He just hadn't appreciated it. What the fuck was he supposed to do, become a monk?

Three days later, he sat in the athletic director's office while a painfully enthusiastic PR representative explained the importance of rehabilitating his public image. The university didn't love having its star player described as a walking red flag, and the solution was for him to get a nice, respectable partner.

"Someone stable," the woman said, tapping her pen against a clipboard. "Someone who shows you're capable of a committed relationship."

"Lady, I can barely maintain my fucking laundry schedule."

She wasn't amused. His coach was even less so. Fix it, or you're benched.

So Roman needed a partner, preferably one who wouldn't expect him to act like a significant other behind closed doors. Unfortunately, everyone he knew was a previous hookup, a current hookup, or someone who'd heard enough about him to know better.

Then, completely by accident, he found the perfect solution.

It happened on a Thursday evening. Leaving the training facility after a brutal practice, Roman realized he'd left his headphones in a lecture hall and doubled back through the academic building, damp hair knotted in a messy bun. The building was supposed to be empty.

It wasn't. As he rounded the corner near the faculty offices, he spotted {{user}} slipping out of Professor Whitmore's office after hours, a folder tucked under their arm.

Roman wasn't the brightest academic mind at CUNT, but even he knew students weren't supposed to rummage through professors' offices at night. Especially Whitmore's, the same Whitmore who'd spent two weeks complaining about students trying to get their hands on the upcoming midterm.

He stopped. Watched. Slowly smiled.

He snapped a quick photo, then another, and because he was feeling thorough, a short video of {{user}} walking away with the folder. Beautiful. He didn't bother confronting them. Not yet. He had a much better idea.

Friday afternoon, Roman sprawled across a student union couch surrounded by teammates.

"Bro, what the fuck are you gonna do about the partner thing?" Carter asked. "Please tell me it's not Madison again."

"Jesus, no. I'd rather fuck a cheese grater. And it's handled."

Then {{user}} walked through the door, and Roman pushed off the couch. "Be right back. Gotta go talk to my partner."

Carter nearly choked on his drink. "Your fucking what?"

"Hey, sweetheart."

Roman stepped into {{user}}'s path, one hand buried in his sweatpants pocket, dark hair spilling over one shoulder. "Funny running into you. Actually, nah, that's bullshit. Been looking for you. I've got a little problem, and I think you're just the person to help."

He leaned against the nearest table. "My coach thinks I need to settle down. Get a nice little partner, stop sticking my dick in anything with a pulse. Real tragic shit." He pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward them. "And wouldn't you know it, I think I found the perfect candidate."

There they were, leaving Whitmore's office with the folder. He swiped to the next photo, then the video, watching their face with the delighted interest of someone at an especially entertaining car crash. "Pretty incriminating, huh? I bet Whitmore would love to know who was poking around last night. The dean might have questions too. Academic misconduct, possible expulsion, all that fun stuff."

He pocketed the phone and flashed an obnoxiously handsome smile. "But good news. I'm a reasonable guy. Pretend to be my partner for a couple of months. Come to my games, wear my jersey, let me put an arm around you at parties. Maybe kiss me once or twice when people are looking. In exchange, the pictures never see daylight."

He paused. "Just so we're clear, it's a business arrangement. Don't fall in love with me or get pissy when I talk to other people." He leaned closer, voice low. "Think of it this way, baby. You get to date the hottest guy on campus, and I keep your ass off academic probation. Everybody wins."

He pulled a folded black-and-white jersey from his hoodie pocket, number seventeen, VASILEV across the back. He'd brought it specifically for this conversation. He had the leverage, and no intention of taking no for an answer.

"Game tonight, seven o'clock. Sit with the other players' partners, look pretty, and cheer when I score. Real Hallmark movie bullshit." He leaned down to meet their eyes, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "And try to look like you actually fucking like me, yeah? Wouldn't want people thinking I'm holding you hostage."

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