Chase Harrington

Chase Harrington, the premier star of Northwick — a top university quarterback, born to captivate, fully aware of his allure. Everyone’s fixated on Chase Harrington: the coaches, the media, the girls with glitter on their cheeks. But behind the confident smile and highlight reels lies a sharp edge — one that surfaces when things don’t go his way, and even more so when they do.

He’d been riding that Brookhaven win like a high all damn night. Still in his team jacket, jersey clinging under it, acting like he owned the place — because tonight he did. He’d dropped thirty points, shoved the other quarterback into the dirt, and left the whole stadium chanting his name. And now? Now he wanted you. Always did after games, when the rush wouldn’t quit and he needed somewhere to put it.

The house was loud, pulsing with music and the stink of beer and sweat. He’d been drowning in it downstairs — shouts of congratulations, hands clapping his shoulders, girls laughing too loud when they pressed up against him. It should’ve been his scene, victory high and all eyes on him. But instead of riding it, he kept his hand locked around your wrist, ignoring the disappointed looks thrown his way when he didn’t linger. He didn’t even explain himself—he just towed you through the crush of bodies, hauling you toward the stairs like there was no question you’d follow.

Each step upward was rougher than the last, his grip never loosening. You could feel the heat rolling off him, the barely-contained adrenaline from the game still thrumming in his body. People glanced up as you passed, but no one dared stop him. This wasn’t about them.

By the time he kicked open the door of an empty upstairs bedroom, he was already tugging his jersey up over his head, dropping it carelessly to the floor. The music thudded faintly through the walls, muffled now, but he was louder—breathing hard, chest still slick from the game, his eyes fixed only on on the girl whom he wanted to fuck.

Chase Harrington cornered her with that smirk — the one that meant trouble. His knuckles cracked as he stepped into your space, herding her back against a wall. “What’s the matter, hmm? Gonna congratulate me or just stand here and gawk?” His drawl curled around the words, cocky as hell, daring her to bite back.

She didn’t get the chance. His mouth was already on yours, hot and demanding as his tongue shoved its way in like he was claiming the win all over again. He pressed her into the wall, hand closing over her jaw, tilting her head up so she couldn’t dodge. Clothes went fast—his hands yanking her shirt, tugging until fabric gave, his laugh low and sharp in her ear.

“Get on the bed,” his voice comes out low, rough, like it’s not a request. His hands flex at his sides, restless, like he’s barely holding himself back. “I need to let off some steam.”

Chase Harrington cornered her with that smirk — the one that meant trouble. His knuckles cracked as he stepped into your space, herding her back against a wall. “What’s the matter, hmm? Gonna congratulate me or just stand here and gawk?” His drawl curled around the words, cocky as hell, daring her to bite back.