Rival Hookups | Asher

Asher's apartment was a disaster zone—clothes scattered across the hardwood floor, his comforter half-dragged off the bed, the afternoon light cutting harsh angles through the blinds he'd forgotten to close. He was shirtless, breathing hard, one hand braced against the headboard while the other had been occupied with considerably more interesting territory approximately thirty seconds ago. You were beneath him looking equally disheveled, your shirt somewhere near the doorway, and for once you weren't running your mouth about what an arrogant asshole he was or how much you couldn't stand him or any of the usual shit that came out when you two were in public.

That was the thing about these encounters—the blessed silence. No audience, no performance, just the two of them and the fucked-up chemistry that had been building since freshman year when they'd first gone head-to-head during tryouts and immediately hated each other's guts.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Not a polite knock. Not the tentative tap of someone checking if anyone was home. This was aggressive, insistent pounding—the kind that said whoever was on the other side wasn't leaving until they got an answer.

Asher froze. You went completely still beneath him, and he watched your expression shift from whatever heat had been there moments ago to something closer to panic mixed with fury, like this interruption was somehow his fault. Which was ridiculous, because his roommate Jake wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow night, and Asher sure as hell wasn't expecting company in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.

The knocking continued, louder now, more demanding.

"Ash! I know you're in there, man. Your car's outside."

Fuck. That was Marcus—one of his teammates, a defensive player who lived two buildings over and had an annoying habit of showing up unannounced. Marcus sounded agitated, his voice carrying through the apartment door with an edge that suggested whatever he wanted, it wasn't casual.

Asher's mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. The bathroom window was too small for anyone to realistically climb through. The closet was an obvious hiding spot that would only make things worse if Marcus somehow got inside and found you crammed in there among Asher's athletic gear. There was no back exit, no convenient fire escape, no way to get you out of his apartment without being seen.

"Asher! Come on, I can hear you moving around. Open up!"

You were staring at him now with an expression that was definitely more anger than panic, your jaw tight, and Asher could practically read your thoughts: This is exactly why this is a terrible idea. This is exactly what I said would happen.

Except you hadn't said that, not explicitly, because neither of them ever actually talked about what they were doing or why they kept doing it or what would happen if someone found out. They just kept ending up here—or in your dorm, or in the back of one of their cars, or that one time in the equipment room after everyone else had left—and then they went right back to being rivals the next day like nothing had happened.

Asher grabbed your shirt from where it had landed near the foot of the bed and shoved it at your chest, his voice low and urgent. "Get dressed. Now."

You snatched the shirt from him but didn't move to put it on immediately, and Asher felt a spike of irritation cut through his panic. This wasn't the time for you to be stubborn or difficult or whatever the hell you were doing by just sitting there looking at him like he'd personally orchestrated this disaster.

Marcus knocked again, even louder. "Dude, seriously! I need to talk to you about something. It's important."

Asher ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. His own shirt was somewhere—there, on the floor by the nightstand. He grabbed it and pulled it on, then looked around the room for any other obvious evidence that needed to disappear in the next ten seconds. The bed was a mess, but that could be explained away. The real problem was you, still sitting there half-dressed with marks on your neck that Asher had definitely put there and an expression that suggested you were about two seconds away from saying something that would start another argument.

"Stay here," Asher said, keeping his voice quiet but firm. "Don't make a sound. I'll get rid of him."

He moved toward the bedroom door, then paused and turned back. You still hadn't put your shirt on, and you were watching him with that look—the one that always got under his skin, the one that said you saw right through whatever bullshit he was trying to pull and weren't impressed.

"I mean it," Asher added, his tone harder now. "If he sees you in here like this, we're both fucked. So unless you want everyone on the team knowing about this by tomorrow morning, you'll shut up and stay put."

He didn't wait for your response—didn't want to see whether you'd argue or agree or just keep staring at him with that infuriating expression. Instead he stepped out of the bedroom and pulled the door mostly closed behind him, leaving just enough of a gap that he could hear if you decided to do something stupid.

The knocking had stopped, but Asher could see Marcus's shadow through the peephole, still standing there, waiting.

Asher took a breath, ran his hand through his hair one more time to make sure it didn't look like he'd just been rolling around in bed with someone, and opened the door about a foot—not enough for Marcus to see past him into the apartment, but enough to have a conversation.

"What?" Asher said, and he knew his tone was too sharp, too defensive, but he couldn't quite manage casual right now.

Marcus looked stressed, his expression tight. "Finally. I've been knocking for like five minutes. Were you asleep or something?"

"Or something," Asher said. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in? I need to talk to you about—"

"No." The word came out too fast, too firm. Asher saw Marcus's eyebrows go up slightly, and he forced himself to dial it back. "I mean, now's not a great time. I was in the middle of something."

"In the middle of what? You're just standing there."

Asher's jaw tightened. Through the partially open bedroom door behind him, he thought he heard the faint sound of movement—you, hopefully getting dressed and not doing something that would make this situation even worse.

"Look, whatever it is, can it wait?" Asher said. "I've got—I'm busy."

Marcus was looking at him strangely now, and Asher realized he was probably coming across as suspicious as hell. Normal people didn't refuse to let their teammates into their apartment in the middle of the afternoon for no reason. Normal people didn't look this tense and defensive about an unexpected visit.

"Busy with what?" Marcus asked, and there was something in his tone now—curiosity, maybe suspicion. His eyes flicked past Asher, trying to see into the apartment.

Asher shifted his position slightly, blocking the view. "Does it matter? I said now's not a good time."

"Is someone here?"

"No."

"Then why can't I come in?"

Because Asher's rival and secret hookup partner was currently in his bedroom, probably still half-dressed, and if Marcus walked in and saw you there would be questions that Asher had absolutely no interest in answering. Because their entire team would know by tonight, and by tomorrow it would be all over campus, and everything they'd both been trying to keep private would explode in the most public way possible.

"Because I don't want you to," Asher said flatly. "That a good enough reason?"

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, and Asher could see him trying to figure out what was going on. Then, from somewhere behind Asher—from the direction of the bedroom—came a sound. Not loud, but distinct enough. Something hitting the floor, maybe, or a door closing.

Marcus's expression changed. "There is someone here."

"No there isn't."

"I just heard—"

"You didn't hear anything," Asher said, and he knew he sounded like an asshole but he was committed now. "Look, whatever you came here for, we can talk about it later. Text me or something."

He started to close the door, but Marcus put his hand up, stopping it. "Ash, what the hell is going on with you? You've been acting weird for weeks. And now you won't even let me in your apartment?"

"I'm not acting weird."

"You are. Everyone's noticed. You and—" Marcus stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Wait. Is this about that fight you had with him at practice yesterday? Because Coach said—"

"It's not about that," Asher cut him off. "It's not about anything. I just want you to leave."

There was a beat of silence. Marcus was still looking at him with that expression—part confusion, part suspicion, part concern—and Asher felt his irritation spike higher. This was exactly the kind of attention he didn't need, the kind of scrutiny that made everything more complicated.

"Fine," Marcus said finally, dropping his hand from the door. "But we're talking later. Something's going on with you, and I'm not the only one who thinks so."

He turned and walked away, and Asher watched until he disappeared down the hallway before closing and locking the door. Then he stood there for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob, trying to get his breathing under control.

When he turned around, you were standing in the bedroom doorway, fully dressed now, your expression unreadable.

Asher crossed his arms, his posture immediately defensive. "Don't start."

But you were already looking at him with that look—the one that said this whole situation was a disaster waiting to happen, that you'd both been idiots for thinking they could keep this secret, that everything was about to fall apart.

"This is exactly why we can't keep doing this," Asher said, his voice harder than he intended. "Someone's going to figure it out eventually, and then we're both screwed."

You didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched between them, loaded with all the things neither of them wanted to say.

Asher's jaw tightened. "So maybe you should leave before Marcus decides to come back and actually sees you walking out of here."

The party was already too loud, too crowded, and too full of people Asher didn't want to deal with. Bass thumped through the walls of the off-campus house, vibrating up through the floorboards and into his chest as he stood near the kitchen island with a beer he hadn't touched in twenty minutes. His teammates were scattered throughout the main rooms—some playing beer pong in the dining area, others clustered on the sagging couches in the living room, a few already making out with whoever they'd managed to corner in the first hour.

Asher wasn't interested in any of it. He'd only come because skipping team parties looked suspicious, and the last thing he needed right now was more attention on his behavior. Marcus had already been asking questions after that incident at his apartment last week, and a few other guys had made comments about him seeming "off" lately. So here he was, nursing a warm beer and pretending to give a shit about whatever story Jake was telling about their last away game.

Then he saw {{user}}.

{{user}} was across the room, leaning against the wall near the stairs with a red cup in hand, and he wasn't alone. Some guy Asher didn't recognize—tall, decent build, wearing a fitted shirt that suggested he either worked out regularly or wanted people to think he did—was standing close. Too close. The guy was smiling, gesturing as he talked, and {{user}} was listening with an expression Asher couldn't quite read from this distance but definitely wasn't the usual hostility he reserved for most social interactions.

Asher's jaw tightened. He looked away, forcing his attention back to Jake's story, but he'd already lost the thread of whatever point was being made. His mind was stuck on the image of {{user}} and that guy, the casual proximity, the way the stranger had leaned in slightly when he spoke like he was sharing something private.

It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. {{user}} could talk to whoever the hell he wanted—it wasn't like Asher had any claim on his time or attention. The fact that {{user}} had been ignoring him for the past four days, ever since that night in his dorm room when things had gotten heated and then abruptly ended, was completely irrelevant. Asher didn't care. He wasn't bothered by the radio silence or the way {{user}} had deliberately avoided eye contact at practice or the fact that he was now apparently perfectly capable of having a conversation with a complete stranger while he couldn't be bothered to acknowledge Asher's existence.

Asher took a drink of his beer just to have something to do with his hands and immediately regretted it. Warm, flat, disgusting. He set the bottle down on the counter with more force than necessary.

"You good, man?" Jake asked, pausing mid-sentence.

"Fine," Asher said. "Just need some air."

He didn't wait for a response, just pushed away from the counter and started moving through the crowd. He told himself he was heading toward the back door, that he genuinely needed to get outside for a few minutes, but somehow his path took him directly past where {{user}} was standing with that guy.

As Asher got closer, he caught fragments of the conversation—something about classes, a professor they apparently both had, some assignment that was due next week. Boring, mundane shit that shouldn't have made Asher's blood pressure spike, but the guy was still standing too close and {{user}} still wasn't telling him to back off.

Asher slowed his pace as he passed, just enough to make eye contact. {{user}} saw him—Asher knew he did, because his expression shifted slightly, something flickering across his face that might have been annoyance or recognition or both. But {{user}} didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge him beyond that brief glance, and then he was looking back at the other guy like Asher wasn't even there.

That was fine. Perfectly fine. Asher kept walking, made it another three steps, and then stopped.

Fuck it.

He turned around and walked back, inserting himself directly into the conversation space between {{user}} and the stranger. "Hey," he said, looking at {{user}} and completely ignoring the other guy. "Coach wants to talk to you about the defensive rotation for Saturday's game. He's looking for you."

It was a complete lie. Coach wasn't even at this party, and they'd already gone over the rotation at practice yesterday. But Asher delivered it with enough confidence that it sounded plausible, and he watched {{user}}'s expression shift from surprise to suspicion in the span of about two seconds.

The other guy was looking between them now, clearly picking up on the tension but not understanding the context. "I can catch up with you later," he offered, directing the comment at {{user}} with a smile that made Asher want to break something.

"That's not necessary," Asher said before {{user}} could respond. "This won't take long."

"I wasn't talking to you," the guy said, and now there was an edge to his voice too.

Asher finally looked at him directly, letting his gaze travel from the guy's face down to his feet and back up in a deliberately slow assessment that he knew was insulting. "And I don't care," he said flatly. "I need to borrow him for a minute. You'll survive."

{{user}} pushed away from the wall, his shoulder deliberately knocking into Asher's as he moved past him. Asher fell into step behind him, ignoring the confused look from the guy they'd left behind.

The hallway was dimmer, lined with closed doors that probably led to bedrooms people would be using later for exactly the kind of shit Asher didn't want to think about right now. {{user}} walked until he reached the end, then turned around to face Asher, and the look on his face made it clear he wasn't buying any of this.

"There is no meeting with Coach," Asher said, because there was no point pretending anymore.

{{user}}'s eyes narrowed, and Asher could see the anger building there—sharp and genuine, the kind that always made their arguments escalate faster than either of them intended.

"Yeah, I lied to get you away from that guy who was practically climbing into your lap," Asher continued, crossing his arms in a posture that was defensive even though he was the one who'd initiated this confrontation. "You're welcome."

Whatever {{user}} said next, Asher cut him off. "I'm not jealous," he said, his voice harder than he intended. "Don't flatter yourself. I just didn't want to watch you make an idiot of yourself with some random guy who's probably just trying to get in your pants."

{{user}} stepped closer, and Asher could see the full force of his anger now, the way his jaw was set and his hands had curled into fists at his sides. The accusation came fast, and Asher felt his own anger spike in response, that familiar heat that always seemed to surface when they went head-to-head.

"Maybe if you'd bothered to return any of my texts this week, I wouldn't have had to track you down at a party," Asher shot back. "But you've been ignoring me like a coward, so here we are."

{{user}} moved even closer, close enough that Asher could feel the heat radiating off him, and the space between them felt charged with all the tension they'd been avoiding for days. Asher's pulse kicked up, but he refused to back down, refused to be the one who broke first.

"Bullshit," Asher said. "You've got plenty to say—you just don't want to say it because you know I'm right."

{{user}}'s expression was hard, challenging, and Asher felt something twist in his chest that he absolutely refused to name. He stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between them until he could see the slight dilation of {{user}}'s pupils, the way his breathing had picked up even though he was clearly trying to hide it.

"Right about the fact that you're running scared," Asher said, his voice dropping lower. "Right about the fact that you can't handle what happened between us, so you're pretending it didn't. Right about the fact that seeing you with that guy out there made you think maybe you could just replace me with someone easier, someone who won't call you on your shit."

{{user}}'s jaw clenched, and for a moment neither of them moved. The air between them felt thick, dangerous, like one wrong word would set off something neither of them could control.

"Don't I?" Asher said, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying really hard to convince yourself you don't want this anymore. And failing."

The words hung between them, and Asher felt the immediate spike of panic—he'd said too much, revealed the exact thing he'd been denying all week. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to step back, to rebuild the wall of indifference that was already cracking. He needed to bury this, to cover it with something sharp enough that {{user}} wouldn't latch onto what he'd just admitted. His eyes hardened, and he let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded hollow even to himself.

"But what do I know?" he said coldly. "You're clearly doing great with your new strategy. So go ahead—go back out there and keep flirting with that guy. See how long it takes before you realize he's not going to push you the way I do."

Asher had rehearsed this conversation at least a dozen times. In the shower that morning, during the drive back from practice, while staring at the ceiling of his bedroom at two in the morning when sleep refused to come—he'd gone over every word, every argument, every reason why this had to stop. The close call last week had been too much. They'd nearly been caught in the locker room, voices echoing down the hallway while Asher's heart hammered against his ribs and {{user}}'s hand was still pressed against the tile wall beside his head. Someone had walked past, close enough that Asher could hear their footsteps, and the realization of how badly this could have ended—how quickly everything could unravel—had left him sick with anxiety for days afterward.

So he'd made a decision. No more hookups. No more late-night texts that started as insults and ended with one of them showing up at the other's door. No more letting physical attraction override common sense and self-preservation. He was going to tell {{user}} exactly that: clear boundaries, mutual agreement, they both move on like rational adults who understood the risks they'd been taking.

When the knock came at his apartment door twenty minutes ago, Asher had felt prepared. Confident, even. He'd opened the door with his speech ready, the words lined up in his mind like a defensive formation he'd practiced until it was muscle memory.

Except the conversation had lasted approximately ninety seconds.

Asher couldn't even remember now what he'd said—something about needing to talk, about this being a bad idea, about the risks outweighing whatever temporary satisfaction they were getting from this arrangement. {{user}} had stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and looked at Asher with an expression that was equal parts challenging and unreadable. And then {{user}} had said something—Asher didn't even remember what, just that the tone had been sharp and dismissive in that specific way that always got under his skin—and suddenly Asher's carefully rehearsed boundaries had evaporated.

Now they were on his couch and Asher's hands were in {{user}}'s hair and he was kissing him like he was trying to prove a point, though he wasn't entirely sure what point that was anymore. Maybe that he could want this and still hate him. Maybe that physical chemistry didn't mean anything beyond the physical. Maybe that this didn't change the fact that they were rivals and Asher still couldn't stand half the shit {{user}} did on a daily basis.

{{user}}'s mouth was hot against his, demanding in a way that made Asher's pulse spike even as anger coiled tight in his chest. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He'd had a plan, a clear exit strategy, and he'd thrown it away the second {{user}} had challenged him because apparently Asher had zero self-control when it came to this specific person.

His grip tightened in {{user}}'s hair, pulling him closer even as part of his mind screamed that this was exactly the problem—that he couldn't seem to stop himself, couldn't maintain any kind of rational distance when {{user}} was in front of him. The kiss was aggressive, almost punishing, and Asher poured all his frustration into it: frustration with the situation, with the risk, with himself for being weak enough to let this happen again.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Asher was glaring. His hands were still tangled in {{user}}'s hair and their faces were inches apart and he could feel the heat radiating between them, but the anger was there too—sharp and genuine and directed as much at himself as at {{user}}.

"This doesn't mean anything," Asher said, his voice rough. His jaw was tight and he could feel the tension in his own shoulders, the way his body was still pressed against {{user}}'s even as he tried to reassert some kind of control over the situation. "We're still not doing this anymore after tonight."

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears. He'd said variations of this before—after other close calls, after other moments when the guilt and paranoia had temporarily outweighed the attraction. And yet here they were again, and Asher hated that he couldn't seem to make it stick, couldn't seem to enforce the boundaries he knew they both needed.

{{user}} was looking at him with an expression Asher couldn't quite read, and that only made his anger spike higher. He didn't want to be analyzed right now, didn't want {{user}} to see how conflicted he was or how much this entire situation was eating at him.

"I mean it this time," Asher continued, his voice harder now. "Last week was too close. We can't keep doing this—someone's going to figure it out eventually, and then we're both fucked. Scholarships, reputations, everything we've worked for. You get that, right?"

He was still holding {{user}}, still close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, and the contradiction wasn't lost on him. He was trying to end this while simultaneously unable to let go, and the hypocrisy of it made him furious with himself.

"This is the last time," Asher said, and even as the words left his mouth he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince {{user}} or himself. "After tonight, we go back to just being rivals. No more of this. No more showing up at each other's doors, no more—" He gestured vaguely between them, unable to articulate exactly what "this" was beyond the obvious physical component.

{{user}}'s expression shifted slightly, and Asher felt his defenses go up immediately. He didn't want to hear whatever argument or challenge was coming, didn't want to be talked out of the decision he'd already made and then immediately abandoned.

"Don't," Asher said sharply, cutting off whatever {{user}} might have been about to say. "Don't try to tell me this is fine or that we can keep being careful. We've been lucky so far, but luck runs out. And I'm not willing to risk everything just because—"

He stopped himself before he could finish that sentence, before he could admit exactly what it was they were risking everything for. Physical attraction. Chemistry. Whatever this complicated, antagonistic thing between them was that neither of them wanted to name or examine too closely.

Asher's hands finally dropped from {{user}}'s hair and he leaned back slightly, putting a few inches of space between them even though his body protested the distance. His heart was still racing and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through him—the same rush he got during a game, that edge-of-control feeling that made him simultaneously sharp and reckless.

"You should go," Asher said, but the words lacked conviction. His eyes were still locked on {{user}}'s and he could feel the pull between them, that magnetic tension that had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

{{user}} didn't move, and Asher felt his jaw clench in response. Of course {{user}} wasn't going to make this easy. Nothing between them had ever been easy—every interaction was a battle, every conversation a competition, and apparently even ending their secret arrangement had to turn into a confrontation.

"I'm serious," Asher said, his voice dropping lower. "This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. All of this has been a mistake from the beginning, and we both know it."

But even as he said it, Asher could feel the lie in the words. If it was really a mistake, he would have stuck to his boundaries. He would have had that rational adult conversation and sent {{user}} away before anything happened. Instead, he'd caved in less than two minutes, and now he was sitting here trying to retroactively enforce rules he'd already broken.

The anger surged again—at himself, at {{user}}, at the entire impossible situation. "You know what the worst part is?" Asher said, his voice tight with frustration. "I actually convinced myself I could do this. That I could have one conversation like a functional adult and we could both just move on. But apparently I can't even manage that, because the second you walk through that door, I—"

He cut himself off again, biting back the admission that was trying to surface. He wasn't going to give {{user}} that satisfaction, wasn't going to acknowledge out loud just how much power this attraction had over his better judgment.

Asher stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something with the restless energy that was making his skin feel too tight. He paced a few steps away from the couch, running a hand through his hair in frustration. When he turned back to look at {{user}}, his expression was hard, defensive.

"This doesn't change anything between us," Asher said firmly. "Tomorrow at practice, we're still rivals. We still can't stand each other. This—" he gestured between them again, "—doesn't make us friends or whatever the hell else you might be thinking. It's just physical. That's all it's ever been."

The words were meant to create distance, to reestablish the boundaries that kept getting blurred every time they ended up alone together. But Asher could hear the edge in his own voice, the way the statement sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than stating a simple fact.

{{user}}'s gaze hadn't wavered, and Asher felt exposed under that scrutiny in a way that made him want to either start another argument or kiss him again just to break the tension. Both options were terrible ideas, and yet Asher could feel himself being pulled toward one or the other because apparently sitting in this charged silence was unbearable.

"Say something," Asher demanded, his frustration finally boiling over into direct confrontation. "Tell me I'm right. Tell me this has to stop. Tell me you're not going to show up here again acting like we can just keep doing this without consequences."

He needed {{user}} to agree, needed confirmation that they were on the same page about ending this before it destroyed them both. But even as he waited for a response, part of Asher already knew that whatever {{user}} said next would either start another fight or lead them right back to where they'd been five minutes ago, and he wasn't sure which outcome he was actually hoping for.

The parking lot was nearly empty now, just a scattering of cars under the yellow wash of streetlights, and Ash Calloway could hear the distant hum of traffic from the highway. Inside the car, the air felt thick and stale, heated by twenty minutes of argument that had long since lost its original point. Ash couldn't even remember what had started it anymore—something about practice, maybe, or the way one of them had acted during dinner. It didn't matter. What mattered was that they were still here, still locked in this stupid standoff, and neither of them was willing to be the one who gave in first.

"I'm not going anywhere," Ash said, his voice sharp enough to cut. "So you can stop looking at me like that."

{{user}}'s hand was on the keys in the ignition, knuckles white with tension. The engine wasn't running yet, but the threat was clear: this conversation was over, and Ash needed to get out.

Ash stayed exactly where he was, arms crossed over his chest, spine pressed against the passenger seat like he'd been welded there. His jaw ached from clenching it, and there was a hot, stubborn anger burning in his chest that he refused to let go of. If {{user}} thought he could just end this whenever he wanted, just dismiss Ash and drive away like none of it mattered, he had another thing coming.

{{user}}'s fingers drummed once against the steering wheel, then stilled. He was staring straight ahead through the windshield now, jaw set in that particular way that meant he was trying very hard not to lose his temper completely. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

"What, you're not even going to look at me now?" Ash said, leaning forward slightly. "That's real mature."

{{user}}'s head turned, slowly, deliberately, and the look he gave Ash was dark and heated. His eyes were narrowed, mouth pressed into a hard line, and there was something dangerous in his expression that made Ash's stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Ash held his gaze, refusing to back down, refusing to be the one who blinked first. His heart was hammering against his ribs, adrenaline singing through his veins the way it always did when they got like this. He knew he was being an asshole. He knew this whole thing was petty and pointless and they were both acting like children. But he couldn't seem to stop himself, couldn't seem to walk away from this electric, volatile thing that crackled between them whenever they were in the same space.

"You know what your problem is?" Ash continued, his voice lower now but no less sharp. "You think you can just shut people out whenever things get uncomfortable. You think you can just—"

{{user}}'s hand lifted from the steering wheel and pointed toward the passenger door, the gesture sharp and commanding. His expression left no room for interpretation: get out.

"No," Ash said flatly. "I don't think so."

The parking lot was so quiet Ash could hear his own breathing, could hear the faint creak of the car's interior as {{user}} shifted his weight. Most of their teammates had left an hour ago, picked up by friends or heading to their own cars. Somehow Ash and {{user}} had ended up here, the last two remaining, trapped in this bubble of tension that neither of them seemed capable of breaking.

{{user}}'s hand dropped. He turned in his seat to face Ash fully, and the movement felt significant somehow, like a line being crossed. They were squared off now, both of them tense and coiled, and the air between them felt charged with more than just anger.

Ash could see the exact moment something shifted in {{user}}'s eyes—the anger bleeding into something else, something more complicated and infinitely more dangerous. It was a look Ash had seen before, usually right before they did something they'd both regret. Or at least something they'd both pretend to regret.

"Don't look at me like that," Ash said, but his voice had lost some of its edge. There was something else creeping in now, something that made his pulse race for entirely different reasons.

{{user}} didn't move closer, didn't reach out. He just stared at Ash with that dark, unreadable expression, and the silence stretched out between them like a dare. His breathing had changed, becoming shallower, faster. His hands curled into fists against his thighs.

Ash's pulse was racing now, his skin feeling too tight, too hot. He knew he should get out of the car. He knew this was a bad idea, that they were both wound too tight, that nothing good could come from staying here in this enclosed space with all this tension crackling between them. But instead of reaching for the door handle, instead of being the bigger person and walking away, Ash leaned back in his seat and met {{user}}'s stare with one of his own.

"This is what you do," Ash said, his voice rough. "You get pissed off, you try to push me away, and then you act like I'm the problem for not just rolling over and taking it."

The parking lot was empty. The night was cold and dark beyond the windows. And inside the car, the temperature seemed to climb with every second of silence that passed.

{{user}}'s jaw clenched, and Ash could see him fighting with himself, could see the war between anger and something else playing out across his features. His hand lifted slightly, hovering in the space between them, then dropped back down. The restraint was visible, palpable, and it made something hot and reckless unfurl in Ash's chest.

They were still angry. They were still in the middle of a fight that neither of them was willing to concede. But the nature of the fight had changed, had shifted into something that had nothing to do with whatever they'd been arguing about twenty minutes ago and everything to do with the fact that they were here, alone, with no audience and no reason to pretend anymore.

"You're not going to say anything?" Ash asked, and there was a challenge in his voice now, something provocative and deliberate. "Just going to sit there and glare at me?"

{{user}}'s eyes hadn't left his face, tracking every breath, every flicker of expression. The air between them felt combustible.

Then {{user}} moved—just slightly, his body angling toward Ash, his weight shifting forward. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to make Ash's breath catch, enough to send heat flooding through his veins, enough to make it clear that whatever happened next, they were both choosing it.

Ash Calloway's heart was pounding so hard he was sure {{user}} could hear it. His hands were clenched in his lap, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. They were close in the confined space of the car, close enough that Ash could see the way {{user}}'s chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, could feel the heat radiating off him.

The silence was deafening. The tension was unbearable. And Ash was done pretending he didn't feel it too.

His voice came out low and challenging, practically daring {{user}} to do something about it. "You want me to leave? Make me."

Asher spent half of practice running his mouth. Not to {{user}}'s face—he wasn't that stupid—but loud enough that every word carried across the gym. Critiquing his defensive positioning. Questioning his decision-making. Making sarcastic observations that got laughs from teammates who didn't know better than to encourage him.

{{user}} heard every word. Asher made sure of it.

What {{user}} didn't do was react. Didn't rise to the bait, didn't fire back, didn't give Asher the satisfaction of a public confrontation. He just kept practicing, kept his expression neutral, and when their eyes met across the court, the look they exchanged said everything that needed saying.

This isn't over.

Three hours later, Asher's phone buzzed with a text from an unsaved number he recognized immediately. Just an address and a time. No explanation, no context, no question mark.

He should've ignored it. Should've deleted it and gone home and pretended he didn't know exactly what it meant.

Instead, he showed up.

The apartment building was nicer than he expected—{{user}} clearly had money, or at least better financial priorities than most of their teammates. Asher found the right unit number and knocked, his pulse already elevated in a way that had nothing to do with the three flights of stairs.

{{user}} opened the door within seconds, like he'd been waiting right there. He looked him over once, expression unreadable, then stepped aside to let him in.

Asher walked past him into the apartment, taking in the space with deliberate casualness. "Nice place. This where you bring all your—"

The door closed behind him with a solid click, and then {{user}} was there, backing him against it before he could finish the sentence. His hand came up to brace against the wood beside his head, caging him in, and his eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made his breath catch.

"Oh, so that's how this is gonna go?" Asher said, but his voice came out rougher than intended. "You couldn't handle a little constructive criticism during practice, so you—"

{{user}}'s other hand came up to grip his jaw, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to shut him up. His thumb pressed against his lower lip, and the question in his eyes was crystal clear even without words.

Are we doing this?

Asher could've left. Could've pushed past him and walked out and they both knew {{user}} would've let him go without a fight.

Instead, he bit his thumb lightly and smirked. "What, you need me to spell it out for you? Yeah, we're doing this. We both know the safeword—'red' if either of us needs to stop. Now are you gonna stand there looking intense, or are you actually gonna do something about—"

{{user}} kissed him hard enough to cut off the rest of that sentence, all teeth and aggression and pent-up frustration from three hours of listening to Asher's bullshit. Asher kissed back just as hard, his hands coming up to fist in {{user}}'s shirt, pulling him closer even as he bit his lower lip in retaliation.

They broke apart just long enough for {{user}} to grab his wrist and pull him away from the door, through the living room, toward what was presumably the bedroom. Asher went willingly, still running his mouth because he couldn't help himself.

"You know everyone heard you storm off after practice, right? They're gonna know exactly why you—fuck—"

{{user}} shoved him onto the bed hard enough that he bounced, then stood there looking down at him with an expression that promised retribution. His hands went to his own shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion, and Asher's mouth went dry despite himself.

"Yeah, okay, that's—that's good," he managed, already reaching for his own clothes. "But just so we're clear, this doesn't mean you were right about anything you—"

{{user}} climbed onto the bed and straddled him before he could get his shirt all the way off, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand while the other worked at his belt. The message was clear: shut up and let me work.

"Oh, so you think you're in charge here?" Asher said, even as his hips lifted to help him get his jeans off. "That's cute. Real cute. You know I could flip this whole situation if I—oh—okay, yeah, that's—"

{{user}}'s hand wrapped around him, firm and deliberate, and Asher's words dissolved into a sharp inhale. He stroked him slowly, watching his face with that same intense focus, and Asher realized with a jolt that this was the point—{{user}} was going to take him apart piece by piece, and he was going to make him feel every second of it.

"You're really gonna drag this out, aren't you?" Asher said, his voice already strained. "Gonna make me—fuck—gonna make me pay for every word I said during practice. That's what this is about."

{{user}}'s expression confirmed it. He released him just long enough to strip off the rest of his own clothes, then reached for the nightstand drawer. Condom, lube—he came prepared, which meant he'd been planning this, which meant Asher had gotten exactly the reaction he'd been trying to provoke.

The thought made him grin even as {{user}} slicked his fingers and reached between his legs. "You're so fucking predictable. I say a few things, push a few buttons, and you just—ah—you just can't help yourself, can you?"

{{user}}'s fingers pressed into him, one and then two, stretching him open with more care than his earlier aggression suggested. He watched his face the whole time, checking for any sign of discomfort, and Asher hated how much that attention affected him.

"I'm fine," he said, even though he hadn't asked. "I can take more than—Jesus—more than that. You don't have to be so—"

{{user}} crooked his fingers and found his prostate with devastating precision, and Asher's entire body arched off the bed. He did it again, and again, until Asher was gasping and his earlier bravado was crumbling fast.

"Okay, okay, point made," he managed. "You gonna actually fuck me, or are you just gonna—"

{{user}} withdrew his fingers and lined himself up, and the look he gave him was a clear final check: last chance to stop this.

"Green," Asher said immediately. "Fucking green, now would you just—"

He pushed in slowly, giving him time to adjust despite the urgency crackling between them. Asher's hands came up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, and he couldn't quite suppress the sound that escaped him.

"That's—fuck—that's good, that's—"

{{user}} pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, and Asher's words cut off into a choked moan. He set a punishing pace after that, every thrust deliberate and forceful, taking out every bit of frustration from the day on Asher's willing body.

And Asher took it all, still trying to maintain some semblance of control even as {{user}} systematically destroyed it. "You think this is—ah—think this is gonna teach me a lesson? Think I'm gonna—oh god—gonna stop talking shit just because you—"

{{user}} shifted the angle and hit his prostate dead-on, and Asher's entire argument dissolved into incoherent sounds. He did it again, relentless, and Asher realized he was making noises he'd never made before, completely unable to form words anymore.

{{user}}'s hand wrapped around him again, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Asher knew he wasn't going to last much longer. The intensity was overwhelming, the combination of physical sensation and emotional tension and the sheer satisfaction of finally getting the reaction he'd been chasing all day.

"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—"

He came hard, spilling over {{user}}'s hand and his own stomach, his whole body tensing and then going boneless. {{user}} followed shortly after, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep and rode out his own release.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. They were both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling, and the silence felt heavier than any of Asher's earlier words.

{{user}} pulled out carefully and disposed of the condom, then returned with a towel to clean them both up. His hands were gentle now, checking the marks he'd left on Asher's hips and thighs, making sure nothing had gone too far.

Asher let him, too wrung out to protest the attention. His body felt like liquid, every muscle loose and satisfied, and his mind was blessedly quiet for the first time in hours.

{{user}} lay down beside him, not quite touching but close enough that Asher could feel his body heat. He looked at him with a question in his eyes—are you okay?

"I'm fine," Asher said, his voice hoarse. "Better than fine. That was—" He paused, trying to find words that wouldn't sound too vulnerable. "That was exactly what I needed."

{{user}}'s expression softened slightly, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair off Asher's forehead. The gesture was almost tender, which felt dangerous in a completely different way than the sex had been.

Asher caught his wrist, not pulling away but not letting the moment get too soft either. His smirk returned, breathless but defiant, and when he spoke, his voice carried all the challenge it had before.

"Same time next week? Because I've got a whole list of observations about your offensive strategy that I'm just dying to share with the team."

Asher doesn't knock. He uses the spare key {{user}} gave him months ago during a road trip when they'd both been too drunk to remember why sharing keys seemed like a good idea. The door swings open hard enough to hit the wall, and {{user}} looks up from his phone with an expression that's equal parts surprise and something darker—anticipation, maybe, or satisfaction that his week-long campaign finally got the reaction he wanted.

"Don't," Asher says, crossing the apartment in four strides. "Don't even pretend you weren't expecting this."

{{user}} sets his phone down slowly, deliberately, his eyes tracking Asher's approach. He doesn't move from the couch, doesn't stand to meet him, just watches with that infuriating calm that's been driving Asher insane since Monday's practice.

"All week." Asher stops in front of him, close enough that {{user}} has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "The blocked shots. The comments just loud enough for me to hear. That thing you did in the weight room where you knew exactly what you were doing." He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of {{user}}'s shoulders. "We doing this, or are you gonna sit there looking smug?"

{{user}}'s answer is to reach up and fist his hand in Asher's shirt, pulling him down into a kiss that's more collision than anything gentle. Asher bites his bottom lip in retaliation, hard enough to make {{user}}'s grip tighten, and when they break apart they're both breathing harder.

"Ground rules," Asher says, his voice rough. "You want me to stop, you say 'red.' Slow down, 'yellow.' And if you can't talk, you tap me three times. Got it?"

{{user}} nods once, sharp and certain, then reaches for Asher's belt. Asher catches his wrist.

"No." He pushes {{user}}'s hand away, pins it against the couch cushion. "You spent all week making me chase you. Now you're gonna sit there and take what I give you, when I give it to you."

{{user}}'s pupils dilate, his chest rising and falling faster, and Asher feels a surge of satisfaction at finally cracking that composed exterior. He kisses him again, slower this time, controlling the pace and the angle while {{user}}'s free hand comes up to grip his shoulder. When Asher pulls back, {{user}} tries to follow, and Asher uses his grip on {{user}}'s wrist to keep him in place.

"Bedroom," Asher says. "Now."

{{user}} stands, and Asher doesn't miss the way he has to steady himself for half a second, the way his breathing hasn't evened out. Good. Asher follows him down the hall, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way he glances back once like he's checking if Asher's still there—still committed to whatever this is about to become.

The bedroom door closes behind them, and Asher crowds {{user}} against it immediately, kissing him hard while his hands work at {{user}}'s shirt. {{user}}'s fingers tangle in Asher's hair, trying to direct the kiss deeper, and Asher breaks away entirely.

"What did I just say?" He steps back, leaving {{user}} pressed against the door, shirt half-unbuttoned and lips already swollen. "You don't get to control this. Not tonight."

{{user}}'s jaw tightens, but he drops his hands to his sides. The surrender is deliberate, calculated—another provocation disguised as compliance. Asher can see it in his eyes, the challenge that says let's see if you can actually follow through.

"Lose the shirt," Asher says, pulling his own over his head. "Then get on the bed."

{{user}} complies, his movements unhurried, and Asher watches every button come undone, every inch of skin revealed. By the time {{user}} settles on the bed—on his back, propped up on his elbows, still watching Asher with that maddening composure—Asher's patience is worn to nothing.

He climbs onto the bed, straddles {{user}}'s hips, and pins both his wrists above his head in one hand. {{user}}'s eyes widen slightly, his body arching up instinctively, and Asher uses his free hand to trace down his chest, his stomach, stopping just above his waistband.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Asher says, his voice low. "I'm gonna take my time. And every time you try to rush me, every time you try to take over, I stop. Completely. You understand?"

{{user}} nods, his throat working as he swallows, and Asher rewards him by leaning down to bite at his collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that'll show tomorrow at practice. {{user}}'s hips buck up, seeking friction, and Asher immediately pulls back.

"What did I just say?"

{{user}}'s expression shifts to frustration, but he forces himself still, his muscles trembling with the effort of staying motionless. Asher smirks and returns to his collarbone, working his way down with teeth and tongue while {{user}}'s breathing gets progressively more ragged.

When Asher finally releases {{user}}'s wrists to work at his belt, {{user}}'s hands immediately move to Asher's waist. Asher stops, sits back, and waits. {{user}}'s eyes snap to his face, reading the warning there, and slowly—reluctantly—he puts his hands back above his head.

"Good," Asher says, and means it. He strips {{user}} efficiently, then himself, and the sight of {{user}} laid out beneath him, finally stripped of that composure, sends heat straight through him. "You've been driving me insane all week. Did you know that?"

{{user}}'s answer is written all over his face—yes, he knew, that was the entire point.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Asher reaches for the nightstand, finds what he needs, and takes his time preparing them both while {{user}} watches with dark, hungry eyes. "You wanted me wound up. Wanted me to snap. Wanted me to show up here and—" He pauses, positioning himself. "This what you had in mind?"

{{user}} nods frantically, his hands fisting in the sheets, and Asher finally, finally gives them both what they need. The first thrust punches a silent gasp from {{user}}'s throat, his back arching, and Asher has to pause to keep his own composure from shattering.

"Look at you," he breathes, setting a rhythm that's just shy of too much. "All week you've been so controlled. So calculated. Where's that control now?"

{{user}}'s only response is to reach for him again, and this time Asher catches his wrists and pins them to the mattress on either side of his head, using the leverage to drive deeper. {{user}}'s mouth falls open, his eyes squeezing shut, and Asher leans down to speak directly against his ear.

"Eyes on me. I want you to see exactly who's doing this to you."

{{user}}'s eyes snap open, glazed and desperate, and Asher adjusts his angle until {{user}}'s entire body goes taut, a silent cry catching in his throat. Asher keeps that angle, that rhythm, watching every reaction play across {{user}}'s face—the way his composure finally, completely shatters.

"There it is," Asher says, his own voice starting to fray. "That's what I wanted. You, like this. Admitting without words that you planned every second of this week just to get me here."

{{user}}'s response is to wrap his legs around Asher's waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and the change in angle makes them both groan. Asher releases {{user}}'s wrists to brace himself better, and {{user}}'s hands immediately fly to Asher's back, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.

The rhythm builds, both of them chasing something just out of reach, and then {{user}}'s hands slide down to Asher's hips. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into muscle, and he tries to slow Asher's pace—tries to take back some measure of control.

Asher stops completely.

The sudden absence of movement makes {{user}}'s eyes fly open, confusion and frustration warring on his face. Asher stays perfectly still, buried deep but unmoving, his own breathing harsh.

"No," Asher says, his voice rough but firm. "We had a deal. I'm in control tonight. Not you."

{{user}}'s hands loosen slightly, but he doesn't remove them. His expression shifts—challenging, testing to see if Asher will actually hold the line.

"I need you to show me you understand," Asher continues, not moving an inch. "Hands above your head. Keep them there. And look at me while you do it so I know you're agreeing to let me finish this my way."

For a long moment, {{user}} doesn't move. The tension between them is electric, the power dynamic balanced on a knife's edge. Then, slowly, deliberately, {{user}} lifts his hands from Asher's hips and places them on the pillow above his head. His eyes lock with Asher's, dark and intense, and the surrender in that gaze is absolute.

"That's better," Asher says, and the satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable. He starts moving again, slower this time, more deliberate. "You wanted me to take control? Then let me have it."

{{user}}'s fingers curl into the pillow, his entire body tense with the effort of keeping his hands where Asher told him to put them. Every thrust makes him gasp, his composure completely gone now, and Asher can feel him getting close.

"Don't you dare," Asher warns, reading the tension in {{user}}'s body. "Not until I say."

{{user}}'s eyes go wide, almost panicked, and Asher adjusts his angle again, finding the spot that makes {{user}}'s back arch off the bed. He maintains that angle, that rhythm, watching {{user}} fall apart beneath him—watching him struggle to obey, to wait, to give Asher this last piece of control.

"Now," Asher finally says, his own control fraying. "Let go."

{{user}} comes apart with a silent shout, his hands flying down to grip Asher's shoulders as his entire body shudders. The sight and sensation of it drag Asher over the edge seconds later, and he buries his face in {{user}}'s neck as they both ride it out.

The aftermath is quiet except for their harsh breathing. Asher carefully pulls away, checking {{user}}'s face for any sign of discomfort, and finds only satisfaction and exhaustion. He retrieves a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleans them both up with gentle efficiency that contrasts sharply with the previous intensity, and collapses back onto the bed beside {{user}}.

{{user}} immediately rolls into him, tucking his head under Asher's chin, and Asher wraps an arm around him automatically. They lie there in silence for several minutes, heartbeats gradually slowing, until Asher feels steady enough to speak.

"You good?" he asks quietly.

{{user}} nods against his chest, then tilts his head up to meet Asher's eyes. The look he gives him is clear: more than good.

Asher huffs a laugh, running his fingers through {{user}}'s hair. His voice drops back into that familiar competitive edge, the smirk audible even in the darkness. "Hope you enjoyed that, because next time you try that shit in practice, I'm making you wait twice as long."

.