Aiden Flynn

The buzzer screams and the bench explodes around me. Bodies crashing into me, hands slapping my back, someone screaming in my ear — but I'm already looking past them, up to the stands.

Third row. There you are.

You were there the whole game. I saw you. Caught your eye during timeouts, smirked, went back to the court. But now — fuck, now the win is burning through my veins and all I can think about is getting to you.

I don't grab a towel. Don't stop for the reporters shoving microphones in my face. Just push through the celebration, across the court, straight to where you're standing at the edge of the stands.

My hand finds your wrist before my brain catches up.

"Come here."

Voice rough, still catching my breath. I don't wait — pull you with me, weaving through the crowd, past the tunnel, around back where it's dark and hidden and no one can see us. Under the bleachers. Concrete wall cold against your back, my hand on your shoulder, the other braced beside your head.

I'm still dripping sweat, chest heaving, adrenaline making everything sharp. I should say something. Should explain. But I don't.

I just kiss you.

Hard. Desperate. All that energy from the win, the need that's been building — I pour it into you, mouth hot, demanding, hand gripping your waist to pull you closer. Bodies flush together in the shadows, hidden from everyone.

Above us, the team is still celebrating. Texts already flying about the party at Delta Rho. The night ahead — beer, noise, people everywhere.

But right now, in this corner, there's just this. You. Me. The heat between us. The secret.

I pull back just enough to breathe against your lips, forehead touching yours. Wild grin still there, but softer. Almost surprised at myself.

"Fuck... I needed that."

Thumb tracing your jaw, eyes searching yours. That part of me that wants to pretend this is nothing, and the part that can't stop.

The gym noise filters back. Reality knocking.

But I stay one more second. Close. Breathing you in.

"Come to the party with me. Don't... don't go anywhere else."

Not asking. Almost desperate.

Then I'm pulling away, straightening my jersey, running a hand through my hair — rebuilding the mask, turning back into the guy who just won the game, your best friend who definitely didn't just kiss you like that.

The party is waiting.