Chapter 3: As you wish
Hunter could feel the coil tight in his stomach. His hand stayed in Adam’s hair, not pushing, just gripping. Hunter closed his eyes, his fist hitting the locker. “Ah, fuck,” he moaned.
Adam groaned around him, dragging him deeper down his throat. Hunter’s fist slammed into the locker again.
His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm completely.
His abs flexed, a hard, defined contraction beneath his sweat-slicked skin. He looked down at the sight—Adam on his knees, his cock down his throat and that tipped him over the edge. “Fuck”
A raw, choked noise tore from Hunter’s throat, part gasp and part sob. He came, his body arching away from the locker as pleasure, sharp and total, flooded his nerves.
Adam pulled back, coughing softly into his fist. He wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand. He looked up at Hunter, his green eyes dark and impossibly bright at the same time. A slow, challenging smirk pulled at his lips.
“You wanna fuck?” Adam said, his voice raw.
The coil in his stomach, which had just begun to unwind, tightened again into something hotter and more urgent. “As you wish,” Adam said.
Hunter moved. He grabbed Adam under the arms, hauling him up off the concrete floor and onto his feet. He kissed him, a hard, claiming press of lips that tasted of salt and himself. His hands went to the waistband of Adam’s boxers, shoving them down over his hips.
He turned Adam roughly, pressing him forward until his palms smacked against the cold, pitted metal of the locker. Adam brought his hands to the top, gripping the sharp edge so tightly his knuckles blanched white against his tan. Hunter spat into his own palm, a crude, necessary gesture. He gripped himself, slicking his length.
He positioned himself, the head pressing against him. He pushed forward, slowly, an inexorable pressure, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth. Hunter slid inside.
They both groaned, a ragged, synchronized sound of relief and strain. Hunter stilled for a heartbeat, buried deep. The heat was suffocating, perfect. He brought a hand around Adam’s waist, fingers wrapping around him. He stroked him gently, just a few teasing pulls.
Then he brought that hand back up, placing it over Adam’s on the locker top, covering his whitened knuckles with his own. His other hand joined it, He held them there, pinned together.
Hunter then started to move slowly. “Fuck,” they both groaned out. His hands interlocked with Adam’s.
The grip was fierce, fingers lacing together and crushing against the cold metal edge. Hunter drove into him with a deep, measured rhythm, each thrust rolling through both their bodies. Adam’s head dropped forward, his forehead resting against the locker with a soft, metallic tap.
Adam pushed back against Hunter, meeting every slow, deliberate drive. A low, continuous sound escaped him, part growl and part plea.
His pace increased almost imperceptibly, a subtle quickening that pulled another groan from Adam’s throat.
Hunter moved his hands from Adam’s, one going to his shoulder, gripping the hard muscle there. The other slid around his waist to his front, stroking him slowly, firmly. Adam groaned, a deep, ragged sound that vibrated through Hunter’s palm on his shoulder.
“Ohh, God,” Adam breathed out, his forehead against the locker.
Hunter could feel the coil growing in his own stomach again, a tight, electric knot gathering with every thrust. He kept his pace, driving into him deep, each movement measured and devastating. The coil in his stomach grew tighter, a spring wound past its limit.
He stroked Adam faster, his grip tightening in time with his hips. Their breathing was a shattered, discordant rhythm against the steel. “Don’t stop,” Adam managed, the words a broken plea into the locker.
“I’ve got you,” Hunter murmured, the promise rough against the sweat-damp skin of Adam’s neck. His own world narrowed to the feeling of Adam around him, of Adam in his hand, to the raw sounds he was pulling from him.
It was too much. The spring snapped.
Adam came first, a sharp, silent convulsion that pressed him hard into the locker. Hunter felt it, the hot spill over his fingers, the sudden taut clench around him. It unraveled the last of his own control.
He drove in one last, final time, deep, and held there as his own climax ripped through him. A guttural sound was torn from his chest, lost in the damp heat of Adam’s shoulder.
Their harsh breathing was the only sound in the room, mingling with the distant hum of the broken air conditioner. The heat was a living thing, pressing down on them.
Hunter slowly pulled out.
The loss of contact was a shock, a sudden, almost painful vulnerability. He took an unsteady step back, his own legs feeling foreign beneath him. The concrete was cool under his bare feet.
Adam turned around.
They looked at each other. Adam’s back was still pressed to the locker, his chest glistening. His green eyes were wide, the pupils blown, staring back with an intensity that mirrored Hunter’s own.
Hunter reached for him. His hand, which had been a fist against steel moments ago, came up to cradle the side of Adam’s jaw. His thumb brushed over Adam’s cheekbone, a gesture so tender it felt reckless.
Adam leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. Then he opened them and met Hunter’s gaze again.
They kissed softly.
It was nothing like before. This was a slow, searching press of lips, tentative and quiet. Hunter could taste salt and something uniquely Adam beneath the sharper flavors of what they’d just done.
They broke apart, their foreheads touching.
Hunter turned away, the movement breaking the fragile space between them. He found his black boxers in a heap near his sneakers. He pulled them up, the cotton clinging unpleasantly to his damp skin.
Adam did the same, hopping slightly as he tugged his grey boxers back on. He reached for his jeans, which were pooled around one ankle.
Hunter scooped up his own jeans, the denim stiff. He shoved his legs into them, buttoning the fly with fumbling fingers.
He spotted Adam’s black t-shirt on the locker shelf. Without looking at him, Hunter picked it up and threw it underhand across the space. The fabric landed against Adam’s chest with a soft slap.
Adam caught it against himself. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Hunter bent to retrieve his own discarded grey shirt from the mats. He pulled it over his head, the familiar scent of his own laundry detergent a small, jarring comfort. When he emerged from the collar, Adam was also dressed, running a hand through his disheveled blonde hair.
A jangle of keys sounded outside the door, startlingly loud. A heavy lock clunked and turned.
The door swung inward with a groan, revealing the bored, wrinkled face of an elderly janitor in grey coveralls. He blinked at them, his eyes taking in two sweaty hockey players standing amid cleaned equipment.
“There you are,” the janitor grumbled, his voice like gravel. “Coach said you two might be in here.”
He held the door open, waiting. Hunter walked out, the cooler air of the hallway hitting him like a blessing. Adam followed close behind, the scent of pine disinfectant from the hall a sharp contrast to the room’s musk.
“Be more careful next time,” the janitor said, pulling the door shut and locking it again with a definitive click. He didn’t wait for an explanation. He just turned and shuffled away, his keys jingling with each step until the sound faded around a distant corner.
They were alone in the silent, empty hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching everything a pale, sickly white.
Hunter looked at the scuffed tiles, then at Adam. “We’re still rivals,” he said, the words coming out flat and hard. “I’m not giving up the captaincy.”
A slow smile spread across Adam’s face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the same smirk from the ice, from the locker room. “Like I said,” Adam replied, his tone deliberately light. “Winner calls the shots.”
“Other than practice and games,” Hunter stated, taking a half-step closer, “we don’t need to see each other.”
Adam’s smirk held. “Deal.”
Hunter moved even closer now, close enough to see the faint flecks of gold in Adam’s green eyes, close enough to remember the weight of him. His voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper. “No one can know about what happened in there.”
Adam looked at him, the smirk finally dissolving into something more serious, more guarded. He held Hunter’s gaze for a long, silent moment. “Agreed,” he responded, the word simple and final.
He gave a single, sharp nod. Then he turned and walked down the hallway in the opposite direction, his sneakers making no sound on the polished floor.
Hunter watched him go until he turned the corner and disappeared. The hallway stretched out, impossibly long and empty. He took a deep breath, the air clean and cold in his lungs.
He turned and walked the other way, toward the exit, toward his car, toward a world that suddenly felt like a set he was required to perform on. The memory of the storage room clung to him, a phantom heat under his clothes.
Hunter stood outside The Oak Grill, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The restaurant’s warm, buttery light spilled onto the sidewalk, a stark contrast to the chilly evening air. He took a steadying breath, pushing the door open.
The rich scent of seared steak and garlic washed over him. He scanned the dining room, past linen-draped tables and low chandeliers.
“Right here, baby.”
He turned, seeing his mother, waving from a corner booth. A smile broke across her face, genuine and warm, momentarily eclipsing his turmoil. She got up and walked over to him, wrapping him in a tight hug that smelled of her familiar floral perfume.
They both sat down at the table set for four. “Thanks for coming to meet my boyfriend,” Jane said, her eyes sparkling with a nervous hope he rarely saw.
He nodded, forcing his own smile into place. “Of course, Mum.”
“So, how’s school?” she asked, sipping her water.
Hunter leaned back in the cushioned chair, the weight of the lie already forming. “Everything’s good,” he said, the words automatic. “Except there’s just one pain in the ass.”
“They must be a jerk then,” she said, dismissing it with a mother’s casual loyalty.
He looked down at the polished table, laughing a dry, hollow sound. “At least I won’t have to see him after school.”
“Oh, they’re here! Leo!” Jane perked up, waving across the restaurant.
A man in a well-tailored grey suit approached, his salt-and-pepper hair cut sharp. He had a confident, easy smile. Right behind him, steps lagging, was Adam.
“Hunter, this is Leo,” Jane said, beaming. “And his son, Adam.”
Leo sat down opposite Jane, extending a hand across the table. “Nice to meet you, Hunter.” His grip was firm, his gaze direct.
Hunter shook it mechanically. “You too.”
Adam slid into the booth next to his father, his movements stiff. He wouldn’t meet Hunter’s eyes, staring fixedly at a basket of bread.
“Adam goes to Eastwood Academy too,” Jane said, her tone bright with manufactured fortune. “Have you two met?”
“No,” Hunter said, the word a flat, quick escape.
“Yes.” Adam’s voice cut through at the exact same time.
They looked at each other then.
“He’s the captain of the Eastwood Tigers,” Hunter said, his voice carefully neutral. “So we’ve kind of met. Through hockey.”
Leo chuckled, clapping a hand on Adam’s shoulder. Adam flinched almost imperceptibly. “Small world! Well, no need for formalities then.”
“Look at that,” Jane said, reaching over to squeeze Leo’s hand. “You can look out for each other at school and at home.”
A waiter arrived, dispensing menus and reciting specials in a melodic tone that seemed to belong to another universe. Hunter grasped the leather folder, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. He heard his mother’s light laugh at something Leo said, the sound distant and muffled.
Leo talked about his real estate firm. Jane mentioned her garden. Hunter nodded at appropriate intervals, Adam remained silently cutting his steak, the scrape of his knife the only sign of his presence.
Finally, Jane placed her hand over Leo’s on the tablecloth. She took a visible breath. “Actually, boys, there’s some news.”
Hunter’s eyes snapped up from his untouched mashed potatoes. Leo was smiling, squeezing Jane’s hand.
Janes eyes bright with a happiness that punched the air from Hunter’s lungs. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say. Hunter, Leo and I are getting married.”
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. The clatter of cutlery, the low hum of other diners, it all fused into a dull roar. He felt the cool sweat from the storage room phantom on his skin.
“We’re gonna be family,” Leo added, his voice warm and final. “So we’ll live together.”
Hunter looked down. His vision tunneled, the pattern on the plate swimming.
Fuck. Fuck. I hooked up with Adam. My rival. And now he’s gonna be my stepbrother.
Heat flooded his face, a crimson tide of pure panic. The memory of Adam’s mouth, his hands pinned to the locker, the shuddering intensity of it all, collided violently with the image of this man at future breakfast tables, sharing a bathroom, a life.
He couldn’t breathe.
He grabbed his water glass, his fingers slick and clumsy. He drained it in one long, desperate gulp, the ice cubes clacking against his teeth.
“I gotta use the restroom,” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He shoved his chair back, the legs screeching loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables.
He didn’t wait for a response. He just walked, a stiff-legged march past the tables, following the gilt-lettered sign for the restrooms. The hallway was quieter, lined with dark wood and dim sconces. He pushed the heavy door open.
The bathroom was empty, thank God. It smelled aggressively of lemon cleaner. Hunter braced his hands on the cool porcelain of the sink, head hanging, and sucked in ragged breaths that echoed off the tiles.
The door opened behind him.
He looked up into the mirror. Adam stood there, having closed the door softly. He leaned back against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing, just scrutinized Hunter’s reflection in the harsh fluorescent light.
Hunter turned around slowly, his back pressing against the sink. “Did you know?”
“No,” Adam said, the word short and definitive. “Did you?”
“Of course I didn’t fucking know,” Hunter spat, the whisper fierce in the sterile room. “My mom just said she was seeing someone.’
A muscle ticked in Adam’s jaw. “My dad said her son played hockey. He never said a name.”
They stared at each other. The silence was a physical weight.
“This is… this is fucked up,” Hunter finally said, running a trembling hand through his hair.
“You think?” Adam’s voice was low, a strained imitation of its usual cool confidence. He pushed off the door, taking a single step into the room.
Adam took another step closer. The space between them crackled, charged with the memory of what they had done just hours before.
He turned and walked out, leaving Hunter alone with the smell of lemons and the echo of his own heartbeat. Hunter splashed cold water on his face, the droplets catching in his eyelashes. He stared at his reflection—the bright blue eyes wide with panic, the captain who felt utterly lost.
He dried his hands, the paper towel rough. He straightened his shoulders, forcing his expression into something neutral, something acceptable.
He walked back into the dining room. Adam was already in the booth, listening to something Leo was saying with a faint, polite smile. Hunter slid into his seat.
The check came. Leo paid, waving off Jane’s protests. They all stood up in a rustle of coats and murmured goodnights. On the sidewalk, the parents hugged.
“We’ll get the boys together soon to plan the move,” Leo said, his arm around Jane.
Hunter and Adam stood a few feet apart, strangers once more. The streetlamp cast their shadows long and separate on the pavement.
“See you at practice,” Hunter said, his voice devoid of any identifiable emotion.
Adam gave a single, curt nod. “Can’t wait.”
Hunter got into his car. He watched in the rearview mirror as Adam climbed into Leo’s sedan. He watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner, taking the chaos with them, leaving only the dreadful certainty of what was to come.