Chapter 3: Caught Red-Handed
The sheet was twisted in Hailey's fists.
Cotton, damp from sweat and something else, bunched between her fingers like a lifeline. Her heart hammered against her ribs—a trapped bird throwing itself against bone. The lamp on the nightstand burned too bright, casting everyone in a harsh yellow glow. She could see everything. Every twitch of Logan's jaw. Every flicker of Derek's grin. Every shade of red climbing up Ty's neck.
Nobody moved.
The TV flickered behind them—some replay of the championship goal, Logan's number plastered across the screen in bold white digits. The volume was off, but the image looped: Logan mid-kick, the ball sailing past the goalkeeper, the crowd erupting. Over and over. A ghost of the night that had started all of this.
Logan's mouth worked. Opened. Closed. Something guttural rattled in his throat.
"You fucked my captain?"
The words came out strangled. Like he'd been punched in the gut.
Marcus didn't flinch.
He stood at the side of the bed, jeans zipped, shirt still on the floor. His chest was broad. Scarred. Calm. He looked at Logan the way he looked at everything—steady, unblinking, like he was reading a play before it developed.
"You left her alone," Marcus said.
That was it. No apology. No excuse. Just the truth, laid out flat.
Logan's face contorted.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means what it means."
"Don't—" Logan's voice cracked. "Don't you dare fucking—"
Derek let out a low whistle. It cut through the room like a blade.
"Damn," he said. "Cap's got moves."
"Shut up, Derek," Ty muttered.
"I'm just saying—"
"Shut. Up."
The two freshmen were still in the hallway. Hailey could see them through the open door—pale faces, wide eyes, mouths hanging open like they'd walked into a crime scene. One of them had his phone half-raised before Ty slapped it down.
Hailey pulled the sheet tighter. Her knuckles were white.
Logan took a step into the room.
Then another.
His fists were clenched at his sides. His breathing was ragged—short, sharp pulls of air that did nothing to calm him. She'd seen him angry before. After bad calls. After losses. But never like this. Never with his eyes so dark, so wild, so completely unhinged.
"You," he said, pointing at Marcus. "You were supposed to be my fucking friend."
Marcus didn't blink.
"I am your friend."
"Then why the fuck—"
"Because you made a deal." Marcus's voice was quiet. Even. "You made a deal with five guys. You put her on the table like she was a bargaining chip. And then you left her here. Alone. With us."
"I didn't—"
"You did."
Logan's mouth snapped shut.
Hailey could feel the mattress shift beneath her. Could feel Marcus's weight still pressed into the sheets. Could smell him on her skin—soap and sweat and something male and musky that made her stomach twist.
She should say something. Should defend herself. Should explain.
But her throat was locked. Her brain was static. All she could do was sit there, sheet pressed to her chest, and watch her boyfriend come apart.
Logan lunged.
It happened fast. One second he was standing by the door, the next he was across the room, fist swinging toward Marcus's face. Marcus caught it—one hand, palm flat, stopping the blow like it was nothing.
Derek grabbed Logan from behind. Wrapped his arms around his chest. Pulled.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—"
"Get off me!"
"Calm down, man—"
"I'll fucking kill him!"
Logan thrashed. Derek held on. Ty jumped in, grabbing Logan's other arm. The three of them stumbled backward, knocking into the nightstand, sending a half-empty whiskey bottle crashing to the floor.
Glass shattered. Amber liquid splattered across the hardwood.
Hailey screamed.
"Get the fuck out!"
Everyone froze.
She was standing now. Sheet pooled at her feet, naked and shaking, her chest heaving with every breath. She didn't care. Didn't care about the freshmen staring. Didn't care about the cold air on her skin. Didn't care about anything except the fact that if she didn't get them all out of this room right now, she was going to lose her mind.
"All of you." Her voice cracked. "Get out. Right now."
Derek let go of Logan. Ty stepped back.
Logan straightened. His nose was bleeding—must have caught an elbow in the scuffle. He wiped it with the back of his hand and stared at her.
"Hailey—"
"No." She pointed at the door. "Out."
"I'm not leaving."
"I don't care what you want."
"You're my girlfriend—"
"Am I?" She laughed. It came out bitter. Broken. "Because you put me up for grabs like I was a fucking prize. You made a deal with your buddies. You didn't ask me. You didn't even warn me. And then you stood there and watched while they—"
She stopped. Her voice was shaking too hard to continue.
Logan's face crumpled.
"I know. I know I fucked up. But that doesn't mean—"
"Doesn't mean what? That I can't fuck your captain?"
The words hung in the air. Ugly. Real.
Derek snorted. Ty elbowed him.
Logan's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Marcus—still standing by the bed, still calm, still fucking shirtless—and something shifted in his expression. Something colder.
"You want to do this?" he asked. "Right here? In front of everyone?"
Hailey didn't answer.
"I'm serious." Logan stepped closer. "You want to choose? Then choose. Right now. Him or me."
The room went silent.
Even the TV seemed to pause—the replay frozen on Logan's face, mouth open in a victorious shout, forever mid-celebration.
Hailey looked at Logan. His red eyes. His bleeding nose. His hands, still trembling with anger.
Then she looked at Marcus.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Just stood there with his jeans unzipped and his chest bare, watching her with those steady, unreadable eyes. He wasn't going to fight for her. Wasn't going to beg. Wasn't going to do anything except wait for her to decide.
The whole team was watching.
Derek. Ty. The freshmen. All of them, crowded in the doorway like spectators at a gladiator match.
Waiting for her answer.
Hailey's chest tightened. Her eyes burned. She could feel the tears coming—hot and humiliating—and she hated herself for it. Hated that she couldn't keep it together. Hated that she was standing here naked, exposed, with everyone staring.
She grabbed her skirt from the floor.
Pulled it on.
Didn't bother with the cheer top. Just grabbed the sports bra and yanked it over her head, not caring if it was inside out, not caring if it looked ridiculous.
Then she walked toward the door.
Logan stepped in front of her.
"Hailey—"
"Move."
"Not until you answer me."
She looked up at him. Really looked. At the boy she'd loved for two years. The boy she'd driven three hours to watch play. The boy she'd cheered for until her voice went hoarse. The boy who'd promised her forever and then sold her out for a championship.
"I'm not choosing," she said.
"What?"
"I said I'm not choosing." She pushed past him. "Not tonight. Not ever."
"Hailey—"
She stopped in the doorway. Turned.
"You want to know what I'm doing?" she asked. "I'm leaving. I'm going home. And when I figure out what the hell just happened—when I figure out how I feel about any of this—I'll let you know."
Logan's mouth opened.
She didn't wait to hear what came out.
She walked past Derek and Ty and the freshmen. Past the trophy on the coffee table. Past the red cups and the empty pizza boxes and the smell of stale beer.
She grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter.
The front door slammed behind her.
---
The night air hit her like a wall.
Cold. Sharp. Real.
She stumbled down the porch steps, barefoot, her gym bag clutched to her chest. The grass was wet with dew. The street was dark. Her car sat in the driveway, waiting.
She didn't make it.
Her knees buckled halfway to the driver's side. She caught herself on the hood, palms flat against the cold metal, and the tears came. Ugly. Snotty. Heaving sobs that tore through her chest like something trying to escape.
She didn't know how long she stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe longer.
The porch light flicked on behind her.
Footsteps on the gravel.
She didn't turn around.
"Hailey."
Marcus's voice. Quiet. Steady.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Go away."
"I'm not gonna do that."
"Then I will." She pushed off the car, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and reached for the door handle.
His hand caught her wrist.
Gentle. Not grabbing. Just there.
"Hey," he said. "Look at me."
"No."
"Please."
She turned.
He was standing in the driveway, shirtless still, the porch light casting his face in shadows. He looked tired. Worn. But his eyes were the same—steady, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For all of it." He let go of her wrist. "For letting it go this far. For not stopping it. For—" He paused. "For not being sorry about what happened in there."
Hailey blinked.
"What?"
"I'm not sorry I fucked you." His voice didn't waver. "I know I should be. I know it was wrong. But I'm not."
She stared at him.
The tears had stopped. Something else was rising in her chest now—something hotter, angrier, more confused.
"You're not sorry."
"No."
"You just—" She laughed. It came out wild. "You just fucking say that? Like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing." He stepped closer. "It's everything. That's why I'm here."
"To do what? Apologize?"
"No." He reached for her again. This time, he cupped her face. His palm was rough—calloused from years of gripping soccer balls, of pushing himself off the ground. It was warm against her cheek. "I'm here because I don't want you to drive home like this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm fine."
"Hailey."
She stopped.
He was close now. Close enough that she could smell him—soap and sweat and that musky undertone that made her stomach flip. Close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his body.
"I'm not gonna tell you what to do," he said. "I'm not gonna ask you to choose. I'm just gonna say this: you don't have to go home alone tonight."
She swallowed.
"And if I want to be alone?"
"Then I'll step back." He dropped his hand. "I'll watch you drive away. And I won't follow."
She looked at him.
At the scar on his ribs. At the way his jeans hung low on his hips. At the way he stood there, offering nothing but his presence, asking for nothing but her answer.
The porch light flickered.
She thought about Logan. About the deal. About the lap dances. About the way she'd felt when Marcus pushed inside her—full and wanted and alive.
She thought about the empty apartment waiting for her. The cold sheets. The silence.
She thought about what she wanted.
"Get in the car," she said.
Marcus didn't smile. Didn't gloat. Just nodded.
He walked around to the passenger side. Opened the door. Slid in.
Hailey got behind the wheel.
Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding. But when she turned the key and pulled out of the driveway, she didn't look back at the house.
And Marcus didn't look back either.
The car smelled like her sweat and his skin. Neither spoke for three blocks. The streetlights slid across the windshield in slow, syrupy arcs, and the radio played something low and indistinct—some indie station Logan had preset months ago, a ghost of him still living in the car.
Marcus reached over. Turned it off.
The silence that followed was worse. Thicker.
Hailey's hands were still shaking on the wheel. Her bare feet were cold against the pedals. She'd left her shoes somewhere in her and Logan’s house—somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom, between the shot glasses and the lap dance and the moment everything cracked open.
"You gonna tell me where we're going?" Marcus asked.
"No."
"Fair enough."
She drove. Past the campus. Past the all-night diner where she and Logan used to split fries after games. Past the field house where the team practiced, where she'd stood on the sidelines for two years, screaming herself hoarse.
She didn't stop until she reached her secret apartment.
The building was dark. Most of the windows were black. A single bulb burned in the entryway, buzzing faintly in the silence. She killed the engine and sat there, staring at the door.
"You can come up," she said.
Marcus didn't answer right away. Just looked at her. That same steady look. That same patience.
"You sure?"
"You keep asking me that."
"I keep meaning it."
She got out of the car.
The stairwell was narrow. Their footsteps echoed. Her gym bag banged against the railing. She could feel him behind her—close, quiet, taking up space in a way that made her hyperaware of every inch between them.
Her apartment was on the third floor. She fumbled with her keys—hands still shaking, fingers thick and stupid—and finally got the door open.
The place was exactly how she'd left it. Messy. Lived-in. A half-eaten bag of pretzels on the counter. A pile of textbooks on the couch. Her cheer bag from last week's game still by the door.
She flipped on the light.
Marcus stepped inside. Looked around. Didn't say anything.
"Bathroom's down the hall if you need it," she said.
"I'm good."
She dropped her gym bag by the door. Walked to the kitchen. Grabbed a water bottle from the fridge—not because she was thirsty, but because she needed something to do with her hands.
"You want one?"
"Sure."
She grabbed two. Set one on the counter in front of him. He didn't reach for it.
They stood there. Facing each other across the small kitchen. The fridge hummed. The clock on the stove blinked 2:47 AM.
"So," Hailey said.
"So."
"This is weird."
"Yeah."
She laughed. It surprised her. Came out sharp and strange, half-choked. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
Marcus didn't laugh. Just watched her.
"You okay?"
"No." She dropped her hand. "I don't think I've been okay all night. Not since Logan told me about the deal. Not since I got in that car with the vodka. Not since—"
She stopped.
"Since what?"
"Since you."
Marcus's jaw tightened. Not much. Just a twitch.
"I know," he said.
"You know what?"
"That this is a mess." He picked up the water bottle. Didn't open it. Just held it. "That I shouldn't be here. That you probably hate me. That I probably hate me too."
"You don't act like it."
"I'm good at hiding things."
Hailey leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. The sports bra was still inside out. She could feel the tag digging into her ribs.
"What are you hiding?"
"Right now?"
"Yeah."
He set the bottle down.
"I'm hiding the fact that I've wanted you since the first game of the season."
Hailey blinked.
"What?"
"Logan introduced us. Do you remember? After the first home game. You were wearing that white top and the little skirt and you smiled at me and said 'nice assist.'" He paused. "I thought about that smile for a week."
She stared at him.
"That was months ago."
"I know."
"You never said anything."
"You were with Logan."
"That didn't stop you tonight."
"No." He met her eyes. "Tonight was different."
"How?"
"Tonight, he put you up for grabs. And I—" He stopped. Rubbed a hand over his jaw. "I told myself I was gonna stay out of it. That I wasn't gonna be part of it. But then you walked out of that bedroom in your uniform and you looked at me like you wanted to burn the whole house down, and I couldn't—"
He stopped again.
"Couldn't what?"
"Couldn't say no."
The words hung there. Heavy. Honest.
Hailey's throat tightened.
"You should have."
"Maybe." He stepped closer. "But I didn't. And now I'm here. In your kitchen. At three in the morning. Because you asked me to get in the car."
She should tell him to leave. Should tell him this was a mistake. Should send him home and lock the door and cry herself to sleep and figure out what the hell to do about Logan in the morning.
Instead she closed the distance.
Kissed him.
His mouth was warm. Tasted like the cheap vodka from earlier, like the ghost of the bedroom, like everything she was trying to forget. His hands found her waist. Pulled her close. She pressed into him, felt the hard plane of his chest, the heat radiating through his skin.
"Bedroom," she said against his mouth.
He pulled back. Just enough to look at her.
"You sure?"
"Stop asking."
"I keep meaning it."
"Then stop meaning it."
He didn't smile. Didn't laugh. Just took her hand.
---
The bedroom was small. Twin bed. White comforter. A poster of the women's national team tacked to the wall. She'd never brought Logan here—he had the big house, the king bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows. This was hers. Small and safe and private.
Marcus filled the doorway.
She reached for him. Pulled him inside. Closed the door with her foot.
His hands went to her sports bra. Tugged it up. Over her head. He tossed it aside—didn't care where it landed.
Then his mouth was on her neck.
Hot. Wet. Teeth scraping against her pulse point. She gasped. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
"You taste like—" He stopped. Kissed her collarbone. "Like sweat."
"I'm disgusting."
"You're perfect."
She pulled his face back to hers. Kissed him hard. Bit his lower lip.
"Stop talking."
He obeyed.
His hands found her skirt. Unzipped it. Shoved it down her hips. She stepped out of it and stood there, bare except for her thong, her skin prickling in the cool air.
Marcus looked at her.
Just looked.
In Logan's bedroom, she'd felt exposed. Watched. A thing on display.
Here, with Marcus standing in her tiny room, she felt something else. Tight in her chest. Heavy in her stomach. Like she was standing on the edge of something high, deciding whether to jump.
"You're staring," she said.
"Yeah."
"Stop it."
"No."
She grabbed his belt. Yanked him forward. He stumbled, caught himself on her shoulders, and laughed—a low, quiet sound that made something loosen in her chest.
"Impatient," he said.
"Shut up."
She got the belt undone. Jeans unbuttoned. Zipper down. She shoved them over his hips and he kicked them off, his boxers going with them. His cock sprang free—thick, half-hard, already leaking at the tip.
She dropped to her knees.
Marcus made a sound. Low in his throat. Something between a groan and a warning.
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
She wrapped her hand around the base. Stroked once. Twice. Felt him swell in her palm.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She took him in her mouth.
Slow at first. Just the head. Tongue swirling against the slit. He tasted like salt and skin and something muskier underneath. Her jaw ached. Her eyes watered. She didn't care.
She took him deeper.
His hand found her hair. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just resting there. A grounding weight.
"Jesus," he breathed. "Hailey—"
She pulled off. Looked up at him.
"You gonna come?"
"Not yet."
"Good."
She stood. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He was staring at her like she'd just done something impossible.
"Where's the condom?"
"Wallet. Back pocket."
She found his jeans. Pulled the foil square free. Tore it open with her teeth.
Rolled it on with both hands. Slow. Deliberate.
Then she pushed him backward. Onto the bed. He landed on his back, and she climbed over him, one knee on either side of his hips.
His hands found her waist.
"You want—" he started.
"I want to be on top."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She positioned herself over him. Felt the head of his cock press against her entrance. Wet. Slick. She was already so wet, she could feel it dripping down her thigh.
She sank down.
Inch by inch. Slow. So slow. He filled her—stretched her—and she couldn't breathe for a second. Just sat there, impaled, her hands flat against his chest, her hair hanging in her face.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Stop asking."
"Sorry."
She started to move.
Slow at first. Grinding. Learning the rhythm. His hands gripped her hips—fingers digging in, leaving marks, and she liked it. Liked the pressure. Liked the way his breath hitched every time she rolled forward.
Then she went faster.
Fucked herself on him. Hard and fast and messy. The bed creaked. The headboard slammed against the wall. Her tits bounced with every thrust, and he reached up and grabbed one—squeezed—rolled the nipple between his fingers.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Marcus—"
"Keep going."
She did.
Rode him until her thighs burned. Until sweat dripped down her spine. Until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"You. I want—"
She couldn't finish. Her orgasm was building. Coiling tight. So close she could taste it.
"Touch yourself," he said.
"What?"
"Touch your clit. I want to watch."
She slid a hand down her stomach. Between her legs. Found her clit—swollen, slick—and rubbed.
The orgasm hit her like a truck.
She screamed. Actually screamed. Her back arched and her toes curled and her whole body shuddered, clenching around him so hard he groaned.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, you're so tight—"
He flipped her over.
One second she was on top, the next she was on her back with her legs spread and Marcus between them, driving into her so hard the whole bed shook.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
Fucked her like he was trying to break her. Like he was trying to fuck the memory of Logan out of her body. Like he was trying to prove something—to her, to himself, to whoever was watching.
She grabbed the comforter. Held on.
"Come inside me," she said.
"You sure?"
"Just do it."
He did.
Two more thrusts. Then he buried himself deep and came with a groan, his hips stuttering, his whole body shaking.
They collapsed together.
Breathing. Sweating. The sheets tangled around their legs.
Hailey stared at the ceiling. Her heart was pounding. Her body was buzzing. She felt like she'd been turned inside out.
"Wow," she said.
Marcus laughed. Quiet. Tired.
"Yeah."
"We should probably—"
She stopped.
Someone was knocking on the door.
Not the front door. The bedroom door. Which meant someone was inside her apartment.
Hailey sat up.
The door opened.
Logan stood there.
---
His face was a mess. Dried blood on his lip. Eyes red-rimmed. Hair wild.
Behind him, in the hallway, Hailey could see the others. Derek. Ty. The two freshmen. All of them crowded behind Logan like a wrecking crew.
The trophy was in Derek's hands.
"How the fuck did you get in here?" Hailey asked.
"Your neighbor let me in." Logan's voice was raw. "Said she saw you come home with someone."
"Get out."
"I'm not leaving."
"Logan—"
"You left with him." Logan's voice cracked. "You left the house with him. You drove off with him. And now you're—"
He stopped. Looked at Marcus. Still naked. Still in her bed.
The silence was suffocating.
"I told you not to follow me," Hailey said.
"I didn't listen."
"Clearly."
Logan stepped into the room. His fists were clenched. His breathing was ragged. He looked at Marcus like he wanted to rip his throat out.
"You," he said. "You were supposed to be my friend."
"I am your friend."
"Then why the fuck are you in my girlfriend's bed?"
"Because she asked me to be."
Logan flinched.
Hailey pulled the sheet up to her chest. Her heart was hammering. Her brain was a mess of static and rage and confusion.
"You need to leave," she said.
"No."
"Logan—"
"Not until you tell me why."
"Why what?"
"Why him?" Logan stepped closer. "Why not me? Why did you let him touch you? Why did you bring him here? Why—"
"Because you sold me."
The words came out flat. Cold.
Logan stopped.
"You made a deal," Hailey said. "You put me up for grabs. You didn't ask me. You didn't warn me. And then you stood there while your whole fucking team watched me dance. You watched me take my clothes off. You watched them stare at me. You didn't stop it. You didn't say a word."
Her voice was rising.
"So tell me why I should give a shit about your feelings right now."
Logan's mouth opened. Closed.
Derek shifted in the doorway. The trophy glinted in his hands.
"Uh," he said. "We can go—"
"No," Hailey said.
Everyone froze.
She looked at Derek. At Ty. At the freshmen. At Logan. At Marcus.
The whole team. Every single one of them. Standing in her apartment at three in the morning, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
The sheet was twisted in her fingers again.
She thought about the deal. About the party. About the way she'd felt standing in the center of that living room, five pairs of eyes on her, her heart pounding with something that wasn't fear.
She thought about what she wanted.
Not what Logan wanted. Not what Marcus wanted. Not what anyone expected.
Just what she wanted.
"Hailey?" Logan's voice was barely a whisper.
She looked at him. Then at Marcus.
Then at the rest of them.
"Everyone," she said. "Come in."
The words hung there.
Derek's jaw dropped.
Ty blinked.
The freshmen exchanged looks.
Logan stared at her like she'd grown a second head.
Only Marcus didn't react. Just lay there beside her, still naked, still calm, watching her with those steady eyes.
Hailey sat up. Let the sheet fall.
"I said," she repeated. "Come in."