Chapter 6: Ty Is for Winner
The door clicked shut behind him.
The sound was final. A period at the end of a sentence Hailey hadn't finished writing yet. She stood there with her back to the door, bare feet cold against the floor, and watched Ty take in the room.
He was doing the same thing Derek had done hours earlier—scanning the wreckage. The empty bottles. The folded blanket. The ashtray that hadn't been there last night, now overflowing with cigarette butts she didn't remember smoking.
"You look like shit," he said.
"Thanks."
"I mean—not bad. Just—" He gestured vaguely at her face. "Tired."
"I've been up for twenty-six hours."
"Right."
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The hood was still up. He looked like he was ready to bolt at any second, like he'd already rehearsed his exit before he'd even knocked.
Hailey didn't give him the chance.
She crossed the room in three steps and shoved him against the wall.
His back hit the plaster with a dull thud. His eyes went wide. She grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked it down, then fisted the collar of his t-shirt and pulled his face to hers.
The kiss was not gentle.
Her teeth caught his bottom lip and bit down—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make him gasp. He tasted like mint and something sour underneath, like he'd brushed his teeth and then immediately regretted it.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth.
She bit him again.
This time he groaned. His hands came out of his pockets and found her hips. She felt his fingers dig into the thin fabric of her leggings, felt the heat of his palms through the material.
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
"I don't want to talk," she said.
"Okay."
"I don't want to hear about Logan. I don't want to hear about the team. I don't want to hear about last night."
"Okay."
"I want you to shut up and let me use you."
Ty swallowed.
"Okay."
She dropped to her knees.
The floor was hard beneath her. The tiles cold. She didn't care. She reached for his jeans—unbuttoned, unzipped, yanked them down around his thighs along with his boxers.
His cock sprang free.
Half-hard already, thick and flushed. She wrapped her hand around the base and squeezed.
Ty hissed through his teeth.
She looked up at him.
His face was red. His mouth was open. His hands were pressed flat against the wall like he was trying to keep himself upright.
"Don't move," she said.
"I—"
"Don't. Move."
She leaned forward. Took him in her mouth.
The first inch was easy. The second was not. She felt him stretch her jaw, felt the head of his cock press against the back of her throat, and she didn't stop. She pushed further. Forced herself to take more.
Her eyes watered.
She kept going.
Spit pooled in her mouth and dripped down her chin. She pulled back just enough to breathe, then took him again—deeper this time, until her nose pressed against the skin of his stomach and her throat convulsed around him.
"Hailey—" Ty's voice cracked. "Hailey, fuck, you don't have to—"
She pulled off just long enough to speak.
"I know I don't have to."
Then she swallowed him again.
His hands found her hair. Grabbed fistfuls. Not pushing, just holding—like he needed something to anchor himself.
She let him.
She used her tongue. Used her teeth—just a graze, just enough to make him twitch. Used her hand on the part of his cock she couldn't fit in her mouth.
Spit ran down her neck. Her knees ached. Her jaw burned. She didn't stop.
"Fuck," Ty gasped. "Fuck, I'm gonna—"
She pulled back. Looked up at him with watery eyes and a smirk.
"Not yet."
His chest heaved.
She stood up. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"You don't get to come until I say you can," she said.
"That's—that's not fair."
"Life's not fair."
She walked past him. Toward the bedroom.
She didn't look back.
The bedroom still smelled like Marcus.
She hadn't changed the sheets. Hadn't even thought about it. The pillow still had the indentation of his head. The comforter was still tangled from where they'd thrown it off in the middle of the night.
Ty stood in the doorway. Hesitating.
"Get on the bed," she said.
He didn't move.
She turned to face him.
"I said get on the bed."
"You're not—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're not gonna tell me what this means?"
"It doesn't mean anything."
"That's not—"
"Ty." Her voice was flat. "I just had my boyfriend's entire team fuck me in my living room. One of them is still probably in love with me. Another one is probably never going to speak to me again. I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am. All I know is that I'm tired of thinking about it."
She stepped closer.
"So get on the bed. And let me stop thinking."
Ty looked at her for a long moment.
Then he moved.
He pulled off his hoodie. Pulled off his shirt. Kicked off his shoes and socks and jeans until he was standing there in just his boxers.
Hailey watched.
"Those too," she said.
He pushed them down. Stepped out of them.
His cock was still hard. Still wet from her mouth. It twitched under her gaze.
She pushed him backward.
He fell onto the mattress. The springs creaked. The sheets smelled like someone else. He didn't mention it.
Hailey climbed on top of him.
She straddled his hips. Pressed her palms flat against his chest. Ground her still-clothed pussy against his bare cock—slow, deliberate, the fabric of her leggings slick between them.
Ty groaned.
"Fuck—"
"Shut up."
She reached down. Pulled her leggings and underwear to the side. Positioned him at her entrance.
Then she sank down.
One inch. Two. Her body stretched around him, still sore from earlier, still tender—but she didn't care. She took all of him. Bottomed out with a sharp exhale.
"Fuck," Ty whispered.
She didn't answer.
She started to move.
Slow at first. Rocking her hips. Finding a rhythm. Ty's hands found her waist—not guiding, just holding. Like he was afraid she might disappear.
She leaned back. Changed the angle.
He hit something deep inside her and she gasped.
"Right there," she said.
Ty nodded.
She rode him faster.
Harder.
The headboard hit the wall. The sheets twisted under her knees. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dripped onto his chest.
"You like this?" she asked.
"Yes—"
"You like being inside me? Knowing your teammate was just here?"
Ty's eyes went wide.
"Knowing Marcus fucked me in this bed? Knowing Derek ate me out on that blanket?"
"Hailey—"
"Answer the question."
"Yes." His voice broke. "Yes, I like it."
She smiled.
She leaned down. Pressed her mouth to his ear.
"You're just like them," she whispered. "You're all the same."
She bit his earlobe.
Ty came.
Not because he wanted to—she could tell by the look on his face, the way his hips jerked up, the way his hands clenched around her waist. It just happened. Undeniable. Unstoppable.
She felt him pulse inside her. Felt the heat spread. Kept moving until he was done, until he was gasping and oversensitive and trying to push her off.
She didn't let him.
She rode him through the come. Through the aftershocks. Until his cock softened and slipped out and a trail of come leaked down her thigh.
Then she climbed off.
Lay down beside him.
Stared at the ceiling.
Ty was breathing hard. Chest rising and falling. Sweat cooling on his skin.
"Hailey."
"Yeah."
"That was—"
She turned her head. Looked at him.
"Don't."
He closed his mouth.
She sat up. Grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand—the one Marcus had left. Lit it. Took a long drag.
The smoke curled toward the ceiling.
"You can go," she said.
Ty didn't move.
"I said you can go."
"Hailey—"
"Ty."
He sat up. Looked at her. His face was open in a way she hadn't expected—not angry, not hurt, just confused. Lost. Like he'd walked into something he didn't understand and still hadn't figured out how to leave.
"For what it's worth," he said. "I do care about you."
She took another drag.
"That's nice."
"I mean it."
"I know."
He waited.
She didn't say anything else.
He got dressed. Slowly. Never taking his eyes off her. Like he was waiting for her to change her mind.
She didn't.
At the door, he stopped.
"For what it's worth—Logan's a wreck."
She didn't answer.
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Hailey sat in the empty bedroom with the cigarette burning down between her fingers and the sheets still tangled around her knees.
She looked at the pillow next to her. The indentation was still there—Marcus's head, from hours ago.
She ran her finger along it.
Then she stubbed out the cigarette. Dropped her head back against the headboard. Closed her eyes.
The room still smelled like Marcus.
And she didn't wash the sheets.
Not yet.
Not yet.
She said it to the ceiling, to the smoke, to the ghost of Marcus still pressed into the pillow beside her. The words hung there, ugly and honest. She wasn't done. Not with the night, not with herself, not with whatever this was becoming.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She didn't look at it. Didn't need to. She already knew who it was—Derek, probably, with another apology. Or Logan, with another plea. Or Marcus, with that same steady patience that made her want to scream and crawl into his lap at the same time.
She picked it up.
Derek: "I can't sleep. I keep thinking about you. Is that fucked up?"
She stared at the words. The screen glowed in the dim room, casting blue light across her fingers.
She typed back.
"Come over."
She hit send before she could think. Before the part of her that still cared about consequences could pull the emergency brake. Before she could remember that she'd already sent this exact text to Ty less than two hours ago.
One minute. Two.
Her phone buzzed.
Derek: "On my way."
She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. Stood up. Walked to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her face was a ruin. Smudged mascara. Raw lips. Hair a tangled mess from Ty's hands, from Marcus's, from Derek's. A bruise was forming on her neck—she didn't remember who'd left it.
She didn't fix any of it.
She walked back to the living room. Sat on the couch. Waited.
The doorbell rang.
She didn't bother asking who it was.
Derek stood on the threshold.
He looked worse than he had at three in the morning. His hoodie was inside out. He smelled like he'd been drinking—not beer this time, something sweeter, something harder. His eyes were red-rimmed and skittish, darting past her into the apartment like he expected to find someone else there.
"He's gone," she said.
Derek blinked.
"Marcus. He left hours ago."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
Derek's jaw tightened. Then loosened. Then he looked at the floor.
"Can I come in?"
She stepped aside.
He walked past her. Stopped in the middle of the living room. Turned in a slow circle, taking in the same wreckage he'd seen before—the bottles, the blanket, the ashtray that was now overflowing with cigarette butts.
"You've been smoking," he said.
"Lot's happened."
He turned to face her.
"Hailey—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't apologize. Don't tell me you're sorry. Don't tell me you shouldn't have come." She stepped closer. "You came back. Twice. That means something."
Derek's throat moved. He swallowed.
"It means I'm an idiot."
"It means you want something."
He didn't deny it.
She reached out. Grabbed the front of his inside-out hoodie. Pulled him toward her until they were chest to chest.
"Tell me what you want."
Derek's eyes dropped to her mouth.
"You."
"Be specific."
"I want to fuck you."
She smiled. It wasn't kind.
"Beg."
"What?"
"Beg me for it."
Derek's breath hitched. She could feel his heart hammering under her hand, could feel the heat rolling off his skin.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Please let me fuck you."
"On your knees."
He dropped.
The floor was the same hard tile she'd knelt on for Ty. Now Derek was on it, looking up at her with those bloodshot eyes, his hands hanging at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them.
"Crawl to the bedroom," she said.
"Hailey—"
"Crawl. Or leave."
He crawled.
She watched him cross the living room on his hands and knees, his inside-out hoodie dragging on the floor, his jeans straining across his thighs. When he reached the bedroom doorway, she stepped past him and pointed at the bed.
"On the sheets."
He climbed onto the mattress. Onto the sheets that still smelled like Marcus and Ty. That still had the indentation of another man’s head, that still had a faint crust of dried come near the edge where someone had spilled.
Derek didn't mention it.
He lay on his back. Looked up at her.
She pulled off her tank top. Pulled off her leggings. Stood there in just her underwear—the same underwear, still wet from Ty, from earlier.
Then she took those off too.
She climbed onto the bed. Straddled his hips. Leaned down until her lips brushed his ear.
"You want to know something?"
"Wh-what?"
"Ty was here."
Derek went rigid beneath her.
"He came over. I sucked his cock in the entryway. Then I rode him on these sheets." She bit his earlobe. "He came inside me. And I didn't wash the sheets after."
"Hailey—"
"Does that bother you?"
He didn't answer.
She pulled back. Looked at his face.
His eyes were wide. His jaw was clenched. His cock—pressed against her thigh through his jeans—was hard enough to cut glass.
"No," he said.
"Good."
She reached down. Unbuttoned his jeans. Yanked them down with his boxers, just far enough to free his cock.
It sprang up. Thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it and squeezed.
Derek hissed.
"You want to fuck me?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Your pussy?”
She laughed. Soft. Cruel.
"That's not what I asked."
Derek blinked. "What?"
"I said where."
He stared at her.
Then it clicked.
His face went through something complicated—surprise, confusion, something darker underneath. Something hungry.
"Your ass," he said.
"Say it again."
"Your ass."
She leaned down. Kissed him—hard, biting, her teeth against his lip until he tasted copper.
Then she rolled off him. Got on her hands and knees. Arched her back and pressed her face into the pillow that still smelled like Marcus.
"Then do it," she said.
Derek scrambled behind her. She heard him fumbling with his jeans, felt his hands on her hips.
"Lube," she said.
"What?"
"Nightstand. Top drawer."
He moved. She heard the drawer open, heard him rummaging, heard the bottle of lube hit the mattress beside her.
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"Yeah—I mean—no. Not really."
"Then use your fingers first."
He did.
Cold lube. One finger, then two, pressing into her slowly. She winced. Breathed. Let him work her open while she stared at the wall and thought about nothing.
"More."
Three fingers.
"Okay. Okay, that's enough."
He pulled his hand away. She heard him slicking his cock. Felt the blunt pressure of him against her ass.
"Go slow," she said.
He pushed in.
She gasped. It was too much—too thick, too fast, stretching her in ways she wasn't ready for. Her hands fisted in the sheets. Her teeth clenched.
"Slow," she hissed.
He stopped.
Waited.
Then pushed again. Slower this time. An inch. Two. She felt every nerve screaming, every muscle trying to push him out.
"Keep going," she said.
He kept going.
Until he was all the way in. Until his hips were pressed against her ass and his balls were resting against her cunt and she could feel every single inch of him buried inside her.
"Fuck," Derek whispered.
She didn't answer.
He started to move.
Slow at first. Tentative. Like he was afraid of breaking her. She pushed back against him, and something in him snapped.
He grabbed her hips and fucked her.
Hard. Fast. The headboard slammed against the wall. The sheets twisted under her knees. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her back.
"You like that?" he gasped.
She didn't answer.
"You like my cock in your ass?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I like it."
"Louder."
"I fucking love it."
He fucked her harder.
She reached down. Slid her fingers between her legs. Found her clit and started rubbing—circles, then presses, then frantic back-and-forth.
She came.
Hard. Loud. Her body clenched around him and she screamed into the pillow that smelled like Marcus.
Derek came a few seconds later. She felt him pulse inside her, felt the heat spread, felt him collapse on top of her with a shuddering groan.
They lay there.
He was heavy. Sweaty. His breath was hot against her neck. She didn't push him off.
Then she did.
She crawled forward. Let him slip out of her. Turned to face him.
His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. There was a smear of lube on his stomach and a look on his face she couldn't name.
"Get out," she said.
Derek's eyes opened.
"What?"
"Get out. I'm done."
He sat up. Looked at her.
"Hailey—"
"Now."
He got dressed.
She watched him from the bed. Watched him pull on his inside-out hoodie. Watched him search for his shoes. Watched him stand in the doorway with his hand on the frame.
"I love you," he said.
She didn't answer.
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Hailey lay back on the sheets. They were wet now—sweat and lube and everything else. She didn't care.
She lit another cigarette.
Smoked it down to the filter.
Then she closed her eyes.
And for the first time in days, she slept.
The sleep was thick and dreamless, the kind that swallowed hours whole and spit them out like bones. When Hailey's eyes opened, the light in the room had shifted—afternoon now, maybe later, the gold gone orange and the shadows stretched long across the floor. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray. Her body felt like someone else's.
She sat up.
The sheets were crusted in places. The pillow still smelled like Marcus. Underneath that, faint but unmistakable, was the ghost of Derek's sweat and Ty's breath and her own come from a dozen different moments she could barely separate anymore.
She swung her legs off the mattress. Stood. The room tilted, then steadied.
Her phone was on the nightstand. Dead again. She plugged it in and waited for the screen to wake.
Notifications stacked up like evidence.
Derek: "I meant what I said."
Ty: "That was intense. You okay?"
Marcus: "Call me when you're up."
Logan: "I'm outside."
She froze.
The last message was timestamped eleven minutes ago. She looked at the window—the blinds were still drawn, but she could see the shape of the afternoon through the slats, the way the light had gone soft and tired.
She walked to the living room.
The apartment was the same disaster she'd left it. Bottles. Blanket. Ashtray. The smell of sex and smoke had settled into the walls like it planned to stay.
She went to the window. Peeked through the blinds.
Logan's car was parked across the street. He was sitting on the hood. Head down. Arms crossed. Looking at his phone like it might tell him something he wanted to hear.
She let the blind fall.
Her hand found her hair. Tangled, greasy, still smelling like everyone who'd touched her. She didn't fix it.
She walked to the door.
Opened it.
He looked up.
The distance between them was maybe forty feet—just a sidewalk, just a stretch of cracked concrete and a few parked cars. It felt like a canyon.
He slid off the hood. Stood there. Didn't move toward her.
She didn't move either.
Then he started walking.
She watched him cross the street. Watched him step onto the curb. Watched him get closer and closer until he was standing at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her like she was something he wasn't sure he recognized.
"You look—" He stopped.
"Say it."
"Different."
She stepped back. Let him in.
He walked past her. Into the living room. He stood in the middle of it, turning slowly, taking in the bottles and the blanket and the ashtray overflowing with butts. His jaw worked. His hands stayed at his sides.
"I called you," he said.
"I know."
"Seventeen times."
"I know."
"I texted you twenty-three times."
"I know."
He turned to face her.
"Did you read any of them?"
"Most of them."
"Most."
"I stopped after a while."
He nodded. Like that made sense. Like any of this made sense.
"Where's Marcus?"
"Gone."
"Derek?"
"Gone."
"Ty?"
She didn't answer.
Logan's eyes narrowed. Something flickered behind them—understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"Ty was here."
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
He exhaled. Slow. Controlled. The kind of exhale that meant he was trying very hard not to scream.
"Everyone."
"Not everyone."
"Almost everyone."
"Does it matter?"
He stared at her.
"Does it matter?" His voice cracked on the second word. "Hailey, you fucked my entire team. You fucked my friends. You fucked—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You fucked Derek. You fucked Marcus. You fucked Ty. And you're asking me if it matters?"
She didn't flinch.
"It was your deal," she said.
"What?"
"The promise. The bet. You told them they could have me if you won. You shook their hands. You made it real."
Logan's face went pale.
"That's not—I didn't think—"
"You didn't think what? That I'd actually go through with it? That I'd actually say yes?"
"I thought—"
"You thought I'd say no. You thought I'd laugh it off. You thought I'd be the good little girlfriend who stays on the sidelines and cheers while you make promises you don't expect to keep."
He stepped toward her.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair."
He stopped. Inches away. Close enough that she could smell him—soap and deodorant and the faint sourness of sleep. Close enough that she could see the red in his eyes, the way his hands were shaking.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I wanted to."
The words hung there.
"I wanted to," she repeated. "I wanted to know what it felt like. I wanted to know what I was worth. I wanted to stop being the girl who waits."
Logan's mouth opened. Closed.
"You could have told me," he said.
"Told you what? That your promise made me feel like a prize? That for the first time in years I felt like I had a choice?"
"You always had a choice."
"Did I?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped past him. Sat down on the couch. The blanket was there—folded, but still there. She ran her hand over it.
"I'm not sorry," she said.
Logan turned. Looked at her.
"You're not sorry."
"No."
"For any of it."
"For some of it."
He waited.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you first. I'm sorry you had to find out like this. I'm sorry—" She paused. "I'm sorry you're hurting."
"That's not—"
"But I'm not sorry I did it."
He crossed the room. Sat down on the other end of the couch. Not close. Not far. Just there.
The silence stretched.
Outside, a car passed. A dog barked. Someone laughed—a kid, maybe, or a neighbor Hailey had never met. The world kept going in a way that felt almost obscene.
"So what now?" Logan's voice was thin.
"I don't know."
"Do you want to break up?"
She looked at him.
"Do you?"
"I asked first."
"I know."
He ran a hand through his hair. Tugged at the roots. Let his head fall back against the cushion.
"I don't want to lose you," he said.
"You already did."
"I don't want to lose you completely."
She didn't answer.
He turned his head. Looked at her. Really looked.
"You smell like them," he said.
"I know."
"You smell like cigarettes and sex and—" He stopped. "You smell like someone I used to know."
Hailey reached for the pack on the coffee table. Pulled out a cigarette. Lit it.
She blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Maybe that person's gone," she said.
"Maybe."
She took another drag. Held it. Let it out slow.
"You can stay," she said.
Logan's eyes widened.
"What?"
"If you want. You can stay. I'm not going to fuck you. Not tonight. But you can stay."
He stared at her.
"Why?"
She didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense. Not one that she could say out loud without sounding cruel or desperate or both.
"I don't know," she admitted.
He stood up.
"I should go."
"Okay."
He walked to the door.
Stopped.
Turned.
"I still love you."
She took another drag.
"I know."
He opened the door.
The hallway light spilled in. Cold. Fluorescent. Wrong.
"I'll call you," he said.
"Okay."
He left.
The door clicked shut.
Hailey sat there with her cigarette burning down. The apartment was quiet again—quieter than before, maybe, because now she was alone and she knew it.
She finished the cigarette. Stubbed it out.
Then she stood up.
Walked to the bedroom.
Pulled the sheets off the bed.
Threw them in the trash.
She grabbed fresh ones from the closet. Put them on. Smoothing the wrinkles with her hands. Erasing everything that had come before.
Then she lay down.
Stared at the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't look.
It buzzed again.
She didn't look.
It kept buzzing—over and over, a steady rhythm of notification after notification. She heard the tremor of it against the nightstand, could imagine who might be texting her, what they might be saying.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't sleep.
She just lay there in the dark and listened to the phone until the battery died and the silence came back and the only sound in the world was her own breathing.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't look.
It buzzed again.
She didn't look.
It kept buzzing—over and over, a steady rhythm of notification after notification. She heard the tremor of it against the nightstand, could imagine who might be texting her, what they might be saying.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't sleep.
She just lay there in the dark and listened to the phone until the battery died and the silence came back and the only sound in the world was her own breathing.
And then, soft against the quiet, a fist slammed against her door.