NOT GAY
1321 Words
The sun acted as an intruder, slicing through the gap in my curtains like a serrated blade and stabbing directly at my eyes until the only choice left was to drag myself out of the blissful void of sleep.
Staying still for a long moment while staring at the ceiling of my dorm room, I felt my head throb with the dull, rhythmic ache of a post-game crash, yet the weight in my chest wasn't from the vodka.
The memory hit all at once, bringing back the laundry room, the smell of detergent mixed with Michael’s skin, and the way I’d looked him in the eye while he took exactly what he wanted.
As the silence of the room closed in, my imagination began to warp the memory into something far more dangerous.
Closing my eyes tight, I could almost feel the phantom weight of Michael’s body pressing me into the cold brick wall again. In my mind, his voice wasn't just a whisper but a low, degrading growl that vibrated through my bones.
"Look at me, Axel," the imaginary Michael commanded, his grip tightening on my throat until my breath hitched in real life. "Tell me how much you love being handled like a toy. Tell me you’re nothing but a pathetic little Knight waiting for a Rebel to break him."
Grinding my hips down into the mattress, I felt a treacherous, white-hot spark ignite in my gut. My hands fisted into the sheets as I pictured him sneering at me, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying mix of desire and disdain. In this waking fever dream, I wasn't the Golden Boy; I was just his, his perfect slut.
"Please," I heard myself whimper in the quiet of the room, the word a confession of my own weakness.
The fantasy Michael only laughed, a sound like velvet and gravel. "Please what? Please ruin you? You’re already ruined, Axel. You’ve been wanting this since the first time we stepped on the ice together. You’re just a hypocrite in a jersey. Now, stay still and take it."
Driven by the mental image of his hands forcing my head back, I began to move against the pillow with a desperate, rhythmic intensity. The friction was a poor substitute for the heat of him, but my body didn't care. Every imaginary insult he hurled at me, calling me soft as his only made the pressure build.
I was chasing a ghost, imagining the way his mouth would taste as he claimed me again, harder and more vertical than before. The shame was a distant roar, drowned out by the sheer, agonizing need to feel that control.
"That's it, Axel," he whispered in my ear as the tension reached a breaking point. "Submit like the good little slut you are. Show me how much of a slut you really are."
With a choked gasp, I arched my back, my entire body locking up as the climax hit with a force that felt like a physical blow.
I came with a stifled sob, my face buried in the pillow, the heat of my own betrayal slick against my skin.
The silence that followed was deafening. Mortified by the slick heat between my legs and the way my body had played along with Michael’s imagined commands, I scrambled out of bed and bolted for the bathroom.
Because I wasn't gay and couldn't be, I focused on how much I liked girls, the curve of their waist, and the scent of floral perfume.
Having been with Chloe for six months and Sarah for a year before that, I remained the Golden Boy who played it safe, played it straight, and hit the puck harder than anyone else.
What happened last night was a fluke, or perhaps a psychological reaction to extreme stress and betrayal, because Michael Rossi was just a tool. He was a means to an end to get back at Liam, and that was it.
I avoided the mirror until the cold water was running, splashing my face so the icy sting could help ground me and wash away the lingering ghost of Michael’s presence.
When I finally looked up, I didn't recognize the guy staring back, as my hair was a mess, my eyes were bloodshot, and there was a faint, purple-red bruise blooming on the side of my neck.
The mark.
Leaning in as my heart skipped a beat, I saw a clear, unmistakable hickey. Michael had claimed a piece of my skin, which meant going to a mandatory team practice with a branding iron mark for everyone to see.
I brushed my teeth with a ferocity that made my gums bleed while trying to scrub the taste of the night before out of my mouth. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his fingers and the way he’d gripped my throat.
I'm not gay. I'm not gay. I'm not gay.
I dressed in my team gear: heavy sweats and a hoodie I could pull up high. I grabbed my hockey bag, the weight of it familiar and grounding. Hockey was my sanctuary because on the ice, everything was simple since you hit, you score, and you defend. There was no room for whatever the hell was happening in my head.
The drive to the rink was a blur as I kept the radio off, leaving the silence in the car feeling like a heavy blanket. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw the Rebels’ bus parked near the back entrance.
My stomach dropped because I’d forgotten that because of the "PR disaster," the coaches had scheduled a joint practice session: a "unity building" exercise to show the league that the two teams were moving past the scandal. It was a setup and a trap.
I walked into the rink, where the familiar smell of cold ozone and rubber was usually enough to soothe me, but today it felt like an arena of judgment.
The locker room was already loud with the guys chirping, the sound of tape being ripped, and sticks clattering filling the space. I kept my head down and headed straight for my stall.
"Morning, Thorne," Miller said, his voice dripping with something that wasn't quite a joke but wasn't quite serious either. "You look like you slept in a dryer."
"Bad sleep," I grunted, keeping my hoodie pulled up.
"Yeah? Or did Rossi keep you up all night?"
The room went quiet and a few guys snickered, causing me to feel the heat rising in my neck, right where the bruise was hidden.
"Drop it, Miller," I snapped, sitting down and ripping my sneakers off. "We’re here to work."
"Whoa, easy there, Tiger," Miller held up his hands, a smirk playing on his lips. "Just saying, the video of that kiss has three million views this morning. You're a celebrity, Axel. You and your… boyfriend."
The word felt like a slap. Boyfriend.
Instead of answering, I just started putting on my pads while the rhythmic click and snap of the gear acted as a shield. I was almost ready with my helmet in hand when the door to the locker room opened. It wasn't a Knight.
Michael Rossi walked in like he owned the place, already in his Rebels practice jersey with his skates slung over his shoulder.
He looked infuriatingly perfect with not a hair out of place, and his dark eyes scanned the room until they landed on me.
He didn't say anything; he just looked. For a second, the locker room disappeared until all I could see was the way his mouth had looked in the dark of the laundry room.
"Thorne," Michael said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "Coach wants us on the ice. Together."
He stepped closer and leaned into my space, his voice dropping so low only I could hear it.
"Nice hoodie, Axel. Trying to hide something?”
- Writer
