Archive of Our Own

Shane Hollander knows the second he watches his best friend disappear into the Kappa Sigma house that they won't be bowling tonight. 

“I won’t even tell people to take their shoes off.”

Lies. Hayden isn’t coming back. 

All hopes of a relaxing evening drinking beer and making a fool of Hayden at the bowling alley die on the sidewalk along with a collection of beaten-up red solo cups and sorority girl dreams. If Hayden hadn’t charmed him during pre-season hockey training three years prior, Shane wouldn’t have to keep his thoughts about the frat brother puking in the bushes and the urge to start cleaning to himself right now. 

Honestly, he doesn’t know how they survive after partying like this every weekend. Ilya Rozanov, President of Kappa Sigma and captain of the Boston College hockey team, makes it look easy. Too easy. And that’s why Shane is stuck here in the small front yard of the apartment building on a Saturday night instead of typing in his name on the screen at the campus bowling alley instead: because Hayden can’t, for some inexplicable reason, just let Rozanov drink himself out of NHL eligibility. 

Fuck this, Shane thinks to himself as he debates the merits of just going back to his dorm or continuing to wait. When he sees a tall figure in a white t-shirt and skinny jeans emerge from the throng of students packed into the ground floor of the building, he knows he’s waited too long to choose. 

“I figured I’d find you hiding out here.” A cold beer is pressed into Shane’s hand before he can reject the offer. “How would you like me to get Hayden’s body back to you? In a box or several trash bags?” 

Shane rolls his eyes and deftly passes the can off to the next person who happens to brush past him on their way inside. 

“You found me,” Shane grumbles with mocking jazz hands. “Now go find Hayden so I can leave.”

Barrett doesn’t listen, though. Instead, he laughs and knocks back the rest of whatever is in his solo cup – some sort of gross IPA from the smell of it. Only he would go through the trouble of pouring a can of beer into a cup meant for the keg that’s already been kicked, and it isn’t even ten o’clock. 

“I’m surprised you guys came back at all.” Barrett sneaks a half-step closer, leaning down to whisper to Shane like he’s sharing some sort of secret. “Happy, but surprised.”

After their game earlier, Hayden had made it explicitly clear to the team and his frat brothers in particular that just because he wouldn’t be home didn’t mean they could throw a rager. He’d forced Rozanov to stand in front of the team and physically cross his heart that he would keep his promise. Hopefully, he’s inside and not ripping out said heart. A homicide charge will only slow down their progress for the rest of the evening, and Shane really wants to go bowling. 

So, Shane ignores the way Barrett is expectantly staring at him beneath the brim of the BC baseball cap he only ever takes off to replace with his hockey helmet and tells himself that Hayden will be outside any second now to rescue him from the most annoying frat bro he’s ever met. Where most of them, his teammates included, stopped trying to get him to join them after two failed attempts freshman year, Barrett has been in a relentless, less brotherly pursuit of Shane for just as long. 

There’s one problem with his quest: Shane doesn’t do casual hookups, and he sure as Hell doesn’t have them with anyone associated with Greek life. Kappa Sigma Rush Chair Troy Barrett, with his electric blue eyes and a habit of biting on his pretty pink lips, is no exception to that rule. 

“C’mon, Shane.” Barrett has the nerve to dip his head and pout in a way that almost tugs at Shane’s gay little heartstrings. That’s another thing he does to try and seem different: uses Shane’s first name instead of his last like everyone else. “Why won’t you give me a–”

“Not gonna happen,” Shane says for the second time tonight. The first had been after the game but before Rozanov’s public display of disdain for laying off the vodka. “I appreciate your effort, though.”

In another life, Shane no doubt gives in to that puppy dog pout and the big hockey hands currently ripping up the empty cup and folding it into pieces. The worst part is that Barrett does it without having to look down to see that he’s doing it right; his fingers are that confident. Watching them handle a stick sans gloves in the locker room is enough of a tease. This is closer to torture. 

“So, where are you and Pike not headed tonight?”

Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer.

“We were supposed to go bowling.” 

Damn it. 

Shane crosses his arms over his chest and stands up a bit straighter, hoping Barrett gets the message and goes back inside. It doesn’t work.

“Bowling?” Barrett must see something incriminating on Shane’s face, because he smiles and takes a step closer. “I haven’t been bowling in years. Is that where you and Pike go all the time?”

Answering Barrett’s questions shouldn’t come naturally. Shane blames three years and some change of being in constant close proximity with each other. As annoying as Barrett is, he’s familiar, and sort of puppy dog-like, and Shane just got abandoned by his so-called best friend again. 

“Most Saturdays,” he says non-committally. Then, because of the aforementioned familiarity, he adds, “I told him I’d cover so we didn’t need to come back for his wallet, but Hayden insisted he pay this time, and now he’s in there instead of–”

“Let’s go.” 

The force of Barrett’s words stops Shane mid-sentence, and it takes him a second to process what’s being suggested. A night out bowling. With Troy Barrett: Frat Bro Extraordinaire and All Around Fuckboy. 

“Go where?” Shane asks because maybe he meant, "Let’s go inside and drag Hayden out so you can be on your way." 

“Bowling.” Barrett stuffs the destroyed solo cup into the front pocket of his jeans. When their eyes meet, his smile is soft, almost polite, but his eyes are sparkling with something that sets fire to Shane’s skin. “What? The rule is, if your friend doesn’t come out after ten minutes, they’ve been lost to the house, and you’re free to leave. How long has it been?”

Shane knows that rule. Everyone knows that rule. And it’s been at least fifteen minutes.

“Whatever you think this is, it isn’t that,” Shane says, and he hates how much he likes the way Barrett throws his fist in the air in victory. “We’re two friends, going bowling, totally platonically.”

“Oh, we’re friends now? I thought I was just a teammate.” Before Shane can take back what he just said, Barrett throws an arm around him and spins him back toward the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you pay.” 

And that’s how Shane ends up walking the entire way to the bowling alley with Barrett’s arm across his shoulders and the smell of his cologne taking up the entire sidewalk while Barrett yaps on and on about how boring the party had been and how he doesn’t know why he still shows up. It’s unfortunate that he’s chosen to go the route of mindless drinking and prioritizing status over having a decent personality. 

Frat culture as a whole has never seemed attractive to Shane, regardless of how much community service they claim to do. No amount of parading around university fundraisers or washing cars can make up for the fact that when you get a group of twenty-somethings together, give them what they perceive as immense power, alcohol, and money, they’re going to eventually abuse it. Hayden gets a pass solely because he and Shane were friends before Hayden dropped the Frat-bomb on him, and even Shane can understand the need to uphold a familial legacy. 

He’s never asked why Barrett rushed, and it’s never come up in conversation, but he can only assume it’s for the reasons he’s already mentally listed in an effort to stop inhaling Barrett’s cologne and playing with the hem of his t-shirt. 

Wait – when did he wrap his arm around Barrett’s waist?

“After you,” Barrett says, pulling his arm back as they approach the front door to the bowling alley so that he can open it. Shane’s feet hesitate for a second as he tries to decide if he misses Barrett’s touch or if it’s gotten cold outside, but eventually he sorts himself out. 

While they agree that Shane will pay for the lane, Barrett leaves him to get their shoes, then goes in search of “beer and food to eat when you humiliate me, and I get sad.” For a second, Shane is thankful for the newfound space and takes his time finding them two bowling balls and getting changed into his shoes. When he gets to the point in the evening when he has to type their names into the game, he stops. 

Hollander and Barrett seem so informal, but putting Shane and Troy feels overly familiar. He could use their hockey names, Holz and Barry, except for the fact that they sort of established that they’re friends less than twenty minutes ago. Shane uses Hayden’s first name, so it makes sense that he should use Barrett’s, too. 

Right?

“I hope you’re hungry.” Before he can put too much thought into what he’s typing on the screen, Shane turns to see Barrett setting down a pitcher of beer and a tray with glasses, loaded fries, nachos, a piece of pizza, and mozzarella sticks. When he doesn’t answer, Barrett stops pouring the beer to look up and raise an eyebrow at him. “What?”

For the love of God, dude, say something.

“No pizza for me?” It’s meant to be snarky and make him feel guilty for only getting one piece, but Barrett calls him out on his bluff. A smirk makes its way onto his face as he sets down the pitcher and kicks off his sneakers.

“It’s for you, obviously,” Barrett winks. “If I have any hope of not embarrassing myself, I need you loaded up with grease and fake cheese.”

Shane can’t prove it, but he knows that there’s a sexual innuendo in that statement somewhere. He opts for ignoring it and pressing Start before he can talk himself out of the bowling alley and right back to the frat house on the off chance Hayden is wandering around looking for him. Once he’s done that, the pressure of watching Barrett change into his shoes is almost too much to handle – do Barrett’s biceps ever not flex when he moves? – so Shane moves his attention to the screen, where he typed Shane and Troy. 

“Show me how it’s done,” Barrett, Troy, says, throwing an arm around the back of the bench he’s sitting on and making himself comfortable.

Innuendo is all over that one syllable, and Shane hopes his cheeks just feel hotter than they look as he picks up his bowling ball and does his usual pre-bowl routine: one deep breath in for four seconds, tell himself he’s the best, exhale for six seconds, sends a prayer that Hayden, today Troy, sucks when he goes next, and then let loose. The red bowling ball flies down the alley and smacks into the pins with a satisfying crack, knocking over all but two of them. 

He must have a shit-eating grin on his face when he turns around, because Troy is forcing an over-exaggerated frown while his eyes sparkle with amusement. 

“Most Saturdays, huh?” Troy asks, and Shane rolls his eyes before grabbing his bowling ball as it plops itself out into the ball pit. 

“I tried to warn you,” Shane shrugs. 

Then, because he’s all out of sorts, he finds himself winking before he turns around to take his second attempt. The two remaining pins fall just as he’s planned, and Shane lets the small zing of victory carry him over to the bench. 

“Let the record show I’ve been sufficiently warned,” Troy laughs and stands up, making a show of cracking his knuckles and shaking out his hands. Shane takes his place on the bench and goes to reach for a fry before stopping, realizing almost a second too late that there’s nothing for him to wipe his hands with, and he won’t be going back and forth between food and a bowling ball all night. “On the tray.”

“What?” When Shane looks up, Troy’s biceps are flexing again as Troy lifts his bowling ball, and he’s sure Troy is somehow doing it on purpose. 

“Wipes are on the tray,” Troy says. “I’ve eaten enough hotel buffet breakfasts with you to know how you feel about finger food.”

More heat rushes through Shane’s body, but this time it goes straight to his chest and makes his toes go a little fuzzy. 

“Thanks,” he says, because there isn’t anything else to add that won’t make it obvious how quickly his self-control is deteriorating. 

“Any time,” Troy replies, and it sounds like he means it. “Now, let me show you what these magic fingers are capable of.”

Before Shane can even get a fry in his mouth, the screen above their lane lights up with the word STRIKE and a bunch of confetti, and Troy is standing with his hands on his hips, beaming. 

“I thought you said you haven’t been bowling in years?” Shane asks, unable to stop the surprise from seeping into his question. 

“Last time I checked, physics still follows the same rules as it did when I was a kid.” Troy takes his time walking back to the bench and dropping down next to Shane, close enough that their knees bump. “Should we make this interesting?”

Maybe it’s the tingle working its way up Shane’s leg, or the way the blue in Troy’s eyes is lit up in the neon blacklight, but Shane can’t stop himself from asking, “In what way?”

They decide that the loser will do whatever the winner wants when the round is over, and Shane only accepts because he tells himself that Troy’s strike is little more than beginner’s luck. Somewhere between eating the slice of pizza that Troy definitely got for himself and finishing his first beer, he forgets that he’s supposed to be trying to do better than the guy cracking jokes and not-so-subtly flirting with him. It’s almost sad how quickly Shane folds beneath the weight of another wink and Troy’s knee bumping against his at every opportunity. Once, they both reach for the pitcher at the same time, and Troy is suspiciously slow to pull his hand away. So slow that Shane almost frowns when he finally does. 

It’s not going to happen, Shane reminds himself halfway through the game. Troy Barrett is not going to wear me down. 

Troy himself might not, but the way his jeans hug his ass and those stupid biceps sure as Hell are. Then, there’s his magic fingers, which Shane’s tried not to notice until now, because whoever invented hockey was smart enough to create the bulkiest gloves the world of sports has ever seen. They’re long and nimble, and whether he’s tapping them on the table or twirling them around the bowling ball in the pit, Shane can’t seem to look away from them. If he looks away, he starts to imagine them doing other things, and then he’s reminding himself that it isn’t going to happen. 

This is what makes frat guys dangerous. They’ve spent years being told what makes them attractive, and they’re shameless enough to lean into those attributes full force, banking on another person’s lack of self-control to get them laid. And, once they get what they came for, they’re gone, and you wake up realizing they never even gave you their phone number. 

He does have Troy’s number, at least. And he knows where Troy lives. Where he goes to school, what sport he plays –

“I’m so sorry, Shane,” Troy says, though the smile on his lips suggests otherwise. “Looks like you’ll be doing what I want tonight.”

He hates the way his body heats, and his cock twitches at Troy’s words. Shane’s been doing a stand-up job for the last hour of keeping himself together, but watching Troy drop onto the bench and retying his sneakers does things to his resolve that he’ll hate himself for in the morning. 

“What do you have in mind?” Shane asks, adjusting his position to make his current problem less noticeable. 

“Let’s go back to the party,” Troy says. “I’m sure Pike is worried sick about you by now.”

The reminder of his best friend’s existence has Shane reaching for his phone, expecting several texts and a handful of missed calls. Only, he doesn’t find any, which would concern him if it didn’t seem like what Troy wants is to get rid of him. 

“Tired of hanging out with me already?” Shane elbows him before he can stop himself. “My feelings are hurt.”

“I just don’t want Pike giving me a hard time,” Troy says, standing and picking up the empty tray and pitcher. “Once he sees that you’re safe, and your dignity is intact, I’m making you shotgun a beer and have fun.”

Shane watches silently as Troy throws out their trash and takes the tray and pitcher back to the food counter. He drops a fiver in the tip jar while he chats with the kid behind the counter, and, for some reason, that makes Shane smile so wide it’s a struggle to wipe the expression from his face before he and Troy meet up again by the front door. 

The walk back to Kappa Sigma goes faster than the walk to the bowling alley, and Shane would feel a bit sad about it if they didn’t make a left and come face-to-face with a quiet apartment building and irritated frat members cleaning up the front yard. 

“What happened?” Troy asks, coming to a stop at the end of the walkway. 

“Roz came downstairs yelling at us to shut it down,” one of the brothers says with an eyeroll. “I don’t know what Pike said to him, but–”

“But nothing,” Troy crosses his arms over his chest, and Shane instinctively stands up a bit straighter. “What Roz says goes, and if he said shut it down, you do it with a smile. Got it?”

The kid looks like he wants to argue, but he eventually nods and goes back to cleaning up trash. When Troy turns back to Shane, he’s smiling, all traces of the no-nonsense upperclassman he’d just pretended to be gone from his expression. 

“Still down for that beer?” 

Rationally, Shane knows that he could say no, and Troy wouldn’t judge him for it. If anything, Troy looks like he’s expecting Shane to bail, so that makes saying yes easier. 

“Alright,” Troy nods toward the house. “I’m up on the third floor.”

Troy leads Shane through the yard and up into the building, where they take the stairs up to Troy’s apartment. He’s a floor below the unit that Hayden and Rozanov share, and Shane’s feet hesitate on the landing when he tries to go left instead of up another level like he usually does. There’s a handwritten sign taped to the door that reads THIS DOOR IS LOCKED FOR A REASON, and Troy takes it down as he puts his key in the lock.

“Price hates when randos try to get into our apartment,” is what Troy says as he opens the door. “After you.”

It’s the third time tonight Troy’s held a door open for him, and Shane hates that it makes him want to believe there’s more to it than Troy simply being nice. Locker room doors are always propped open, and they’ve never shared a class or gone to practice together, so for all he knows, this is who Troy is as a person. Some people are door openers, like Hayden, and others are walk-throughers, like Shane. 

But his having manners isn’t reason enough for Shane to forget his self-control. He’s going to go inside, not even take his shoes off, shotgun a beer for the first time in his life, and then go back to his dorm on the other side of campus. 

“Make yourself at home.” Troy winks as he walks past Shane into the apartment, flicking lights on as he goes, and Shane distracts himself from how it makes him feel by looking around the room. 

While Ilya and Hayden’s is bigger, this apartment feels more lived-in, with a calendar on the refrigerator and Ryan Price’s careful chicken scratch all over it. The couch in the living room has a hoodie thrown over the back, and a blanket left in a pile on the far right. Price’s duffel bag is open next to the coffee table, and Troy’s backpack is on the floor by the short hallway that leads to the two bedrooms and bathroom. 

“Miller or Natty?”

To Shane’s right, Troy is standing in front of the fridge with two cans of beer in his hand and staring at Shane over the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the living space. He looks right at home there in the soft glow with his hair pushed back and out of his eyes, hat on the counter. Now that Shane’s seen it, he’s trying not to ask himself why he’s never tried to picture Troy like this before. Probably because the reality of it is doing things it has no business doing. 

“Whichever,” Shane says, pointedly ignoring the fact that he’s kicking off his shoes and wandering into the kitchen. “Where is Price, anyway?”

“With his boyfriend.” Troy sets two cans of beer down on the counter and his keys beside them. “I won’t see him until Monday.”

That’s convenient, is Shane’s first thought. His second is, Don’t get hard. 

Somehow, they’ve ended up standing toe-to-toe in front of the sink, and the smell of his cologne is back again, tickling Shane’s nose and making his fingertips itch. Fuck, Troy smells so good. And he looks so good, all soft confidence and an easy smile. 

“Ever shotgunned a beer before?” 

Shane is too busy staring at Troy’s mouth by accident to register the question for an embarrassing amount of time. Troy seems happy enough to let him keep staring, though, and waits him out with the kind of patience that sets Shane that much more on edge. 

“I drink my beer like a sane person,” Shane eventually answers. “Slowly, out of a glass, followed by water.”

Troy doesn’t look like he believes him, which would unfortunately be right. If he’d gone bowling with Hayden, there would have been another two or three pitchers and no water. But, in Shane’s defense, they don’t have another game until Wednesday, and sometimes he and Hayden like to see who can finish a pitcher first; it makes bowling more interesting. 

“Speed is going to be your friend,” Troy tells him, reaching for the cans. “Puncture, suck like your life, and my countertops, depend on it. Pop the tab when you feel the pressure go down. Got it?”

He hands one of the cans to Shane, along with what appears to be a spare apartment key, and Shane tries to remember every time he’s watched Hayden do this. Even his uptight, anti-prank war best friend can shotgun a beer, so can Shane. 

“You go first.”

A beat passes, and then they’re still staring at one another, the backs of their hands touching where they’re holding onto the beer cans. Troy’s touch is warm, and Shane tries desperately not to think about that warmth in other places, but fails. 

“We’ll do it together.” Troy winks and holds up his key. “Ready?”

Shane takes a deep breath, mentally prepares to make a fool of himself, and nods. 

“Just keep everything over the sink,” Troy nods his head to the right. “Price will kill me if we leave a mess.”

“Got it,” Shane says instead of, “I’ll kill you if we leave a mess.”

Their eyes lock again, and Shane momentarily forgets that he’s supposed to hate everything that’s happened so far tonight. Troy takes his key and holds it to the bottom of the can, and Shane mimics the action, accepting that he’s gone too far now to back out. He’s going to shotgun this beer whether he looks like a fool or not. 

“Go!”

Troy punctures his can with his key, and Shane does the same, panic rising in his chest when beer immediately explodes everywhere. He does what Troy instructed, leaning over the sink and sucking as hard as he can, inhaling mostly foam for the first few seconds before beer finally touches his tongue. The moment the pressure slows, he pops the tab, and seconds later, he’s dropping the empty beer can into the sink, with Troy’s following shortly after. His stomach is full, close to bursting between all the cheap food and a freshly inhaled beer, and Shane isn’t sure if he wants to burp, throw up, or lie down on the floor. 

All thoughts like that go quiet when Troy raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I thought you'd never done that before.” 

The question is more impressed than surprised, and Shane opts to bask in the praise he knows is hidden behind those words. 

“You told me to suck, so I did,” Shane shrugs and leans against the counter. “I can’t help it if I'm good at it.”

Troy bites down on his bottom lip, his blue eyes going slightly dark, and Shane can’t stop the way he takes a half-step closer, drawn in by the look on Troy’s face. Frat bros might be off limits, but this one is testing every single boundary Shane has set for himself since setting foot on campus.

“You can’t say things like that to me,” Troy says, his voice little more than a whisper in the dimly lit, empty apartment. “Especially if they’re not gonna happen.”

Shane knows he should listen, but now that the beer is settling and the last two hours are slamming into focus, he realizes he’s had the best Saturday night he’s had in a long time, and all they’ve done are things Shane said would never happen. That leaves him with a question he suddenly wants the answer to: when one reaches the point of no return, do they head back or keep pushing? In a game, Shane wouldn’t just keep pushing, but dig deeper, go harder, and not stop until the buzzer sounds or a ref forces him off the ice. 

“Hypothetically,” he starts, and there’s no missing the soft moan that slips from Troy’s lips. It settles in the air between them, coaxing Shane closer, urging Troy to step forward, and suddenly there’s only the barest of technicalities keeping them from touching. “If you weren’t you, and I weren’t me, I’d be on my knees already.”

“Hypothetically,” Troy echoes, his voice dripping with the kind of want that has Shane’s knees buckling. “If you weren’t you, and I weren’t me, I’d tell you I’m more interested in taking you on a second date before I–”

“A second date?” Shane feels bad for cutting off what would have no doubt been a hot sentence, but he can’t stop himself. “When was the first one?”

A smirk makes its way onto Troy’s lips, and it ensures that Shane’s cock is firmly invested in whatever is happening right now. Horniness and anxiety war for control of Shane’s mind, and both bend to the realization that Troy is telling the truth. Bowling, food, good conversation, coming back to his place; Shane might not have had a first date in a while, but he knows they look an awful lot like the night he’s just had. 

“Do you get off on making me work for it? Is that what this is?” Troy doesn’t sound upset. Annoyed, maybe, but he isn’t moving away, and too many ideas are springing to life in Shane’s head for him to stop them all as a result. 

“No,” he defends, and it’s mostly the truth. “It’s not you.” 

He waits for Troy to get mad. Most frat guys in Shane’s experience would definitely expect sex now, especially if an alleged date is involved. But Troy just said second, and he still hasn’t tried to touch Shane, so what the hell is happening right now?

“I don’t get you, Shane.” Troy mirrors his position with his hip against the counter before running a hand through his hair. “You had a good time tonight, right?”

“Yes,” Shane replies slowly, hating and anticipating where this conversation is going in equal measure. 

“You’re attracted to me.”

“Obviously.” The word slips out before Shane can stop it, and his cheeks flame, which makes Troy smile again. 

“So what reason other than the fact that I’m in a frat–”

“I’m not interested in casual hookups,” Shane says. “And I especially don’t do one-night stands.”

Troy blinks at him, and then blinks some more. Seconds or an eternity pass as they stare, Shane’s erection quickly waning as the magic he’d felt before he opened his mouth dissipates, leaving nothing but autumnal cold in its wake. 

“Is that what you think I’m after?”

Shane opens and closes his mouth so many times that even he thinks he’s doing a piss poor fish impression. 

“It was,” he says. “Up until you just said that.”

A laugh isn’t the response Shane is expecting, but he welcomes it because Troy does have a nice laugh. He’s always thought so, even if he’s kept it to himself. 

“We’ve been teammates for three years now,” Troy starts. “How many times have you seen me casually hook up with someone?”

There was the boyfriend he came to college with, and they dated for most of their first year before the distance became too much. Then, after that, nothing. Granted, Shane doesn’t spend a lot of his time keeping track of Troy’s whereabouts, but there haven’t been any students wearing his jersey who aren’t poorly mistaken puckbunnies chasing the wrong guy. One of the things Shane does know about Troy is that he’s very, very gay. 

“Well, I don’t particularly keep up with what you do at the house parties, but–”

“I sit around and make sure no one gets too drunk or tries to push a student or a piece of furniture off the roof,” Troy rolls his eyes. “And wait to see if you’ll show up.”

Maybe, and Shane’s going to hate himself in the morning for thinking this, Troy has a point. Hayden often tells Shane that he has a bad habit of making snap decisions and stubbornly sticking by them, even when mountains of evidence suggest otherwise. And it has been a while since Shane found someone whose dick he wants to suck. 

“So, earlier, when you said the loser does what the winner wants…” His voice trails off, not strong enough to ask the one question that could very possibly ruin an already shaky evening. Fortunately, Troy is either perfect or really good at telling people what they want to hear. 

“I already got what I want,” he says. “A date with you and to make you shotgun a beer. Anything else is what you want.”

What does Shane want? To run all the way back to his dorm and never set foot in BC’s ice rink again, for starters. 

“I can’t believe you took me on a date.”

“I can’t believe you still doubt my intentions.”

A lump forms in Shane’s throat, and he swallows it down, forcing himself to take that final step. No stopping until the buzzer sounds, he reminds himself. 

“And your intentions are…?”

Troy chews on his bottom lip for a moment, eyes scanning Shane’s face for something. When he finds it, he steps away from the counter and comes closer into Shane’s space, his hands making themselves at home on the counter on either side of Shane’s hips. There isn’t much of a height difference between them, so Shane has no choice but to look into Troy’s eyes as Troy looks back, their noses only inches apart. 

“To wife you up, Hollander.” Troy tacks on a chuckle and a shrug, like he isn’t saying one of the most far-fetched things Shane has ever heard. “If you think I’m joking, ask Price when he gets back, I’m sure he’s–”

It doesn’t connect in Shane’s head that they’re kissing until Troy’s hands abandon the countertop to grab onto his waist, somehow managing to hold him in place and pull him closer at the same time. Shane’s hands start on Troy’s chest, and the staccato rhythm of his heartbeat has them searching for more, traveling up his neck and into his hair, where they make themselves at home. The kiss starts off slow, a byproduct of both of them being taken by surprise, but quickly gains momentum until Shane is being pushed rather forcibly into the counter. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Shane murmurs, pausing to nip at Troy’s bottom lip before his mouth travels along Troy’s jaw to his throat. 

“Not gonna happen,” Troy promises with a moan, tilting his head to the side to give Shane more room. “Fuck, Shane, keep doing that, and I’m going to need to find out what else your tongue can do.”

Without stopping to think about the consequences, and spurred on by the oh fuck that falls from Troy’s lips, Shane does the one thing he’s wanted to do since Troy got the first of four strikes: he drops to his knees. The view from down here is tantalizing, and Shane’s mouth waters as he undoes the button and then the zipper on Troy’s jeans before tugging them down. His boxers follow immediately after, and then there it is: the cock Shane’s spent more than enough time trying not to look at in the locker room. 

A glance up at Troy’s expression is all the assurance Shane needs to go for it, and in any other situation, he’d probably take his time. Right now, though, there’s pre-cum leaking from the tip, and Troy braces himself with one hand on the counter while the other makes its way into Shane’s hair. Troy’s touch is gentle, supportive, and it urges Shane to open his mouth and finally taste what he’s denied himself for way, way too long. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Troy groans, and Shane can tell he’s holding back from thrusting forward, which just won’t do. “You look so good like this. I’m already thinking about the next time I get to see you on your knees after I beat you in bowling.”

Those two little words – next time – have Shane grabbing onto Troy’s hips and pulling him forward, forcing his cock deeper. It’s a well-protected secret of Shane’s that, off the ice and out of uniform, being in charge is the least of his concerns. He’s careful about who he sleeps with because what he wants is this: to be immobile, used, and so thoroughly fucked that he can’t breathe, let alone think. 

“You like that?” When Shane forces himself to look up and meet Troy’s eyes, he nearly comes from the pure lust he finds simmering in his expression. Troy must find the same reflected back, because he takes over, holding Shane in place by his hair as he slowly fucks himself further into Shane’s mouth. “You like knowing we’re doing this again, and again, and again, until your throat is so sore you can’t tell me no anymore?”

The tip of Troy’s cock hits the back of Shane’s throat, and it’s the best thing he’s felt in months. Letting himself give in to the rhythm that Troy's building is easier than being taken on an accidental date and having a good time, so Shane does, with one final thought that Hayden is going to be so pissed when he wakes up in the morning. Frat bros are off limits for Shane, but anyone at Kappa Sigma, let alone one of their teammates, is a line that Hayden has expected him not to cross. 

But, fuck it, or whatever the saying is. 

“Fuck, get up here,” Troy gasps, pulling Shane off him and guiding him up to meet his lips in a searing kiss. “Love the way I taste on your tongue, Shane.”

“Love the way you taste,” Shane mumbles, not entirely sure if he’s saying the words he wants to or not. “Want to suck your dick again–”

“After I make you come,” is what Troy says back, and, again, the only reason Shane doesn’t come is that he’s been a good boy and kept his hands or any kind of pressure frustratingly far away from his own cock. “I just have to figure out where I want you.”

“Anywhere.” Shane distracts himself from the amount of time Troy’s taking to make a decision by easing off Troy’s shirt and dumping it on the floor before reaching for his own. “Bed, couch, right here–”

“If I get you in my bed, you won’t be leaving.”

“I hope not,” Shane leans back just enough to look Troy in the eyes. “As long as you can properly satisfy– hey!”

In an instant, Shane is being lifted from the ground like he weighs nothing, and he has no choice but to wrap his legs around Troy’s waist to keep himself upright as he’s carried down the hall and backed against a closed door. 

“I don’t want to let you go,” Troy says between kisses, seemingly content to stay right there for the moment. “But I need to get this door open.”

“You’re an athlete,” Shane shrugs as best as he can in this position, not stopping his assault on Troy’s mouth. “Be athletic.”

Troy uses his upper body to press Shane harder into the door, only dropping one hand from his ass to reach for the doorknob when he feels that Shane is secure enough. The door gives way beneath their weight immediately, but Troy is fast and manages to get both hands beneath him again before he can fall. 

“Fuck, that was hot,” Shane hears himself admit, and Troy laughs. 

“If you think that was hot,” he gives Shane one final kiss before dropping him onto the mattress. “Just wait.”

But Shane is tired of waiting; they’ve both done enough of it, if he’s being honest, and right now all he wants is the pants around Troy’s ankles gone and his own incinerated since they’re still frustratingly on his legs. He’s in the middle of pulling them off when Troy, finally naked, takes over the task, climbing onto the mattress between Shane’s legs and throwing the offensive mass of denim and cotton boxers over his shoulder. There’s nothing in between them now except electrified air and a small enough distance that it's almost criminal. 

“Is there anything that’s off limits?” Troy asks, and Shane would kiss him if his own cock wasn’t now practically weeping into the cool air of Troy’s bedroom. 

“Not having your cock or fingers inside me,” Shane says, and Troy freezes above him, mouth falling open in disbelief. “What? You’re not the only one who wants things.”

“If I ever get you off without either of those things happening, feel free to shoot me.” 

Shane tries to find a witty comeback or something else to say, but the English language fails him spectacularly as Troy licks up the underside of his cock in one fluid, flat-tongued motion and then sucks him into his mouth. It’s good – so, so good – and Shane’s thankful that at least one frat stereotype seems to be holding up: Troy knows what he’s doing with his mouth, and his fingers. 

Troy settles himself between Shane’s thighs, and Shane instinctively pulls his legs back, opening himself up and giving Troy room to follow through on his promise. Using one hand to stroke Shane from base to tip, Troy moves his mouth lower, sucking and licking at Shane’s balls until the spit sliding down his crease is the worst kind of torture he’s ever experienced. For someone who craves being filled, the mere promise of it isn’t enough, and Shane’s about to say something when Troy meets his gaze and holds eye contact while he sucks a finger into his mouth and pulls it away covered in spit. 

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

The conviction with which the thought crosses Shane’s mind should have been enough to send him into a coma, but the feeling of Troy’s mouth once again covering the head of his cock as that spit-covered finger circles his hole is enough to keep Shane rooted in place. There is, quite literally, nowhere else Shane would rather be than underneath a muscled-up athlete giving him their full attention. Having that person be Troy so-what-if-he’s-a-frat-bro Barrett only heightens the need now coursing full force through Shane’s body. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane exhales on a breath as Troy presses the tip of his finger past his rim, cooling and igniting said need at the same time. “Fuck, Troy– more.”

A hum and another thrust of that truly magic finger is the only response Troy can give as he swallows Shane’s cock to the base, but it’s enough to have Shane satisfied for now. He loves the feeling of being stretched open, and Troy must realize it, because he takes his time, slowly thrusting that finger in and out of him until he brushes over Shane’s prostate, and Shane’s hips practically fly off the bed. 

“Yes, yes, yes–”

“That good, huh?” Troy pulls off his cock and eases back slightly, going back to stroking him as he rests his cheek on Shane’s thigh and keeps his eyes focused on where he’s now pressing two fingers into Shane’s hole. “Me too.”

It’s Shane’s turn to let one of his hands get lost in Troy’s hair while the other makes a fist in sheets that smell just as good, if not better, than Troy has all night. With two fingers fucking into him now at an even, deliberate pace that brushes across his prostate with each forward and backward movement, it’s a miracle Shane can speak, let alone formulate a coherent sentence. 

“Good enough that I’m wondering why I waited so long.” 

Troy shifts to glance up at him again, but he doesn’t stop his movements, and Shane thinks it’s one of the hottest things a man has done between his legs. 

“You came to your senses,” he chuckles and drops a kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh, a soft gesture given their current activity. “That’s all that matters to me. That and if you can take three of my fingers or not.”

The way Shane’s hole clenches around his fingers while his cock twitches in Troy’s hand answers for him. Troy sucks him into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down with renewed vigor as he spreads his fingers, easing Shane open more to fit the third finger Shane isn’t sure he’ll last long enough to take. Everything Troy does is pushing him toward an edge he’s predisposed to quickly reach, and it’s an even split between wanting to come right now and after Troy does what he wants. 

“Three will make me come,” is what Shane finally settles on saying, and Troy hums around his length in response. Moments later, that third finger is sliding in beside the first two, and the stretch is exactly the thing Shane needs. By the third time Troy’s fingers stroke past his prostate, he’s coming, mumbling Troy’s name into the air as he fills Troy’s mouth with his cum. 

He’d be embarrassed if Troy wasn’t greedily swallowing everything Shane gives him, not stopping his ministrations on Shane’s cock or in his ass until Shane has to pull him off with a breathless laugh. Troy takes his time kissing and licking his way up Shane’s body until he’s hovering above him on his forearms, and Shane gives in to the urge to wrap his arms around Troy’s neck and pull him in for a kiss. A slow, sweet, intoxicating kiss. 

“Was it worth the wait?” Troy asks when they eventually pull apart for air, and Shane drops his head back onto the pillows before giving his best attempt at a nod. 

“Very,” he finally gets out. Then, he adds, “It’s your turn.”

Troy lets him flip their positions, but when Shane’s eyes fall to Troy’s cock, he finds it still hard but spent and softening on Troy’s thigh. 

“Too late for that,” Troy laughs and rubs a hand up and down his face. “Next time, though.”

There are those two words again, and Shane settles himself more comfortably on top of Troy to ask, “Do you mean it?”

Two strong arms wrap around Shane as best as they can in this position, and Shane doesn’t even care that they’re both covered in sweat and whatever cum didn’t end up in Troy’s mouth. 

“Oh, it’ll happen,” Troy nods confidently, a sleepy smile spreading across his swollen pink lips that look just as good as Shane knew they would. “Definitely happening.”

They stay like that for a while, basking in the feeling of their bodies pressed together and a post-orgasm high that has Shane floating over all of Boston College. He lets his mind wander, imagining all of these supposed next times and trying to sort out if he’s going to be forced to spend every Saturday night at Kappa Sigma or not. Troy answers the unasked question for him. 

“If Pike doesn’t kill me,” he whispers into the dark room. “Maybe I can join you guys next weekend?” 

Shane smiles and nestles in closer, not wanting any amount of space between them and this new topic of conversation. 

“If Pike doesn’t kill you,” he answers, idly aware of the fact that sleep is rapidly catching up to him. “We’ll just leave him here.”

Troy tries to give Shane a verbal response, but all he manages to get out is a mumbled noise, a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, and one last squeeze that has Shane feeling more complete than he has in a long time. 

And in the arms of a frat bro, no less.