Even if Eli and Daniel are out and thriving. Even if the guys on the team haven’t flinched. Even if Coach clearly doesn’t give a damn who you sleep with, as long as you show up and play like hell.
That fear still sits in my gut, coiled tight. Maybe because it’s mine. Maybe because my dad never said anything outright, but the jokes still hit sideways. The throwaway comments about “rainbow parades” on ESPN or “too much attention-seeking” when another athlete came out. Nothing hateful—just offhanded, careless stuff. Enough to teach me early how to keep my mouth shut. How to laugh along. How to nod and stay invisible.
So no. I can’t crack. Not for Logan. Not for a stupid kiss in the shadows that has my body still buzzing like I touched a live wire.
God, I kissed him.
Or—fuck.He kissed me back.
And I liked it. I more than liked it. I lost my damn mindfor a second. Gave in to everything I’ve been bottling up for years, and now it’s sloshing too close to the surface.
I need to get it together.
Burn it out. Scrub it from my system.
I need a distraction—fast, easy, faceless. The kind that doesn’t talk back or smirk like they know all my secrets. Someone from Prism. Someone who won’t ask questions.
Just one night to forget how it felt to press Logan Brooks into the boards and taste every fucking thing I’ve been afraid of wanting.
I shove my hoodie on over my damp shirt, ignoring the sting of sweat cooling against my spine. I don’t look in the mirror before I leave the locker room. I already know I won’t like what I see.
I’m not going to break.
Not again.
I shovethe door open with my shoulder and toss my stick into the corner like it burned me. Peter barely glances up from his laptop, legs sprawled across his bed, headphones halfway around his neck. He’s halfway through some lecture notes or maybe a fantasy football draft—hard to tell with him.
“Late night,” he says around a yawn.
“Extra practice.” It’s the only answer I give since Logan and I have had to run extra drills.
Peter shrugs. “Cool. I’m crashing early. Gotta lift in the morning.”
“Yeah. Night.”
He clears off his bed and flops onto his side,turning off the lamp on his side of the room, leaving mine still glowing. I sit down on my bed and grab my phone, scrolling out of habit, but I already know where I’m headed.
Prism.
The app loads quickly.
The home screen is full of familiar profiles—guys I’ve seen before, ones I’ve talked to and ghosted. Some are shirtless. Some are smiling. Most aren’t what I need right now.
I scroll past the bios that mention love languages and brunch. Past the ones that say “masc only” or “not into athletes.” Past the ones that are too soft, too eager, toosomething.
I don’t want open.
My thumb pauses on a new profile. No face pic—just a cropped torso, shot low. Defined abs, a tight V-line, and a dark happy trail disappearing under low-slung sweatpants. It’s anonymous. Clean. Easy.
The bio is even better:
SlowBurn69
Not looking for anything serious.
DL-friendly.
Discreet.
