Buzzer.
The noise is instant—the shouting, the mascot losing his shit, teammates tackling me, pounding my back. But through it all, I see him.
Miguel.
Standing.
Smiling.
Clapping slowly, like he already knew I’d do it.
By the time we’re back in the locker room, my phone’s buzzing nonstop. Notifications from social media, texts, and a voicemail from my dad, but only one catches my eye.
Miguel.
I unlock the screen, raise the phone to my ear and hit play on the voice message he sent. His voice fills the space between the clanging lockers and the hiss of the showers.
“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy. I’m gonna make such a mess of you tonight. Mmm, just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you makes me hard. Meet me in the room after you’re done.”
The message ends with a low groan and a laugh I can feel in my chest. He already knows where to find me. He always does. What he didn’t do is tell me he’d be coming.
My pulse spikes. I grab my bag, shove my uniform in, and try not to grin too wide when Martin says, “Damn, where’s the fire, Burton?”
“Nowhere,” I lie, heart racing. “Just wanna shower in my room.”
The hotel’sonly a few blocks away, the night thick and warm, the air humming with that leftover electricity from the court. My pulse still hasn’t slowed—not from the game, not from the look Miguel gave me when I hit that last three-pointer.
I walk fast, bag slung over my shoulder, hoodie half-zipped and damp with sweat. Every streetlight feels too bright, every shadow too deep. The team asked if I wanted to go out for drinks to celebrate, but I told them I was crashing early. Couldn’t have faced them with the sound of his voice still playing in my head.
“Oh, my pretty, pretty boy. I’m gonna make such a mess of you…”
Jesus.
I should’ve deleted it after the first listen. But I didn’t, so I replayed it. Twice.Okay, maybe three times on the walk back.His voice, low, rough and sure, sank under my skin until I could feel his breath against my ear, the way his hands would hold me there, making me take every filthy word like a blessing.
My legs eat up the distance. I take the stairs two at a time, breath catching hard by the third flight. The weight in my stomach builds. Every muscle vibrates with the same tension that lives in my shoulders right before a free throw.
When I reach the door, the keycard shakes in my hand. I stop for half a second, dragging in a breath that doesn’t help. The hallway feels too quiet, the sound of my pulse too loud in my ears.
I swipe the card.
The lock clicks and the sound might as well be a starter’s whistle.
Miguel’s leaning against the window, one arm propped on the frame, city lights spilling over him in soft gold and electric blue. He looks unreal in a dark shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves shoved to his elbows, his throat flexing when he swallows.
The corner of his mouth curls, slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting all his life.
“Close the door, baby,” he says softly.
His voice drags across my skin, low and rough enough to make me shiver.
I don’t even realize I’ve obeyed until the soft click of the latch sounds behind me.
He doesn’t move. Just watches. Eyes tracing over me, hungry and patient all at once.
“Come here.”
It’s not a request.
