CHAPTER 2

"Coffee’s getting cold, Benji. Stop staring at me like I’m a specimen in a lab."

Jonathan leaned back in the velvet armchair, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat against the marble tabletop of the Cafe Royale. He didn't look at the boy across from him; instead, his gaze tracked Andrew Foster, who was conveniently stationed three tables away, nursing an espresso and a smug grin.

"Sorry." Benjamin’s face went pink, the color clashing with his yellow hoodie. He tore a piece of his croissant, his hands shaking just enough to scatter crumbs. "I just... I can't believe we're actually here. You and me. In the city."

"It’s a cafe, not the moon." Jonathan reached across the table. He didn't just touch Benjamin’s hand; he interlaced their fingers, squeezing hard enough to feel the pulse jumping in the freshman’s wrist.

"Ohh," Benjamin breathed. His eyes dropped to their joined hands, wide and wet. "Your hands are always so cold."

"Keeps me alert." Jonathan caught Andrew’s eye. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a low, intimate rasp that he knew would look like a confession from a distance. "Eat your food. People are starting to stare."

"Let them." Benjamin squeezed back, his grip desperate. "I don't care. I wanted to tell you something. About the scholarship. The coaches said if I don't shave two seconds off my sprint, they might pull the funding for next semester. My mom... she used to say that when things got hard, you just had to bake through the stress. That’s why I brought those tarts. She loved lemon."

Jonathan felt a microscopic twitch in his jaw. The kid was pouring out his life story over a four-dollar pastry. It was pathetic. It was too much. "Your mother’s dead, Benjamin. Baking won't bring her back or make you faster. Focus on the track and stop being so sentimental. It’s a weakness."

Benjamin flinched as if he’d been slapped. His bottom lip wobbled, but he didn't pull his hand away. "Right. Sorry. I’ll... I’ll work harder."

"See that you do." Jonathan checked his watch. "We’re leaving. Andrew’s getting bored, and I’ve seen enough of this menu."

The lockers at St. Jude’s smelled like old sneakers, chlorine, and the metallic tang of unspoken hierarchies.

"Hey, Baker Boy! Where’s your apron?"

Nathaniel Price stood over Benjamin’s locker, his massive frame blocking the light. Behind him, two other varsity players chuckled. Nathaniel held up a small, braided leather bracelet—the one Benjamin had been working on for three days.

"Give it back, Nat," Benjamin said, his voice reaching for a courage he didn't have. He was still in his sweaty practice gear, chest heaving. "It’s personal."

"Personal? It’s garbage." Nathaniel dangled it by one string. "What, you think because Hayes let you sit at his table you’re one of us? You’re a scholarship charity case. You’re the help. He’s probably just using you for free sugar."

"Give it to me," a cold, clipped voice cut through the laughter.

Jonathan Hayes stepped into the circle. He didn't look like he’d just finished a day of classes; his blazer was crisp, his hair perfect. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"Jonathan!" Benjamin lunged forward, but Nathaniel pushed him back against the lockers with a dull thud.

"Stay down, freshman," Nathaniel sneered, then turned to Jonathan. "Just showing the recruit his place, Jon. He’s getting a little too comfortable."

Jonathan stepped into Nathaniel’s personal space. He was shorter than the linebacker, but he looked down at him anyway. "Nathaniel. Your father is currently negotiating a merger with my uncle’s firm. It would be a shame if I mentioned how much of a primitive, loud-mouthed bore his son is. It might affect the valuation."

Nathaniel’s face went white. He dropped the bracelet.

"Benjamin is mine for the time being," Jonathan said, his eyes like shards of glass. "Which means he is off-limits. If you touch him, if you speak to him, if you even look in his direction, I will make sure your remaining time at this school is spent in total social exile. Do I make myself clear?"

Nathaniel mumbled something that sounded like "yeah" and scrambled away with his cronies.

Benjamin was on him in a second. He threw his arms around Jonathan’s neck, his sweaty chest pressing against Jonathan’s silk tie. "Thank you. Oh my god, thank you. I thought he was going to break it."

Jonathan’s body went rigid. The heat coming off Benjamin was intense, smelling of salt and adrenaline. He felt a sudden, violent surge of blood to his midsection. He wanted to push the boy off, but his hands moved of their own accord, gripping Benjamin’s waist. "You’re disgusting. You’re covered in sweat."

"I don't care," Benjamin sobbed into his shoulder. "You saved me."

Jonathan’s heart hammered a rhythm he didn't recognize. "Get your bag. We’re going to my place. You need a shower, and I need to get this filth off my suit."

The penthouse was all glass and sharp angles, overlooking a city that looked like a carpet of cold lights.

"Wow," Benjamin whispered, standing in the center of the living room. "It’s so... empty."

"It’s efficient," Jonathan snapped. He tossed his keys on the counter. "Shower’s through there. Don't touch the silk towels."

Twenty minutes later, Benjamin emerged wearing one of Jonathan’s oversized shirts. It hung off his frame, exposing the pale line of his collarbone. The air between them was thick, charged with the lingering tension of the locker room and the quiet of the empty apartment.

"Jonathan?"

Jonathan was at the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of scotch in his hand. He turned, and the sight of Benjamin in his clothes hit him like a physical blow. The "Ice Prince" persona was fraying at the edges.

"Come here," Jonathan commanded.

Benjamin walked over, his bare feet silent on the hardwood. Jonathan didn't wait. He grabbed the front of the shirt and hauled Benjamin into him. The kiss was a collision. It was desperate and angry, fueled by a month of lies and a sudden, terrifying hunger.

Jonathan’s hands were rough. He shoved Benjamin back against the glass window, the cold surface a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies. He wasn't thinking about Andrew or the Ducati. He was thinking about the way Benjamin’s skin felt under his palms.

He lifted Benjamin, legs wrapping around his waist. He carried him to the bedroom, the heavy weight of the freshman’s body grounding him. They hit the mattress with a force that knocked the breath out of Benjamin.

"Jonathan, please," Benjamin gasped, his hands frantic on Jonathan’s belt. "I want you. All of you."

Jonathan didn't answer with words. He stripped his pants off, his cock already hard and straining. He hovered over Benjamin, his shadow engulfing the smaller boy. He watched Benjamin’s eyes track the movement of his hands as he guided himself to the entrance of Benjamin’s heat.

"Look at me," Jonathan growled.

As he pushed inside, Benjamin’s head hit the headboard, his eyes rolling back. "Ahhh! Fuck, Jonathan!"

The fit was tight, a crushing pressure that made Jonathan’s vision swim. He didn't go slow. He pounded into Benjamin with a feral intensity, his hands bruising the boy’s hips. Each thrust was a heavy, visceral thud. Benjamin was a mess of limbs and high-pitched whimpers, his legs hooked over Jonathan’s shoulders, his back arching so high his spine looked like a bow.

"You’re mine," Jonathan hissed, his sweat dripping onto Benjamin’s chest. "Say it."

"Yours! I'm yours!" Benjamin screamed, his voice breaking.

The friction was intense, a sliding, wet sound that filled the room. Jonathan’s weight was a crushing, solid reality, pinning Benjamin to the bed as they moved in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. Benjamin’s hands searched for purchase, finding Jonathan’s hair, pulling hard as he neared the edge.

"I'm gonna... Jonathan, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Jonathan commanded, his own release hitting him like a tidal wave.

They came together, a frantic explosion of heat and noise. Benjamin’s body locked up, his throat raw from screaming, his release painting Jonathan’s stomach. Jonathan buried his face in Benjamin’s neck, his own body shuddering as he emptied himself into the boy.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by their ragged breathing and the ticking of a clock.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

The vibration on the nightstand was jarring. Jonathan’s phone screen lit up the dark room.

Benjamin, still dazed and shaking, reached out. "Is that... an emergency?"

Jonathan’s hand shot out, pinning Benjamin’s wrist to the mattress with a strength that made the boy wince. His eyes were no longer hazy with lust; they were cold, hard, and predatory.

"Don't touch that," Jonathan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, flat octave.

"I just thought—"

"I didn't ask you to think." Jonathan sat up, the weight of his body leaving Benjamin cold. He grabbed the phone, his thumb hovering over the "Bet Group Chat" notification. Andrew had sent a photo of them at the cafe. Looking good, Hayes. Halfway to the bike.

"Get up," Jonathan said, his back to Benjamin. "The car will be here in ten minutes to take you home."

"What? Jonathan, what did I do?" Benjamin’s voice was small, trembling.

"You’re overstaying your welcome. Mind your place, Benjamin. You’re a guest here. Nothing more."

The elevator ride down felt like a descent into hell. Benjamin’s body ached—a deep, thrumming sting in his thighs and a lingering warmth between his legs that felt like a betrayal. His mind was a chaotic loop of Jonathan’s touch and Jonathan’s coldness.

As he walked through the lobby, he tripped over a piece of trash near the heavy glass doors. He moved to kick it aside, but a word caught his eye.

Bet.

He picked up the crumpled slip of paper. It was a receipt from the St. Jude’s Senior Lounge, dated the night before their first kiss.

Buy-In: $500. Participant: Hayes, J. Stakes: Custom. Duration: 30 Days.

Benjamin stared at it. The words didn't make sense, and yet they made perfect sense. His heart, which had been so full an hour ago, felt like it was being squeezed by a cold, wet hand.

"Thirty days," he whispered to the empty lobby.

Back upstairs, Jonathan poured a double scotch, his hands finally starting to shake. He looked at the bedside table. There, sitting next to the lamp, was the leather bracelet Benjamin had given him.

He picked it up. It felt light, insignificant. He hated it. He hated the way it smelled like Benjamin’s sweat. He hated the way Benjamin had looked at him after he’d defended him from Nathaniel.

He opened his top drawer to throw it away, his movements jerky and violent. He saw the "X" on his calendar. Day 8.

He dropped the bracelet into the drawer. His hand hovered over the handle, ready to slam it shut and lock it.

He didn't.

He left the drawer cracked an inch, the leather string peeking out like a silent accusation. He downed the scotch in one go, the burn in his throat the only thing he could feel.