CHAPTER 4

"Who the hell said you could stop?"

Coach Miller’s voice tore through the humidity of the indoor track, but Benjamin didn't even blink. He kept his eyes fixed on the white line of the lane, his lungs burning, his legs moving like pistons driven by a machine that didn't know how to overheat. He didn't answer. He didn't look up. He just ran.

"He’s gonna blow a hamstring, Coach," one of the sophomores whispered on the sidelines.

"Benji! Slow down!"

Benjamin ignored the calls. He didn't hear them. All he heard was the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of his spikes on the rubber and the echo of a voice in a ballroom telling him he was annoying. He pushed harder. His vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing down to the next ten meters.

Jonathan Hayes stood by the entrance to the gym, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a leather jacket that felt like lead on his shoulders. He watched the boy who used to bring him lemon tarts. This version of Benjamin didn't look like he knew what sugar was. He looked like he was made of wire and spite.

"Benjamin!" Jonathan called out as the freshman finally skidded to a halt, bent over his knees, gasping for air.

Benjamin didn't turn. He straightened his back, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a wristband, and started walking toward the equipment shed.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Jonathan stepped onto the track, his boots clicking—a sharp, jarring sound against the athletic silence.

Benjamin stopped. He turned his head just enough to look at Jonathan over his shoulder. His eyes were flat. Dead. "You're in the way of the hurdles, Hayes. Move."

"We need to talk. About the gala. About what Andrew—"

"There's no 'we,' Jonathan." Benjamin’s voice was a monotone, devoid of the lilt that used to make Jonathan’s chest tighten. "The thirty days aren't up, right? You want me to stand here and be your 'date' for the hallway? Fine. I’m standing. Are we done?"

"It wasn't... I didn't mean for it to go that far," Jonathan stepped closer, reaching out. His fingers brushed the fabric of Benjamin’s damp shirt.

Benjamin flinched back as if the touch were a hot iron. "Don't. Seriously. Don't touch me."

"Benji, please—"

"My name is Benjamin. Use it or shut the hell up." Benjamin turned his back and walked into the locker room, the heavy door swinging shut with a metallic boom that felt like a gavel coming down.

Jonathan stood alone on the track. For the first time in his life, the silence of the school felt like it was crushing him. He looked down at his hand, the one that had just tried to touch Benjamin. It was shaking.

"Is it true?"

Jonathan didn't even have time to close his locker before Andrew Foster was leaning against the adjacent one, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Is what true, Andrew?" Jonathan slammed the locker shut. The noise echoed through the empty corridor.

"That you’ve gone soft. I heard you were lurking outside the freshman dorms last night like some heartbroken Victorian widow." Andrew chuckled, flicking a piece of lint off his blazer. "The bet’s over, Jon. You won. I already sent the paperwork for the Ducati. Why are you still chasing the help?"

"Shut your mouth about him," Jonathan said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.

"Oh, wow. You really have fallen for the poodle." Andrew’s eyes turned cold. "That’s disappointing. You know, I heard a rumor today. Someone said you were planning on filming the 'performances' in your penthouse. To show the guys. To prove how easy he was."

Jonathan’s fist hit the locker next to Andrew’s head. Bang. The metal dented. "I never said that. You know I didn't."

"Doesn't matter what you said, does it?" Andrew pushed off the locker, straightened his tie, and began to walk away. "It only matters what people believe. And they believe you’re exactly the monster they always thought you were."

Jonathan lunged, but a sharp crack stopped him in his tracks.

He spun around. Olivia Parker stood in the center of the hallway. Her chest was heaving. Her hand was still raised from the force of the slap she’d just delivered to Jonathan’s face.

"You disgusting, parasitic piece of shit," she spat.

Jonathan’s cheek burned. He felt the copper taste of blood inside his mouth where his teeth had cut his lip. He didn't move. He didn't defend himself.

"Olivia—"

"Don't say my name! You stay away from my brother!" Her voice was a jagged blade. "Andrew told me what you were going to do. The video? The bet? He’s a person, Jonathan! He’s a human being, and you treated him like a trophy to be won!"

"Andrew is lying," Jonathan said, but the words felt hollow.

"Is he? Did the bet happen?"

Jonathan looked at the floor. "Yes."

"Then you’re exactly what everyone says you are." Olivia stepped closer, her eyes wet with fury. "He’s skipping meals. He’s running until his feet bleed. If he breaks, I will personally see to it that you never graduate from this school. I don't care who your father is."

She turned and marched toward the exit. Jonathan stayed there, the sting on his cheek the only thing making him feel alive.

That night, the memory of the penthouse felt like a fever dream. The way Benjamin’s skin had felt under his mouth. The way they had tangled together on the bed, limbs heavy and slick with sweat.

Jonathan remembered the weight of himself as he’d pressed Benjamin into the mattress. He remembered the way Benjamin had arched his back, his legs hooked over Jonathan’s shoulders, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches.

“Jonathan... please... right there...”

The memory of Benjamin’s mouth on him, the heat of it, the desperate way the boy had tried to please him—it felt like a haunting. He remembered sliding into him, the wet, tight friction, the way Benjamin had screamed his name as if it were a prayer. It hadn't been a game then. Not for Benjamin. And, God help him, not for Jonathan either.

He’d pounded into him, the rhythm of their bodies a frantic, messy collision. He remembered the salt of Benjamin’s tears and the way they’d cum together, a violent explosion that had left them both gasping for air in the dark.

Now, Jonathan sat in his car outside Benjamin’s apartment building, watching the single light on the third floor. He wanted to go up. He wanted to break the door down and crawl into Benjamin’s lap and beg. But he was a coward. He was a Hayes, and Hayes men didn't beg. They just watched from the shadows until the lights went out.

The day of the regional scouts’ visit was overcast. The air was thick with the scent of mown grass and impending rain.

Benjamin was on the starting block. He looked thinner. His collarbones were sharp against his skin. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the scouts with their clipboards.

Jonathan was in the top row of the bleachers, his heart drumming against his ribs. He saw Andrew Foster near the water station, fiddling with a blue bottle. Something about the way Andrew moved—shifty, hurried—made Jonathan’s blood run cold.

"Runners to your marks!"

The gun went off.

Benjamin exploded from the blocks. He was a blur of yellow and white. He was leading by five meters, then ten. The crowd was on its feet.

Then, at the halfway mark, something went wrong.

Benjamin’s stride faltered. His legs seemed to lose their rhythm. He stumbled, regained his balance, and then his knees simply buckled. He hit the track hard, his body skidding across the rubber.

"Benjamin!" Jonathan was over the railing before the coaches could even react.

He sprinted across the grass, pushing past a medic. He reached Benjamin first. The boy was gray. His skin was clammy, and a thin line of foam was forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Get back! Give him air!" Coach Miller shouted.

Jonathan ignored him. He scooped Benjamin’s limp body into his arms. The boy felt dangerously light. "He’s not breathing right! Look at his eyes!"

Benjamin’s pupils were pinpricks. He was shaking—a fine, vibrating tremor that wouldn't stop.

Jonathan looked toward the sidelines. Andrew was standing there, his face a mask of feigned shock. But he was holding the blue bottle.

"You did this," Jonathan hissed, his voice a low, terrifying growl that carried over the wind.

He knew. Andrew had used a beta-blocker or a high-dose sedative. Something to ensure Jonathan’s 'pawn' failed. Something to make sure Jonathan lost the bet, the bike, and his pride.

"I’m going to kill you," Jonathan whispered, but his focus went back to the boy in his arms. "Benjamin? Benji, stay with me. Look at me, damn it!"

Benjamin’s eyes flickered open for a second. He saw Jonathan. He didn't smile. He didn't reach out. He just looked through him as if Jonathan were made of glass.

"Please," Jonathan begged, his voice breaking in front of the entire school. "Don't go."

The hospital room was too white. It smelled of bleach and failure.

Jonathan sat in the plastic chair by the bed. He hadn't changed his clothes. His suit was wrinkled, stained with the red dust of the track. He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.

Benjamin’s eyes opened. He looked at the IV drip, then at the window, and finally at Jonathan.

"The doctor said it was an overdose of a restricted sedative," Jonathan said, his voice husky. "Andrew did it. He’s already been expelled. My father is filing charges. He’s going to prison, Benjamin. I’m making sure of it."

Benjamin didn't blink. "Why?"

"Because he hurt you. Because he tried to destroy your career to get at me."

"No," Benjamin’s voice was a dry rasp. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to tell you that I'm ending the bet. I'm telling everyone the truth. I don't care about the bike or the reputation."

Benjamin turned his head on the pillow, looking at Jonathan with an expression so hollow it made Jonathan’s stomach turn.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Benjamin whispered. "You think revenge fixes it. You think 'protecting' me now makes up for the fact that for thirty days, you looked at me and saw a motorcycle."

"It changed, Ben! It became real!" Jonathan reached out, his hand trembling as he tried to take Benjamin’s.

Benjamin flinched. He pulled his hand under the white sheets, his eyes filling with a sudden, sharp light of loathing. "Don't touch me. Every time you touch me, I feel the bet. I feel the money. I feel the way you laughed at me in that video."

"I'll do anything. Whatever you want."

"I want you to leave," Benjamin said. "And I want you to know something. I’m transferring. I talked to the scouts before I passed out. They’re helping me get a spot at the academy in the North. I'm leaving at the end of the semester."

The world stopped. Jonathan felt the air leave his lungs. "You're... you're leaving? You can't. Your sister, your life here—"

"I have no life here, Jonathan. I’m the kid who got played by the Ice Prince. That’s my legacy at St. Jude’s." Benjamin looked back at the window. "You won, Hayes. You got your win. Now get out of my room."

Jonathan stood up. His legs felt like they were made of water. He walked to the door, his hand on the handle. He looked back one last time, hoping for a sign, a flicker of the boy who loved lemon tarts.

There was nothing. Just a boy in a white bed in a white room, waiting for the clock to run out.

Jonathan stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut. He was alone in the sterile silence, realizing that he had spent his whole life winning games, only to realize he was the only one playing.

He walked toward the exit, his shadow long and jagged against the hospital tiles, a man who had everything and realized, too late, that he had absolutely nothing.