The door to Room 309 clicked shut with a finality that felt like a prison bolt sliding into place. Corner stood in the dark, his back pressed against the wood, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon instead of descending three flights of stairs. The silence of the hotel room was deafening after the howling wind of the rooftop, but the noise inside his head was louder than ever.
416-555-0192.
The numbers burned in his mind like neon signs. He dropped his phone onto the duvet as if it were white-hot. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to see the black screen and remember the grain of the video or the weight of the hand that had silenced it.
He paced the small perimeter of the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick, floral-patterned hotel carpet. Every few seconds, his eyes would dart toward the floor—specifically toward the concrete slab that separated him from the third floor. From him.
"He was joking," Corner whispered into the shadows, his voice a ragged thread. "He was just messing with you. He's a bully. That's what he does."
He threw himself onto the bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. The shadows of the Toronto skyline danced across the white surface, looking like grasping fingers. Henry was straight. He had to be. He was the golden boy of Ontario rugby, the man who had a different girl on his arm at every gala, the man who embodied a rugged, traditional masculinity that didn't leave room for the kind of yearning Corner felt.
But then, how had he known?
The question gnawed at Corner's gut like a parasite. He had been so careful. In the hyper-masculine, often unforgiving world of professional sports, Corner had built a fortress around his private life. He didn't go to the clubs the other players frequented. He didn't comment on the women they pointed out. He kept his head down, his social media strictly professional, and his heart under a heavy-duty lock. He had never given a hint. Not a glance, not a slip of the tongue.
Yet, Henry had looked at him on that rooftop—and in that parking garage—with a terrifyingly accurate clarity. It was as if Henry could see right through the jersey, through the muscle, through the "rival" persona, straight into the soft, frightened truth of Corner's identity.
"He just wanted to humiliate me," Corner realized, a cold shiver racing down his spine.
That was it. It had to be. Henry didn't want him; Henry wanted to own him. If Henry could prove Corner was gay, if he could catch him in a moment of weakness, he would have a weapon more powerful than any tackle. He could hold it over him for the rest of his career. He could make Corner a ghost on the pitch, a man constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the captain of Ontario to drop the hammer.
It was a power play. A cruel, calculated move to put Corner at his mercy.
And yet... Corner rolled onto his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. He couldn't stop the image of Henry from manifesting in the dark. The way the light had caught the bridge of his straight, aristocratic nose. The sheer breadth of his shoulders. The way his voice had dropped into that low, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate straight through Corner's skin.
Henry was, quite simply, the kind of man who defied logic. He was a masterpiece of biology—the kind of man both genders would dream of, a perfect blend of raw power and refined beauty. He was the rivalry incarnate, the one man in the entire province Corner should avoid at all costs.
And he was only six rooms away.
Corner checked the digital clock on the bedside table: 1:14 AM.
The urge to stand up, to walk out that door, and to take the elevator down one floor was so strong it felt like a physical hook in his navel, pulling him forward. He imagined standing in front of Room 302. He imagined the door opening, and the look on Henry's face—would it be triumph? Or would that dark, possessive fire return?
I'll make sure you don't walk onto that pitch tomorrow.
The threat should have been terrifying, but in the silence of the night, it felt like a promise. A promise of being seen. Of being touched by someone who didn't care about the rivalry, but who was obsessed with the man.
"Stop it," Corner hissed, burying his face in the pillow. "He's straight. He's cruel. And you have a game tomorrow."
He forced himself to stay under the covers. He thought about his teammates—the guys who relied on him to be the fastest, the most focused. He thought about the Toronto fans who had bought tickets to see a captain, not a man falling apart over a rival's mind games.
He couldn't go. He wouldn't go.
With a groan of frustration, Corner realized his body wasn't going to let him sleep. The adrenaline from the rooftop was still surging, mixed with a restless, agonizing heat. If he didn't do something, he'd be awake until dawn, and Henry would win before the whistle even blew.
He reached down, his movements hurried and clinical, determined to purge the tension. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the video from earlier, trying to think of the faceless men on the screen.
But it was no use.
The moment he touched himself, the faceless men were replaced by a single, towering figure in black and gold. He felt the phantom pressure of Henry's hand. He heard the echo of Henry's voice promising to break him. Every breath Corner took was a silent plea, a desperate attempt to rid his system of the obsession that Henry had planted there.
When the release finally came, it wasn't the relief he had hoped for. It was a hollow, crashing wave of exhaustion that left him feeling more alone than before.
He stayed still for a long time, listening to his own ragged breathing slow down as the room grew colder. The heat was gone, replaced by a dull, aching clarity.
Henry was a rival. Henry was a bully. And Henry was almost certainly asleep in Room 302, probably laughing in his dreams at how easily he had rattled the Toronto captain.
"Tomorrow," Corner whispered, his eyes finally fluttering shut. "Tomorrow, I'm going to show him exactly who I am."
He pulled the duvet up to his chin, the weight of the fabric finally feeling like a shield instead of a cage. As he drifted into a fitful, heavy sleep, the last thing he saw wasn't the number of the room or the face of his rival, but the green grass of the stadium—the only place where he could finally fight back.