HIS TO PLAY WITH

MICAH’S POV

My shoulders ache like someone used them as a punching bag during the entire flight.

I'm sure my duffel strap has carved a permanent line into my skin and the cheap suitcase I bought last-minute keeps veering to the left like it has a personal vendetta against straight lines.

King’s University campus is prettier than the pictures show. Manicured lawns gleaned in the sun and I'm sure they cost more per square foot than my old apartment.

But right now it all looks like one giant taunt.

You’re here, you actually made it. Now you suffer.

I keep my head down with my hood up trying to blend into the stream of students hauling boxes and shouting about dorm assignments.

The last thing I want to be is the transfer kid with a questionable past.

My plan? Stay quiet, play hard and disappear into the bench if necessary.

No drama. No headlines. Just basketball and early retirement.

But of course my perfect luck record wouldn't be perfect if it didn't mess with me.

I’m cutting across the wide plaza in front of the athletic center when someone’s shoulder slams into me hard.

My traitorous suitcase tips and one wheel catches in on a crack and I stumble sideways like a drunk toddler.

The guy doesn’t even slow down afterwards.

“Watch where you’re fucking going freshman,” he snaps without looking back.

I’m tired, I’m sore, barely running with three hours of sleep from the airport with coffee that tasted weird so even the Pope will understand why the filter between my brain and mouth is off.

“Well maybe if you weren’t walking like you own the whole damn campus, people wouldn’t have to watch it!” I call after him.

He stops and turns slowly in disbelief.

Oh. Shit.

He's Six-three and built like he bench-presses trucks for fun.

His dark hair is buzzed short on the sides, and with it, a jaw that looks like it could cut glass.

I know who this is.

Max Rivera.

The Vice-captain of the school's basketball team.

And as of tomorrow, my vice captain.

Oh fuck. There goes my quiet life.

I’ve watched enough game film from their previous matches to know he could pulverize me in an instant.

He stalks back toward me, closing the distance until we’re basically chest to chest.

Well–chest to my forehead if we're being honest. I have to tilt my head to meet his glare.

“You got something to say?” His voice is low and almost amused. But this looks like it'll end with me bleeding and with the school's basketball reputation, he'd probably only get a slap on the wrist.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

I’m not a fighter, never have been.

I don't even kill ants when I see them in my things.

I'm a person that likes to talk big then spend the next three days replaying how I could’ve just kept my mouth shut.

“Yeah. I said watch your step or is that too many syllables for you?”

Micah please shut up.

A couple of guys in team hoodies appear behind him. One of them snorts while the other mutters, “Chill, Max, he’s nobody.”

Max’s lip curls. “A nobody with a mouth on him.”

I open mine to fire back something stupid that'll probably make them rescind their offer for me on their team if they find out.

I'm saved by the teammate on the left that grabs Max’s arm.

“He’s not worth it, bro. Coach’ll have our asses if we show up to first practice with a suspension.”

Max stares at me another long second then lets himself be pulled away. “Better hope you’re as fast as you think you are, bitch.”

I stand there breathing too hard until they disappear around the corner of the building.

My hands are shaking definitely from fear and the fact that I almost started my new life with a fistfight in the middle of campus.

Pacifist, my ass.

It's just what I say so I don't admit I'm a coward.

I drag my suitcase the rest of the way to the student affairs building like it weighs four billion pounds instead of forty.

The air conditioning hits me and I thank the heavens for small mercies when I enter inside.

The woman behind the counter looks up with practiced sympathy.

“Micah Brooks?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.

She slides a folder toward me. “We may have a small problem with housing.”

Of course we do. I wasn't even shocked anymore.

“No more single rooms in the standard dorms,” she continues. “But because you’re on the basketball roster, we were able to secure you a spot in the athlete residence hall.

It's a shared suite but with private bedrooms and a kitchenette. It’s actually a step up.”

I’m too exhausted to argue. A suite sounds better than a shoebox with communal showers anyway so I take it.

“Fine. I’ll take it.”

She hands me two key cards and a campus map with the building circled in red. “You’re in Tower B, room 1408. Your roommate’s already moved in. You might know him? Dante King.”

The name lands like a brick to the chest.

Dante. Mother fucking. King.

The team captain and the same guy every scout has circled for the first round next year.

The guy whose highlights I’ve watched on repeat since I committed to coming here.

He's my roomie.

I manage a numb “Thanks” and stumble back into the sweltering heat.

The athlete residence hall is ridiculous.

It has glass doors, a marble lobby and elevators that don’t smell like old pizza.

I ride up to the fourteenth floor feeling like an impostor that I am.

When the doors open, the hallway is quiet except for the faint thump of music coming from somewhere down the corridor.

Room 1408.

I swipe the key card. The lock beeps green and the door opens.

The living area is… stupidly nice.

There's a massive TV mounted above a fake fireplace (of course they have it) with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the campus.

My half of the space is empty except for the two suitcases I drag inside and drop by the couch.

The other side already has signs of life from an expensive looking sneaker lineup to a protein shaker on the counter.

One of the two bedroom doors is left wide open.

I definitely should knock, I should announce myself to my roomie.

I should do literally anything except what I do next.

So I pull into the room silently without saying anything, maybe out of curiosity or tiredness? I'm not sure.

I step into the doorway.

And freeze.

Dante King is sprawled on the bed, shirtless with his sweatpants shoved down just far enough.

Both of his eyes are closed with his head tipped back against his pillow.

And on one large hand? Is the thickest cock I’ve ever seen in real life.

He's doing slow, deliberate strokes, with one thumb circling the flushed head on every stroke.

I watch with perverted intent as the muscles in his forearm flex and contract with each pull.

A low, rough sound rumbles out of his throat, something of a half groan, half sigh.

My brain immediately short-circuits.

I should leave.

Slowly back away and pretend this never happened.

Instead I make a noise.

Something between a choke and a strangled yelp and trip to the floor.

His eyes snap open.

Green piercing ones that lock on to me instantly and now we're staring at each other in silence.

Then I stumble backward, my arm slamming into the doorframe hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Sorry–fuck, I'm sorry for intruding–”

I spin and yank the bedroom door shut louder than necessary and practically sprint back to the living room.

My face and cheap suitcase now share the same shade of red.

My heart is practically trying to punch through my ribcage.

I drop onto the couch, my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

What the hell just happened?

I’m actually sharing a suite with Dante King.

The Dante King who was just jerking off with his door wide open.

The Dante King who because of my subtle skills now knows I saw everything.

I’m so screwed.