Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Finn's eyelids peeled apart. They felt sticky. The ceiling of his dorm room stared down at him. White paint with hairline cracks spreading out like spider veins. 

He'd counted those cracks before. On nights when sleep wouldn't come. Seventy-three of them.

His right hand throbbed. Not the dull ache of tired muscles. His fingers had curled into a claw. 

The tendons felt like they'd been wound too tight. Nine hours.

Nine straight hours of gripping a pen, forcing his hand to keep moving even when the muscles screamed at him to stop.

The laptop sat open beside him on the narrow dorm bed. The screen had dimmed to save power but it was still glowing. 

Still showing the final sentences of Kevin's sociology essay. Kevin Savea. Winger. He couldn't spell "bourgeoisie". 

The essay was shit. 

Well, no. It was good. Finn had made it good. Twelve pages on social stratification and class consciousness. Kevin would get an A. Kevin always got A's now. Ever since Finn started writing his papers.

This was the sixth one. Sixth essay, paper, assignment Finn had cranked out between midnight and eight in the morning. 

Six assignments that weren't his. Three more to go.

The thought sat in his brain. Three more assignments were still waiting. Stephen's calculus homework. Tom's English literature analysis. Josh's fucking biology lab report about cellular respiration that Josh had probably never even attended the lab for.

The assignments lay printed on his desk. Each one marked with a different scrawled name at the top in black Sharpie. Kevin. Stephen. Tom. Josh. Paul. Others.

Not his name. Never his name.

Finn's stomach twisted. The sensation started low, just below his ribs, and spiraled downward. 

He knew that feeling. It was dread. He rolled out of bed. His body moved on autopilot because thinking about moving would have made it impossible. 

His feet hit the cold linoleum floor. The chill shot up through his legs. His backpack sat slumped against the wall near the door. 

Overstuffed. 

It was bulging with textbooks that weren't for his classes. Books he'd never open for himself. Biology. Calculus. Sociology. Literature. Chemistry. Every subject except the ones he actually needed.

The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 6:47 AM. He had maybe ninety minutes before Stephen would corner him in the hallway. 

Stephen with his meaty hands and his piggish blue eyes and that shit-eating grin. Stephen would be waiting. Demanding his calculus homework. 

And if Finn didn't have it ready, if the handwriting wasn't neat enough, if there was even one mistake, one single fucking mistake...

How did it get this bad?

The question surfaced in his mind like it did every morning.

Finn stared at the pile of books. 

At the printed assignments. 

At his laptop still glowing with someone else's work.

How did his life become this? How did he go from being a regular student, a decent student even, to being the team's personal slave?

He knew how.

Of course he knew how. He knew exactly how it happened. He could trace it back. Step by step. Decision by decision. Lie by lie.

The memory played out in his head. Every time he pulled on that green and gold rugby jersey. 

Every time he laced up boots he never actually used. Every time he slung his gear bag over his shoulder and pretended he was part of something.

His dad's face had lit up like Christmas morning when Finn came home last September wearing that jersey for the first time. 

It was mid-September. It's still warm outside. Finn had walked through the front door of their small house on Oakwood Street and his dad had been in the living room. 

He was sitting in that old recliner with the torn armrest. A beer in his hand. The TV playing some game his dad wasn't really watching. 

Just staring at the screen with that blank expression.

But then his dad had seen the jersey — that green and gold jersey with the school crest embroidered over the heart. St. Jude’s Academy’s Rugby. 

His dad's face had changed. His eyes went wide. His mouth split into a grin Finn hadn't seen in years. 

"That's my boy!" his dad had said. He shouted, really. Loud enough that Mrs. DuPont next door probably heard through the thin walls. 

His dad had stood up. Actually put the beer down. Actually moved from that recliner he spent ninety percent of his life in. 

He'd crossed the room in three long strides and pulled Finn into a hug. A real hug. Not the awkward side-squeeze they usually did. 

He thumped him on the back with those big  hands. "That's my boy! Finnegan Bennett, rugby player! Christ, your granddad would've been proud. So damn proud."

His dad had played rugby in his youth. Back in Ireland before he came to the States. Before he met Mom. Before Finn was born. 

He talked about it constantly. The glory days. The camaraderie. The brotherhood. The discipline. How rugby made you a man. How it taught you what mattered. Loyalty. Toughness. Heart. 

His dad kept a photo on the mantel. It was faded and yellowed. It was showing a younger version of himself in a muddy jersey, his arm slung around a teammate's shoulders, grinning like he'd just conquered the world.

"Always knew you had it in you," his dad had said that day, gripping Finn's shoulders. Looking him right in the eyes. 

"Always knew you'd find your way. This is good, Finn. This is real good. You stick with it. You hear me? You stick with this team. It'll make you strong. It'll teach you things school never will."

His dad didn't know shit about rugby. Not really. He knew the history. The legends. He could recite the rules and the famous matches and the players from his day. 

But he didn't know anything about Finn's team. Didn't know positions or plays or the fact that Finn had never once set foot on the pitch during an actual game. 

All his dad saw was the jersey. Saw what he wanted to see. His son, the rugby player. His son, carrying on the tradition. His son, becoming a man the right way.

And Finn couldn't take that away from him. He couldn't.

Not after Mom left. Not after she'd walked out without a real explanation beyond a note on the kitchen table that said she needed to find herself. Whatever the fuck that meant. 

Not after his dad had come home to an empty house and just... crumbled. Not after the plant laid him off three months later. Budget cuts. Downsizing. Restructuring. 

Corporate words that meant his dad's twenty years of service didn't matter. 

Not after his dad picked up those extra shifts at the warehouse. The overnight shifts that left him exhausted.

The jersey meant his dad was proud. It meant his dad smiled. It meant his dad had something to talk about with his buddies at the pub. "My son's on the rugby team," he'd say.

Finn had overheard him once. 

They'd gone to Sullivan's for dinner, just the two of them, and his dad had run into an old coworker. 

And his dad's whole face had changed when he got to brag about Finn. About rugby. About tradition. About legacy.

So Finn kept wearing it. Kept lying. Kept pretending.

Eleven months now. It had been nearly a full school year since this nightmare started. 

Since Paul, the team captain, had cornered Finn outside the library on a Thursday afternoon in late September.

Paul Lomu. Six-foot-two. Flanker. Two hundred and ten pounds of muscle packed onto a frame. Built like a brick shithouse. That's what the other guys called him. Brick shithouse. And it fit. 

Paul had shoulders that seemed too wide for doorways. Arms that strained against his shirt sleeves. Thighs like tree trunks. A neck that was somehow thicker than his head. And a jawline. Christ, that jawline. It was covered in just enough stubble to look rugged without being scruffy. 

Paul looked like a recruiting poster. Like the Hollywood version of a rugby player. All-American. Golden boy.

He was from South Africa. Cape Town. His family had moved here when he was fourteen. He still had the accent.

"Heard you're good with numbers and words and all that nerd shit," Paul had said that day outside the library. Finn had been walking out. His  backpack slung over one shoulder. 

Paul was blocking the path. Leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed.

"Uh, I guess?" Finn had said. 

"Need a favor," Paul had said. "Got a sociology paper due Monday. Professor Greenwald. Real hardass. Needs to be ten pages. I'll pay you."

And that's how it started.

At first it was just one essay. One single assignment. Paul had slipped him forty bucks. Two crisp twenty-dollar bills. And Finn had thought, Sure why not, Easy money. 

He'd spent a weekend researching and writing about deviance and social control. Ten pages. Double-spaced. Proper citations. He'd even made it sound like Paul. Used simpler sentences. Avoided words that were too big. Made it good but not too good. Got Paul a B-plus. And Paul had been thrilled. 

Absolutely thrilled. He'd clapped Finn on the shoulder hard enough to bruise and said, "You're a lifesaver, mate. Absolute legend."

But then Paul told the rest of the team. And word spread. Kevin needed help with his next paper. Stephen was failing calculus. Tom couldn't analyze literature to save his life. Josh had three lab reports backed up. 

One by one, they'd approached Finn. Always casual. Always friendly. At first, they'd paid him. Twenty here. Thirty there. Finn had told himself it was fine. It was just tutoring, really. Helping out.

Then a month later, Paul had cornered him after Finn finished writing Josh's entire final project for Macroeconomics. They were in the corner stairwell of the science building.

"Coach Sheehan wants to meet you," Paul had said.

Finn's stomach had dropped. "What? Why?"

"Relax." Paul's hand landed heavy on Finn's shoulder. "You've been keeping half the goddamn team eligible. Coach knows. He's impressed."

"I don't want any trouble—"

"There's no trouble. Just come to practice tomorrow. Four o'clock. Field house."

Finn had wanted to say no. Should have said no. But Paul's grip tightened just a fraction. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Four o'clock, Finn. Don't make me come find you."

So Finn went.

The field house smelled like sweat and old leather and crushed grass tracked in on cleats. The team was already running drills. Coach Sheehan stood on the sideline with a clipboard. Grey stubble on his jaw. Whistle hanging around his thick neck.

Paul jogged over when he spotted Finn hovering near the entrance. His practice jersey clung to his chest.

"Coach!" Paul called out, waving. "He's here!"

Sheehan turned. His eyes locked onto Finn. 

"You're the one," Sheehan said. "The one who's been writing papers."

Finn's throat went dry. "I—I've just been helping out. Tutoring."

"Tutoring." Sheehan's mouth twitched. 

Paul stood beside Finn now. Arms crossed. 

Sheehan stepped closer. "Here's the deal, kid. Half my team would be academically ineligible without you. That's a fact. I don't give a shit how it gets done, but it needs to keep getting done."

"I can't just—"

"You can and you will." Sheehan said. "Because you're now officially part of this team."

Finn blinked. 

"Support staff maybe a roster one day." Sheehan gestured with his clipboard. "You will get the uniform. The team benefits. All you have to do is show up when called. You do the work when asked. Whatever keeps my boys on the field."

"So?" Sheehan said. "We got a deal?"

Finn swallowed. "Yeah. Okay. Deal."

Sheehan nodded once. Satisfied. "Good. Paul will give you the schedule. Midterms are in three weeks. I expect everyone above a C average."

He turned and shouted across the field, "Stephen! Quit fucking around and run it again!"

Paul leaned down close to Finn's ear. "Welcome to the team," he murmured. Then he patted Finn's cheek. Once. Twice. Almost affectionate. 

Finn stood frozen.

So it wasn't optional anymore. The money stopped.  It became "part of being on the team." Even though Finn never played. Never trained.

During "practice," during those long afternoons when Finn was required to be on the field even though he never touched a ball, things happened. Accidents. 

That's what they called them. Accidents.

"Oi, Bennett, heads up!"

That was the warning. Usually shouted by Paul or Stephen or one of the other guys. Shouted half a second before the hit came. 

THWACK.

A rugby ball to the ribs. Those balls were hard. And when thrown by a guy who could launch it fifty yards downfield, it hit like a sledgehammer. 

Finn had taken balls to the ribs. To the stomach. To the back. To the kidneys. Left purple blooms across his torso. Bruises the size of fists that throbbed for days. 

Sometimes weeks. He'd prod them in the shower, watching the skin change from purple to yellow to green as they healed. Slowly. Too slowly.

"Sorry, mate! Thought you were ready! Gotta keep your eyes open!" That was always the follow-up. Shouted loud enough for Coach Sheehan to hear from across the field. Said with a grin. 

With a laugh. With a tone that suggested it was all in good fun. Just part of the game. Just boys being boys.

Coach Sheehan never did shit. Never questioned it. He was too busy focusing on the real players.

Sticks would "accidentally" trip him. During drills. During scrimmages. During those chaotic moments when everyone was moving and bodies were everywhere. 

A stick—the rucks, the practice equipment—would somehow end up right where Finn was walking.

His foot would catch. He'd go down hard. Knees hitting the grass. Palms scraping against dirt. And then laughter. 

Elbows would "slip" into his kidney during drills he wasn't even supposed to be part of. 

They'd pull him into tackle practice sometimes. "Come on, Bennett, you need to learn how to take a hit," Paul would say. 

And then someone would wrap him up. Someone big. Someone strong. And their elbow would drive into his lower back. Into that soft spot just above his hip where the kidney sat.

The pain was instant. Blinding. It radiated through his whole body. Made him want to puke. Made him want to cry. He never did, though. He learned quickly not to show weakness. Because reacting made it worse.

They'd laugh. While Finn wheezed on the grass. While he tried to catch his breath. While he blinked away the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes. 

They'd stand over him. Grinning. Joking. Asking if he was okay. Asking if he needed a minute. 

The schedule became his prison. Wake at dawn. Four-thirty or five in the morning. Finish whatever assignments were due that day. Of course, theirs, not his. Always theirs. 

Attend classes with eyes half-shut. Struggling to stay awake. Struggling to focus. Teachers started noticing. Mrs. Leibniz had asked him twice if everything was okay at home. 

Mr. Russell had pulled him aside after English class to suggest he get more sleep. Finn had nodded. Said he would. Lied.

Stay after school for "team activities." That's what it said on his schedule. Team activities. Three to nine PM most days. Sometimes later. 

Those activities meant hauling gear from the storage shed to the field. Filling thirty water bottles. Setting up cones for drills. Fetching balls that went out of bounds. Organizing equipment in the locker room. Scrubbing mud off cleats and jerseys. Folding towels. Mopping floors. 

Get home around nine-thirty or ten. His dad would usually be asleep by then. Finn would grab whatever leftovers were in the fridge. Usually nothing. His dad didn't cook much anymore. So Finn would make a sandwich or heat up a frozen dinner. Eat standing at the counter.

Start the next batch of homework. Theirs, of course. Not his. His own assignments sat in a pile on his desk. Untouched. Ignored. He'd get to them if there was time. There was never time. He'd work until three or four in the morning. 

Sleep for two hours if he was lucky. Sometimes less. Sometimes he'd just close his eyes for twenty minutes and call it good enough. 

His body ran on fumes. On caffeine. On pure stubbornness. He'd lost weight. His clothes hung loose. His face had hollowed out. Dark circles under his eyes. He looked sick. He felt sick.

Two hours a night. Every night. For eleven months.

His own grades slipped. Slipped wasn't even the right word. They plummeted. He'd gone from As and Bs to Cs and Ds. 

His GPA was in the toilet. His actual assignments got turned in half-finished. Or late. Or not at all. He'd bombed two midterms. Failed a chemistry quiz. 

Forgotten to submit an English paper worth twenty percent of his grade. Teachers were concerned. Disappointed. Some had stopped caring. 

But their work? Paul's and Stephen's and Kevin's and Tom's and Josh's? Always perfect. Always on time. Always polished and complete and exactly what the teacher wanted. 

Their grades were solid. Bs and B-pluses across the board. Good enough to keep them eligible for the team. Good enough to keep Coach happy. Good enough to keep the school happy.

Because if their work wasn't perfect, if Finn turned in something subpar or late or incomplete, well... Paul never spelled out the consequences. He didn't have to. The threat hung in every conversation. In every smile. In every interaction.

"You're doing great, Bennett. Real team player." That's what Paul would say. Leaning in close. His hand on Finn's shoulder. Squeezing just a little too hard.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Third period. Pre-calculus. Mrs. Leibniz droned on about derivatives at the front of the classroom. She wrote on the whiteboard with a blue dry-erase marker. Numbers and symbols that Finn's brain couldn't process.

His head nodded forward. His forehead dipped toward the desk. He caught himself just before impact. Jerked his head back up. Blinked hard. Tried to focus. Mrs. Leibniz was still talking. Still writing. 

A wadded paper ball struck his ear.

The impact was small. But it was enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through him. He turned in his seat.

Stephen sat three rows back. Three rows and two seats over. Right in Finn's line of sight. Stephen's piggish blue eyes were glaring at him. 

Those eyes were small. Too small for Stephen's wide face. They were the color of faded denim. They sat deep in his skull under a heavy brow that made him look perpetually angry. His face was flushed. Stephen had that kind of complexion that turned red when he was mad.

Or excited. Or exerting any effort at all. His jaw was clenched. Finn could see the muscles working under the skin.

Stephen held up his phone. The screen was angled toward Finn. Showing a text message. 

Wheres my calc homework

Finn's stomach dropped. Like someone had cut the cables on an elevator and he was in free fall. 

The homework. Stephen's calculus homework. It was done. Finn had finished it at five that morning. Barely coherent. 

Working through problems he could barely understand himself. Derivatives. Chain rule. Product rule. Quotient rule. Pages of equations that blurred together. 

It was in his backpack. Had to be. Finn had stuffed it in there before leaving his room. He was sure. Pretty sure. Mostly sure.

He twisted in his seat. He reached for his bag. It sat on the floor beside his desk. 

"Mr. Bennett." Mrs. Leibniz cut through the room. She'd stopped writing on the board. She was looking right at him. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Eyes forward."

"Sorry, I just..." Finn started to explain. To say he needed something from his bag. But the look on her face stopped him. She wasn't interested in explanations.

"Now."

Finn snapped back around. Faced the front of the classroom. His heart pounded. Behind him, he heard Stephen's low chuckle. It wasn't loud. Just loud enough for Finn to hear. 

The class dragged on. Every minute felt like an hour. Finn tried to pay attention. Tried to take notes. But his hand wasn't cooperating. He gave up after half a page. Just sat there. Staring at the board without seeing it. The clock on the wall above the door ticked forward with agonizing slowness. 

When the bell finally rang, Finn grabbed his stuff. Shoved his notebook into his bag. Didn't bother zipping it. He bolted for the door. Moved fast. Weaving between desks. 

But Stephen was faster. Bigger. He'd anticipated Finn's move. He was already up. Already moving. He cut through the aisle. Shouldered past two girls who shot him annoyed looks. He reached the door first. Planted himself right in the doorway. Blocking it. Finn skidded to a stop. 

"Homework. Now." Stephen said.

"I have it. I just..." Finn dug through his backpack. His fingers fumbled over textbooks. Over loose papers. Over pens and highlighters and crumpled receipts. 

Where was it? It had to be here. He'd put it in this morning. He remembered. Sort of. He'd done it. He was sure. Pretty sure.

His fingers closed around a stapled packet. Relief flooded through him. He pulled it out. Held it up. The calculus homework. 

Stephen's name scrawled at the top in Finn's handwriting. Ten pages. Front and back. 

He tried to hand it over. Stephen snatched it. He flipped through them. Fast. His eyes scanned the pages. His face, already red, went redder. 

"What the fuck is this?" Stephen raised his voice. Other students in the hallway were starting to notice. Starting to slow down. To watch.

"It's... it's the assignment..." Finn stammered. 

"I can barely read this shit!" Stephen held up a page. Thrust it toward Finn's face. Close enough that Finn had to take a step back. 

The page was covered in Finn's handwriting. His scrawled, rushed, exhausted handwriting. The numbers were cramped. The letters uneven.

"My grandmother writes neater than this and she's been dead for six years!" Stephen's voice was louder now. Definitely louder. People were stopping. Staring. Finn's face burned. His ears felt hot.

"I'm sorry. I was tired. I can rewrite it..." Finn hated how his voice sounded.

"Yeah, you fucking will." Stephen shoved the packet against Finn's chest. "By tomorrow. And it better be legible. Or I'm telling Paul you're slacking."

Finn's throat closed. Like someone had wrapped a hand around it and squeezed. 

"Tomorrow? I have Tom's essay and Josh's lab report tonight..." He said. 

"Then you better not sleep." Stephen leaned in. "Figure it out, Bennett. That's what you're here for."

Stephen shoved past him. Shoulder checking Finn hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall. Students flowed past like water around a rock. Finn stood there. Back against the wall. Clutching the crumpled homework to his chest. His hands shook.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Lunch period. Noon to twelve forty-five. Forty-five minutes that used to be Finn's favorite part of the day. 

Back when he had friends. Back when he actually ate lunch. Back before rugby. Before Paul. Before this nightmare became his life.

Finn didn't eat anymore. Couldn't afford the time. But he sat in the cafeteria anyway because not showing up meant questions. Sat at the same table in the back corner near the windows. Spread out his stuff. Pretended to eat the sandwich he'd packed that morning.

Today it was Tom's English essay. Due tomorrow. Five pages analyzing the symbolism in The Great Gatsby. Tom Riley. Prop. Six-foot-four. Two hundred and thirty pounds. Red hair. Freckles everywhere. Tom looked like an overgrown leprechaun. He was loud. Obnoxious. 

Finn had written four papers for him already this semester. All on different books Tom had never read.

He spread out Tom's essay requirements on the cafeteria table. A crumpled printout of the prompt. Professor Halloway's instructions. Five pages minimum. MLA format. Three outside sources. Due Wednesday at eight AM. 

Finn pulled out his laptop. Opened a blank document. Stared at the screen. The cursor blinked. Mocking him. His brain felt empty. No thoughts. No ideas. Just exhaustion.

THUNK.

A textbook dropped onto the table next to his lunch tray. The impact was loud. The tray jumped. Finn's water bottle tipped over. Water spilled across the table. Across his notes. He grabbed napkins. Started sopping it up. Looked up.

Josh Carmichael stood there. Scrum-half. Five-ten. Lean. All freckles and sinew and that nasty grin that never reached his eyes. 

Josh's eyes were brown. Dark. They looked black in certain light. Shark eyes. That's what Finn thought every time he looked at them. Josh's grin was wide. Showed too many teeth.

"Need that lab report by tonight." Josh said it casually.

Finn's chest tightened. "Josh, I have four other..."

"Don't care." Josh leaned down. Planted his palms on the table. His face was close to Finn's now. Close enough that Finn could see the acne scars on his cheeks. The thin white lines where old pimples had healed badly.

"Coach is checking grades this week. Mine drops below a C and I'm benched. You don't want that, do you?"

It wasn't really a question.

"I'll get it done." Finn heard himself say.

"Good boy." Josh straightened up. Patted Finn's head. Like Finn was a dog. 

Josh grabbed an apple from Finn's tray. He took a loud bite. Chewed with his mouth open. Walked away.

Then Paul slid into the seat across from Finn His tray was loaded with food. Burger. Fries. Pizza. Salad. Chocolate milk. Two cookies. Paul ate like a horse. Needed the calories to maintain all that muscle. He set the tray down. Picked up the burger. Took a bite.

"How's our favorite scholar doing?" Paul asked.

Finn didn't look up from his laptop. "I'm managing."

"Good. Good." Paul chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite. Spoke while he chewed.

"Because I was thinking. We got that regional qualifier coming up next month. Big game. Real important. And some of the boys need their grades up to stay eligible." 

He paused. Took a sip of chocolate milk. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Might need you to take on a few extra assignments. You can handle that, right?"

Extra assignments. Finn's brain did the math. He was already doing six. Sometimes seven. Extra meant eight. Nine. Maybe ten. It meant even less sleep. 

It meant falling further behind in his own classes. It meant his GPA dropping even more. It meant...

"Yeah. Sure." The words came out automatically. 

What else could he say? No? No wasn't an option. No meant consequences. No meant pain. No meant his dad finding out the truth.

"That's what I like to hear." Paul reached across the table. He patted Finn's cheek. Almost affectionate. "You're invaluable, Bennett. Truly. Don't know what we'd do without you."

Paul's attention shifted. His gaze moved past Finn's shoulder. His expression changed. The friendly warmth evaporated. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Well, well. Looks like fresh meat."

Finn turned. Followed Paul's gaze.

Across the cafeteria, weaving through tables with a tray, was someone new. Someone Finn had never seen before.

The guy was huge.

Not huge like Stephen. Stephen was thick. Barrel-chested. Built like a bulldog. This guy was different. This guy was tall. Really tall. At least six-foot-five. Maybe taller. Broad shoulders. Athletic. 

His arms tested the seams of his t-shirt. Plain black t-shirt. Nothing fancy. But the fabric stretched tight over biceps and forearms that looked carved from stone. His jeans fit well. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just right.

His hair was brown. Light brown. It was swept back. His jaw was strong. Covered in stubble. Not a beard. Just a couple days of growth. 

His face was handsome. Not classically handsome though. His eyes were blue. Even from across the cafeteria, Finn could tell. Bright blue.

"Holy fuck." Paul breathed. Like he was looking at something sacred. "Please tell me that's not a senior transfer."

Tom appeared at their table. He dropped into the seat next to Paul. His tray clattered. "New junior transfer. Name's Peter Claffey. His dad's military. Got stationed here. Heard he played rugby at his last school."

Paul's grin widened. "Did he now?"

Peter Claffey. The name settled in Finn's brain. He watched as Peter found an empty table near the far wall. Away from the crowds. Peter sat down. Set his tray in front of him. Pulled out his phone. Started eating. Unbothered.

The rest of lunch, Finn tried to work on Tom's essay. But he kept glancing up. Watching Paul watch Peter. Paul wasn't subtle. He stared. Leaned back in his chair. Arms crossed. That calculating look never leaving his face. 

Tom and Stephen and Kevin and Josh had all migrated to the table now. The whole core group. They were talking. Low voices. Heads close together. Glancing at Peter. Scheming.

Paul made his approach before the bell rang. He stood. Gestured to Tom and Stephen. The three of them walked across the cafeteria. They stopped at Peter's table. Paul said something. Finn couldn't hear from this distance. 

But he could see Paul gesturing. Animated. Probably selling the team. The glory. The brotherhood. The tradition. All the bullshit lines Paul used.

Peter looked up from his phone. His expression didn't change. Neutral. Maybe a little annoyed. He listened. Paul kept talking. Kept gesturing. Tom and Stephen stood behind him. 

Peter's head shook once. Side to side. No.

Simple. Definitive. No explanation. No apology. Just no.

Paul's smile faltered. Just for a second. He said something else. Leaned in. Put his hand on the table. 

Peter stood up. He was taller than Paul. Taller than Tom. He picked up his tray. Looked Paul right in the eyes. Said something short. Finn couldn't hear it. But whatever it was, it shut Paul up. Peter walked away. Headed for the exit. Didn't look back.

Paul stood there. Frozen. Tom and Stephen exchanged glances. The cafeteria buzzed around them. Students laughing. Talking. Oblivious. Paul's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists. Then he turned. Walked back to the table. Sat down hard. Didn't say anything. Just stared at his tray.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Over the next two weeks, the rejections kept coming.

Paul tried everything. Every angle. Every approach. He caught Peter after classes. Waited outside his classrooms. Walked alongside him in the hallways. Pitched the team. Talked about regionals. About scouts. About the future. About brotherhood and legacy and all the things that usually worked. All the things that made guys want to join.

Peter said no. Every time. He didn't yell. Didn't get angry. Didn't engage. Just no. Not interested. Thanks anyway. And then he'd walk away.

Paul cornered him in the parking lot after school. Peter was loading his backpack into a beat-up Jeep Wrangler. Green. Muddy. Looked like it had seen better days. Paul approached with Stephen and Kevin. Tried again. Different pitch. 

Focused on the competition. The challenge. Told Peter they needed strong players. Told him he'd fit right in. Told him it would look good on college applications.

Peter closed the Jeep door. Looked at Paul. Said, "I said no. Stop asking. This is the last time I'm going to be polite." Got in the Jeep. Drove away.

Each rejection chipped away at Paul. Finn could see it. Paul wasn't used to being told no. Wasn't used to people rejecting him. Rejecting the team. It was driving him insane. 

He paced during practice. Snapped at the other guys. Made them run extra drills. Extra laps. He was taking it out on everyone. 

On the team. On Finn especially. The "accidents" got worse. More frequent. Balls flew at Finn's head with alarming regularity. Tackles were harder. Elbows dug deeper.

Friday afternoon. Three weeks after Peter's arrival. The team gathered in the locker room after another brutal practice. 

Finn had spent hauling equipment. Again. He'd taken a ball to the back. Again. His kidneys ached. His ribs were bruised. His hands were scraped raw from dragging gear across the field.

Paul paced. Back and forth in front of the lockers. His cleats clacked against the tile. His face was red. Angry. The rest of the team sat on benches. Quiet. Watching him. Waiting.

"I don't fucking get it." Paul's voice echoed off the tile walls. "Guy's built for the sport. Perfect size. Perfect build. We need him for regionals. We need him. And he keeps saying no. What's his goddamn problem?"

"Maybe he's just not into team sports." Josh offered. He was lacing his sneakers. 

"Bullshit." Paul stopped pacing. Turned. Glared at Josh. "Nobody turns down our team. We're the best program in the district. We've got a shot at regionals this year. A real shot. And he's just... he's just walking away? Doesn't make sense."

Stephen cracked his knuckles. "Want me to persuade him?" 

"No, you idiot." Paul snapped. "We need him willing. We need him to want to join. Can't force someone onto the team. Coach would notice. Everyone would notice."

Paul stopped pacing. His eyes scanned the room. Landed on Finn. Finn was standing near the equipment cage. Organizing water bottles.

"Hey, Bennett." Paul called out. Finn's stomach dropped. "You got any classes with Claffey?"

Finn's mouth went dry. He nodded. "Uh, chemistry. Fourth period."

"Talk to him." Paul crossed the locker room. Stopped in front of Finn. Looked down at him. Paul was so much taller. So much bigger. 

"Feel him out. Find out what he wants. Why he's saying no. Find his angle."

"I... I don't think..." Finn started to protest.

"That wasn't a request." His hand landed on Finn's shoulder. Squeezed. Hard. Hard enough to hurt. "Find out what his deal is. Report back. Understand?"

Finn nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'll try."

"You'll do more than try." Paul leaned in. His face was inches from Finn's. "You'll get me answers. Because if you don't, if you fail, then maybe we don't need you anymore either. Maybe you're not as invaluable as I thought."

"I'll get answers. I promise."

Paul's hand released his shoulder. He patted Finn's cheek again. "Good boy. Knew I could count on you."

Paul walked away. Back to the others. Started talking about practice schedules.

Finn stood there. Shaking. His shoulder throbbed where Paul had gripped it. He looked down at the water bottles he'd been organizing. His vision blurred. Not from tears. He didn't cry anymore. Just from exhaustion. From fear. From the crushing weight of knowing his nightmare was about to get worse.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Monday. Fourth period. Biology.

Finn spent the entire class hyper-aware of Peter Claffey sitting two rows over. One seat back. Close enough that if Finn turned his head just slightly, he could see him in his peripheral vision.

Peter never spoke during class. Never raised his hand. Never seemed to pay attention to anything Mr. Orkin droned on about. He slouched in his chair like he was barely awake. But when they got their lab results back, Peter always aced them. Every single time. Perfect scores on things Finn had to study hours for.

It made no fucking sense.

When the bell finally rang, Finn gathered his books slowly. His heart was already beating too fast. 

Finn waited. Watched Peter gather his things. Then forced his legs to move before he could talk himself out of it.

"Hey, uh, Peter?"

Peter looked up. Slowly.

Up close, he was even more imposing than from a distance. Tall. Broad shoulders that filled out his uniform shirt. 

And his eyes. Jesus Christ, his eyes. They weren't just blue. They were light blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that looked almost translucent in certain light. Like looking into ice water.

"Yeah?"

Finn swallowed. "I'm Finn. Finn Bennett. We have, uh, class together."

Peter just stared at him for a second. Then said, "I know."

Not unfriendly. Not warm either. Just factual.

Finn's brain stuttered. "Oh. Okay. Cool. Um."

Peter zipped his backpack. Then slung it over one shoulder.

Before Finn could figure out what to say next, Peter spoke again.

"You're Paul's errand boy."

"I'm... what?"

"I've seen you," Peter said. "You carry their stuff. Do their work. Follow them around like a kicked dog waiting for scraps."

Finn's face went hot. His throat felt tight. "I'm on the team."

Peter tilted his head slightly. Then said, "No. You're not."

He moved toward the door. Finn scrambled to keep up, his pulse hammering in his ears.

"Paul wanted me to ask you something."

Peter didn't stop walking. Didn't even look back. "Yeah?"

"He wants to know what it would take. For you to join the team."

"Nothing."

The word came out so final it took Finn a second to process. "But—"

"Nothing," Peter repeated. He pushed through the classroom door into the crowded hallway. "I don't do team sports anymore. Had my fill at my last school."

Finn followed him out, weaving between other students. "Was it... bad?"

Peter stopped. Right there in the middle of the hallway. People flowed around them like water around stones. He looked at Finn with an expression that might have been pity.

"Yes," he said. "And what Paul's doing to you? That's bad too. You should walk away."

Finn felt something twist in his chest. "I can't."

Peter's expression didn't change. "Then you're choosing this."

He turned and kept walking. Left Finn standing there alone while the hallway emptied around him. Left him with those words ringing in his head.

You're choosing this.

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Another week passed.

Seven days of Paul's mounting frustration. Seven days of Finn being shoved into lockers, tripped in the hallways. 

Seven days of "Did you talk to him yet?" and "What the fuck is wrong with you, Bennett?" and "Figure it out or you're off the fucking team."

Peter remained unmovable. Untouchable. He showed up to class, aced his labs, and disappeared the second the bell rang.

Until Thursday.

After practice.

Finn was in the locker room organizing cleats by size. The rest of the team was in various states of undress, toweling off, shoving each other, laughing about something Josh had done during drills.

Then the door swung open.

Peter Claffey walked in.

The room went quiet. Instantly. Like someone had flipped a switch.

Peter stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, and surveyed them all with those too-blue eyes. 

His gaze moved slowly across the room. Taking in each face. Each body. Like he was cataloging them.

"You wanted to talk. So talk."

Paul recovered first. Straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the lockers and forced a grin onto his face. "Peter. Glad you came. Look, I'll cut to the chase. We need you for regionals."

Peter said nothing. Just waited.

"Without another solid player, we won't place," Paul continued. "And I know you've got talent. Everyone's seen you in PE. So name your price."

"My price," Peter repeated. 

"Yeah. Name it. Money? We can pool resources. Academic help? We've got that covered." Paul gestured at Finn without looking at him. "Social status? You'll be part of the best team in the district. So what's it gonna take?"

Peter's expression didn't change. "Not interested."

Paul's grin faltered. "Then what? What the fuck do you want?"

Peter didn't answer right away. His gaze swept the room again. Slower this time. Then stopped.

Landed.

Stayed.

On Finn.

Finn felt it like someone had pressed a hand to the center of his chest and pushed. His breath caught. His heart kicked into overdrive. He couldn't move.

"Anything?" Peter asked.

"What?" Paul blinked.

"You said name my price. Anything." Peter's eyes were still locked on Finn. "Did you mean that?"

"Yeah. Within reason—"

"Then I want him."

Peter pointed. Directly at Finn.

Every head in the locker room turned.

"I join your team," Peter said, still in that same calm, "I get him."

The words didn't compute at first.

Finn's brain stuttered. Stalled. Tried to reboot. 

Get him? Get him how? Like... take over Finn's assignments? Become Peter's personal helper instead of the team's collective punching bag?

But the way Peter was looking at him made the real meaning crystal clear.

There was heat in those eyes now. Something hungry.

"You want—" Paul's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. His mouth hung open slightly. "Bennett?"

"That's the offer," Peter said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Take it or leave it."

The room exploded.

Tom started laughing first. A wheezing, disbelieving sound that set off everyone else. Stephen doubled over, slapping his thigh. Josh's freckled face split into a grin so wide it looked painful. 

Someone whistled. Someone else shouted something Finn didn't quite catch over the blood rushing in his ears.

And Paul... Paul's shock melted into something calculating. 

He looked at Peter. Then at Finn. Then back at Peter. His grin came back slowly. "Fuck him? You want to fuck Bennett?"

Peter didn't respond. Just kept staring at Finn.

"Well, shit," Paul said. He laughed. Ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "That's not what I expected, but..." 

He turned fully toward Finn now. "Tell you what. We got regionals in six weeks. Three games to get to finals. You help us win, you get rewards."

"Rewards," Peter repeated.

"Progressive rewards." Paul's grin turned wicked. "You score a try in the first game, Bennett jerks you off."

Finn's stomach dropped through the floor.

"You score five total by semifinals, he sucks your cock."

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

"And if—when—we make finals, and you score ten or more points total..." Paul paused, "Bennett's ass is yours."

The room erupted again. Louder this time. Cheers. Whistles. Someone banged on a locker. 

Finn couldn't breathe.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. This was insane. This was illegal. This was—

But Peter's eyes never left him.

"Does he agree?" Peter asked.

The room went quiet again. Everyone turned to look at Finn.

He felt like prey. Like a mouse surrounded by cats. Every exit blocked. Every option gone.

His voice came out strangled. "I... what?"

Peter pushed off from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe. Started walking toward him.

"Do you agree to those terms?"

Finn's hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. His mind screamed at him to say no. To run. To report all of this to someone who might actually help.

But then he thought about his dad. About the jersey hanging in the garage. About what would happen if Finn quit the team and had to explain why. 

About the hours of work he'd already sunk into keeping these assholes happy. About how close he was to making it through the season.

And some tiny, fucked up part of him whispered: At least it would be different. At least it wouldn't be this.

No. No no no no no. This was insane. This was wrong. This was—

"Okay."

"I... okay."

Peter's lips curved. Not quite a smile.

"Then we have a deal."

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

𝐀/𝐍: 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝, 𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑡?