Chapter12: Shadows Unleashed
Ethan jolted awake as the alarm shrieked at 05:00, a harsh, grating wail that tore through the stillness of Room 312. The dorm was a dim sanctuary, shrouded in pre-dawn gloom, the only light a faint orange glow from the clock casting eerie shadows across the walls. Lucas’s arm was a warm, heavy weight draped over Ethan’s chest, pinning him to the mattress, the quarterback’s bare skin pressed flush against his side, his breath a steady whisper against Ethan’s ear. The sheets were a twisted mess around their legs, evidence of a night spent tangled together, and Ethan’s body ached—not just from sleep, but from the gnawing tension that had been building for weeks. Rumours about him and Lucas had been swirling, vague and unconfirmed, but yesterday’s whispers felt different, heavier, like a storm about to break. He silenced the phone with a quick jab, chest tight with unease, and slid his hand to Lucas’s forearm, tracing the rough, familiar muscle, grounding himself before the day dragged him under.
Practice at 05:30, a brutal start he couldn’t skip, no matter how much Lucas’s warmth begged him to stay. Ethan eased out from under the quarterback’s arm, moving slow and deliberate, the bed creaking faintly beneath him. Lucas didn’t stir—just let out a muffled “Mmph, shit” into the pillow, rolling onto his side, face half-buried in the fabric, oblivious. Ethan’s lips quirked, a brief spark of warmth cutting through the dread, but he didn’t linger. He had to go.
The floor was a shock of cold against his bare feet as he stood, grabbing his wrestling gear from the chair—a faded singlet, shorts, a black hoodie—dressing in the dark with quiet precision. He laced his sneakers, stole a glance at Lucas—sprawled shirtless, the sheet slipping low to reveal the sharp dip of his hips—and slung his bag over his shoulder. Lucas’s breathing stayed even, his broad shoulders rising and falling, undisturbed, and Ethan slipped out, the door clicking shut with a soft thud, his pulse humming with the weight of them and the unknown ahead.
Outside, the air was a frigid slap, the campus silent under a sky streaked with faint purple. Ethan jogged to the wrestling gym, breath puffing in the chill, his mind replaying yesterday’s locker room chatter—Tyler’s voice, low and edged: Something’s up with Carver and Reid, watch ‘em. No proof, just suspicion, but it had stuck, burrowing into the team’s cracks. He pushed through the gym doors at 05:15, the matts empty, the air thick with the sour tang of old sweat and disinfectant. He dropped his bag, stretching out the stiffness in his neck, forcing the noise down into focus.
Coach Daniels arrived at 05:25, a grizzled bear of a man, barking orders as the team shuffled in—Jake and a few juniors, their eyes darting to Ethan, some wary, some blank. “Ethan took his usual pairing taking him down fast, pinning him with a grunt. His moves were sharp but distracted, the rumours clawing at his edges, and Daniels noticed. “Carver, you’re half-assing it—focus!” Ethan clenched his jaw, resetting, and slammed Jake again, the kid tapping out with a wheeze.
“Damn, dude,” Jake said, standing, brushing sweat from his brow. “You’re intense”.
Ethan grabbed his water bottle, chugging it, dodging Jakes eyes.
“Guys were talking yesterday,” Jake said, quieter. “About you and Reid—someone’s got dirt.”
Ethan’s stomach twisted, but he kept his face stone. “Dirt?”
“Yeah,” Nate shrugged, uneasy. “Dunno what. Just… heads up.”
Ethan nodded, the knot in his chest tightening, and finished practice at 07:30, showering fast under cold water that did little to clear his head. Lucas would be up soon—football practice at 08:00—and Ethan trudged back to 312, the campus waking around him, students spilling into the morning light, their glances lingering too long.
The room was empty when he got there, Lucas’s bed a chaos of sheets, a faint dent in the pillow where he’d been. Ethan flopped onto his own mattress, grabbing his phone—and froze. A notification blinked: New Video—Campus Chat. His gut sank as he tapped it, the screen loading a shaky clip: him and Lucas, Friday night behind the dorm, pressed against the wall, kissing hard, hands roaming. The caption read: Reid and Carver—caught. His breath caught, the world tilting—everyone knew now, no hiding.
His phone buzzed, Lucas: Fuck, you see it? Team’s blowing up. Where are you? Ethan typed back, hands shaking: 312. Just got back. You ok? Lucas replied: Field soon. Tyler’s pissed—watch out. Ethan dropped the phone, the video looping in his mind, the team’s fracture splitting wide open.
Morning dragged—English class, a protein bar he didn’t taste, a lecture he zoned through, the campus buzzing with stares and whispers. By noon, he was in the dining hall, tray loaded with turkey and potatoes, when Lucas slid in across from him—fresh from practice, hair damp, a dirt streak on his cheek. His grey football tee clung to his chest, and Ethan’s eyes lingered, a flicker of heat battling the dread.
“Hey,” Lucas said, voice low, digging into a chicken wrap. “You look like shit.”
“Feel it,” Ethan muttered, poking his food. “You?”
“Field was a warzone,” Lucas said, grin tight, foot nudging Ethan’s under the table—light, grounding. “Tyler’s got the guys riled., half won’t pass to me. Video’s everywhere.”
“Wrestling’s the same,” Ethan said, jaw clenching. “Jake warned me—everyone’s seen it.”
Lucas’s foot pressed harder, a quiet tether. “We’re outed.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, voice rough. “What’s Tyler doing?”
“Dunno,” Lucas said, eyes narrowing. “He’s too calm, planning something.”
They ate in heavy silence, the hall’s chatter a distant hum, until Ethan’s phone buzzed—an unknown number: Old barn, edge of campus. 1:00. Come alone or Reid pays. Ethan’s blood ran cold, showing Lucas.
“Don’t,” Lucas said, grabbing his wrist, hazel eyes sharp. “It’s Tyler—I know it.”
“Gotta,” Ethan said, standing, heart racing. “He’s unhinged—I’ll handle it.”
“Ethan—” Lucas’s grip tightened, voice cracking. “I’m coming.”
“No,” Ethan said, pulling free. “Stay safe. I’ll text.”
Lucas relented, jaw tight, and Ethan bolted, the barn a looming threat in his mind. The campus edge was desolate, the old structure sagging under years of neglect, its doors creaking in the wind. Ethan stepped inside at 12:58, the air thick with dust and rot, shadows pooling in the corners. Tyler emerged from the gloom, flanked by two goons—Rick, a beefy linebacker, and Kyle, a wiry receiver—his smirk sinnister.
“Knew you’d come,” Tyler said, voice low, stepping closer. “You and Reid—you’ve fucked us.”
Ethan squared up, fists clenched. “It’s not your call.”
“It is now,” Tyler snarled, and swung—a fist to Ethan’s gut, doubling him over. Rick and Kyle grabbed his arms, slamming him against a rusted tractor, the metal biting his back. Tyler pulled a knife, the blade glinting, and pressed it to Ethan’s throat—cold, sharp, a thin sting as it nicked skin.
“Team’s done,” Tyler hissed, dragging the knife down, slicing Ethan’s shirt, a shallow cut blooming red across his chest. “You’re out—or you’re dead.”
Ethan spat in his face, earning a punch to the jaw, blood flooding his mouth. They shoved him to the floor, Tyler kicking his ribs—once, twice—pain exploding, a groan ripping free. Rick handed Tyler a coil of rope, and they bound Ethan’s wrists, tight and biting, dragging him to a wooden beam, tying him upright.
“Beg,” Tyler said, twirling the knife, slashing Ethan’s arm—another red line, blood dripping. “Or I carve you up.”
Ethan glared, silent, and Tyler raised the blade—then a roar split the air. Lucas burst through the barn doors, a crowbar in hand, eyes wild with fury. He swung, cracking Tyler’s shoulder, the knife flying as Tyler yelped, stumbling back. Lucas charged Rick, slamming the crowbar into his gut, dropping him, then spun on Kyle, smashing his knee—Kyle crumpled, howling.
Tyler lunged, fists swinging, but Lucas tackled him, pinning him to the dirt, pummelling his face—blood spraying, a teeth skittering across the floor. “Stay the fuck away from him!” Lucas roared, standing, kicking Tyler’s ribs once, twice, leaving him gasping.
Lucas rushed to Ethan, cutting the ropes with trembling hands, pulling him free. “Fuck—Ethan, you okay?” His voice broke, hazel eyes wide, searching Ethan’s bloodied face.
“Yeah,” Ethan rasped, wincing as Lucas steadied him, pain throbbing through his ribs, arm, chest. “How’d you find me?”
“Tracked your phone,” Lucas said, breathless, pulling Ethan close, blood smearing between them. “Couldn’t lose you.”
Tyler groaned, stirring, and Lucas turned, crowbar raised, but Ethan grabbed his arm. “Enough—he’s down.”
Lucas dropped it, turning back, hands cupping Ethan’s face, rough and desperate. “I love you,” he blurted, voice raw, cracking. “Fuck, I love you—almost lost you, and I never said it.”
Ethan’s heart slammed, the world narrowing to Lucas’s eyes—fierce, unguarded. He surged forward, kissing him—hard, bloody, desperate, tasting salt and iron. “Love you too,” he choked, pulling back, foreheads pressed, breaths ragged. “Always.”
Lucas’s grin broke through, shaky but real, and he hauled Ethan out, supporting his limp, the barn fading behind them. Campus security swarmed soon after—an anonymous tip, someone had seen—and Tyler and his goons were cuffed, faces bruised, glaring as they were hauled away.
Back in 312, Lucas patched Ethan up—gauze on his cuts, ice on his ribs—silent, hands steady but eyes stormy. “Team’s fucked,” he said finally, sitting beside Ethan on the bed.
“Maybe,” Ethan said, lacing their fingers—rough, blood-stained. “But we’re not.”
Lucas squeezed, hazel eyes locking on his. “Never.”
Ethan leaned in, kissing him—slow, real, a promise. The day bled away, Lucas’s heat grounding him, a fierce fire burning through the chaos.
