Up against the bleachers. Rip and tear. You've never liked him in a baseball jersey. Bare skin all the way. Sweat. It's always been so much prettier. It's probably even better naked, but you'd never ask for something like that. Not even tonight. No asking. Just taking. No time to ask. None at all, because before the sun comes up, his truck has to be on the road and you'll be left behind, watching until you can't see his taillights anymore.

Alone. Again.

It keeps happening like that. He comes and goes as he pleases, and you're supposed to be there to pick up the pieces if he gets broken along the way. Fragile. They should put that on his forehead because people don't seem to get it. But you do, because you love him and GOD you love him so much it hurts. You can't even get off without calling out his name. It's sort of pathetic, but you're used to pathetic by now and that's just fine.

You could go fuck the blonde. It would be good, you know that. It would be the DAMNGOODANDFUCKRIGHTTHEREYES kind of sex gay porn stars dream about. He would writhe and you would writhe and hell, maybe it would turn out to be something more than just a release from the stress of the day. You've thought about it. You like the blonde well enough. You're friends (maybe even more already because there was that one time in the pool house with the cranberry vodka and moans as his hands traced the top of your belt), and friends make the best lovers, right?

But the playmaker is here now. Under you, around you, behind you, in front of you, and GODDAMNIT you never thought he'd beg for it harder. He'd never had to beg for a single thing in his life and now he's doing it. Asking. Whispering. Doing everything you thought he was too good for and somehow it's still not enough.

Mark it, Bolton, you want to whisper as he finishes and slumps against the padded walls of the gymnasium. He can barely breathe and you haven't had air for the past hour, ever since he walked into the empty locker room and kissed you, stronger and faster than you knew was possible.

In the back of his mind, you know that he can almost hear Gabriella crying.

You get down on your knees, and somehow you know he doesn't care.


disclaimer: I don't own it. Never did, never will.