Chapter 5: Collision Course

“What the hell, Shane, what are you doing?”

I gripped my bathrobe, terry cloth rough under my fingers.

He lifted the hem, his hand warm against my skin.

Sensing trouble, I backed up until my shoulders hit the towel rack.

Shane moved in, eyes blazing like he’d waited months for this.

“Didn’t you say to do it? So brave a second ago.”

“Then why the body wash? I just showered, I smell like Irish Spring already.”

He cornered me between the toilet and the shower.

Shane’s grip was iron-tight, but not painful—yet.

“I’ll show you what I’m going to do. You played your game, now I’ll play mine.”

His leg pressed to mine—he was so much taller I had to crane my neck.

Then I felt something hard against my thigh, and my eyes went wide.

Damn, he was actually turned on.

I pushed at his chest, elbow catching the shower handle.

Water sprayed, soaking his shirt so it clung to his muscles—every line and ridge obvious.

I was pinned. Nowhere to go.

“You psycho, this is assault! I’m not even gay, let go!”

He shot back, “Not gay? Then why’d you mess with me, send me those photos?”

I couldn’t answer.

He bared his teeth, biting my neck—not hard, just enough to mark.

I jerked, hands shoving uselessly at him.

I just wanted to prank him for scholarship money, not get in this deep.

“I’m sorry, Shane. I’ll never do it again. I’ll pay you back, write you a thesis myself.”

He didn’t care. His hand kept moving lower.

Panic shot through me. I stomped his foot and shoved him, catching him off guard.

Shane slipped on the soapy floor, crashing into the sink.

I snatched my robe and scrambled for the door.

Behind me, I heard him groan—a real, painful sound.

I looked back. Shane was still on the floor, face pale, blood mixing with the water.

"Hey, you okay? You were the one messing around. I was just defending myself—self-defense, right?"

He ignored me, breathing shallow.

A pinkish puddle spread across the tiles.

I freaked. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

"Shane! Oh shit, oh shit!"

I knelt beside him, hands shaking.

He’d split his head open above the ear—blood everywhere. His arm was swelling up, turning purple.

I grabbed a hotel towel to stop the bleeding and dialed 911, my voice cracking.

He glared at me, sweat on his forehead.

"Luke, just wait. This isn’t over."

I swallowed my guilt, softening my voice. "Just save your energy, okay?"

If something happened to him here, I’d never recover—legally or otherwise.

The ambulance came. Club president Marcus and the manager were all over it.

I told them Shane slipped in the shower—no one questioned it.