The concrete rooftop of the Grand Continental was a sprawling, desolate island in the sky, suspended high above the glittering arteries of Toronto. The wind up here was different—colder, sharper, and devoid of the city's exhaust. For Corner, it was the only place he could breathe. The pressure of the upcoming match, the weight of the cameras, and the haunting, jagged memory of Henry's lips had become a physical suffocation.
He leaned against the rusted cooling vent, the metal humming beneath his palms. His body was a wire tuned too tight. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Henry. Not the captain, not the rival, but the man who had looked at him with that terrifying, possessive fire in the parking garage.
He needed a distraction. He needed to ground himself in something base, something that wasn't wrapped in the complicated politics of professional rugby.
With trembling fingers, he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen's glow was a harsh intrusion into the darkness. He glanced toward the heavy steel door he'd come through; it was shut tight. The roof was empty, a graveyard of gravel and satellite dishes.
He navigated to a bookmarked tab, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The video loaded—a high-definition, raw encounter between two men. The sound of a low, guttural moan broke the silence of the rooftop, followed by the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin.
Corner felt the blood rush south instantly.
He watched, mesmerized by the power dynamics on the screen. The larger man was dominant, pinning the other down with a ruthless, singular focus that made Corner's breath hitch. It was aggressive. It was possessive. It was everything he'd been trying to pretend he didn't want from the man in the room three floors below him.
The moans from the phone grew louder, more desperate. Corner leaned his head back against the vent, his eyes half-closed, his imagination beginning to bleed into the digital reality. He wasn't seeing the man on the screen anymore. He was seeing a broad back covered in the black-and-gold jersey of Ontario. He was feeling the weight of a captain's expectations pressing him into the turf.
He was so far gone, so lost in the sensory overload of the video and his own spiraling thoughts, that he didn't hear the soft scrape of a sneaker on gravel. He didn't see the shadow detach itself from the elevator housing.
Suddenly, a hand—large, warm, and terrifyingly certain—reached around from behind and closed firmly over Corner's groin, gripping his hardened length through the thin fabric of his gray joggers.
Corner's soul nearly left his body. A strangled, high-pitched gasp died in his throat as the phone slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the gravel with the video still moaning into the night air.
"You're so aroused right now by this?"
The voice was a low, vibrating growl right against the shell of his ear. The heat of the speaker's body slammed into Corner's back, solid and immovable.
It was Henry.
Corner bolted upward, stumbling over his own feet as he scrambled away, his heart feeling like it was going to burst through his sternum. He ended up five feet away, chest heaving, his face burning with a shame so intense it felt like a physical fever.
"What—what the hell are you doing up here?" Corner choked out, his voice cracking. "Are you stalking me?"
Henry didn't look like he'd been running. He looked like he'd been waiting. He stood there, silhouetted against the city lights, looking down at the phone on the ground where the two men were still tangled in a digital embrace. Henry stepped forward and, with a slow, deliberate movement, kicked the phone toward Corner.
"I came up for a smoke. I didn't expect to find a show," Henry said, his voice dripping with a lethal combination of boredom and disgust. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his dark hoodie. "But then again, I always knew who you were, Corner. I knew the moment I saw you in that bar. You're a freak. You're the kind of mistake that the rugby world doesn't welcome."
"It's not—it's not what it looks like," Corner hissed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He desperately tried to pull his joggers down to hide the evidence of his arousal, but it was useless. "Watching... watching a video doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean I'm gay."
Henry took a step closer, and then another, until he had Corner backed against the edge of the roof. The drop was twenty stories, but the man in front of him was far more dangerous than the fall.
"Is that the lie you tell yourself?" Henry asked, leaning down so their foreheads almost touched. His eyes dropped to the bulge in Corner's pants, then snapped back to his eyes. "Tell me, Corner. Were you imagining the top guy as me? Were you imagining me pinning you down like that? Making you take every inch until you couldn't breathe?"
"No," Corner whispered, though his voice lacked any conviction. "I would never... I don't think of you like that."
Henry's lip curled into a cruel, knowing smirk. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of Corner's jaw with a mocking tenderness. "Good. Because if I was angled that way—if I actually wanted someone like you—I wouldn't be gentle. I would make you cry out ten times louder than that man in your video. I'd leave you broken, Corner. I'd leave you unable to walk to the locker room, let alone run a play on my field."
The air between them felt thick, charged with a dark, twisted electricity. Corner wanted to strike him, to push him off the roof, but he also wanted to grab the front of that hoodie and pull him in. The conflict was tearing him apart.
"Don't think so high of yourself," Corner spat, finding a shred of his pride. "I had no such thoughts. I will never be yours to break. You're a narcissist, Henry. You're a bully who thinks he owns everyone."
Henry let out a short, dry laugh and straightened up, the intense pressure suddenly lifting. He looked out over the city, the cold mask returning to his face as if the last minute hadn't happened.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Captain," Henry said. He started to walk toward the door, his gait easy and arrogant.
He stopped at the handle, looking back over his shoulder. A strange, playful glint flickered in his dark eyes—a flash of the predator enjoying the game.
"But if you feel so pressed," Henry added, his voice carrying clearly across the windy roof, "if that little video of yours isn't doing the trick... you could always reach out. I'm in Room 302. Don't bother calling the front desk; my number is 416-555-0192."
He pulled the door open, the heavy steel creaking. "Come by if you want to find out if I'm as good as the guy on your screen. But I'm warning you—if you walk into my room, I'll make sure you don't walk onto that pitch tomorrow."
The door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Corner stood in the silence, the wind whipping his hair across his face. He looked down at his phone, the screen finally gone dark. His heart was still thudding, a heavy, rhythmic ache in his chest. He looked at the door, then at the skyline, his mind repeating that number over and over again like a mantra.
Room 302.
He knew he should hate him. He knew he should stay as far away as possible. But as he stood there in the cold, the only thing he could feel was the touch of Henry's hand, and the terrifying, magnetic pull of the room three floors below.