He didn’t ease into it. He took Tate into his mouth like he had been thinking about it all week, deep and wet and immediate. Tate’s hand slammed down on the table behind him to stay upright. The other fist buried in Knox’s hair. Knox’s nose pressed to his stomach. He pulled back, spit shining on his lip, then took him again, slower, using his hand at the base in tight twists.

The only sounds were wet and the low hum of the projector fan. On the screen the same missed tackle played over and over in silence.

Tate watched Knox’s mouth stretch around him. Watched the way his throat...