and i, steve harrington, have the ball

Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.

You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it — Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.

So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?

You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.

But you don't want to do that.

For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.

You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.

You hate it.

You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.

You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.

Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.

"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.

"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"

"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."

"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.

Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.

"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."

You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.

"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist — gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.

"Why are you still here?"

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."

Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."

You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.

"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"

"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."

You sigh loudly, then shake your head.

"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."

When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.

"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."

You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.

He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."

"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."

He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.

"I don't have a problem."

"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress and—"

Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.

"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"

You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.

"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"

"No."

"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."

Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"

Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.

"You want something to wear to bed?"

You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.

"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.

When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.

It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.

A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.

"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.

You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.

You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.

You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.

"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"

Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.