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Max Goof – First Person POV
I almost didn’t come.
That’s the thing.
Valentine’s Day frat party?
Sounds like a recipe for sticky floors, too much cologne, and couples aggressively making out in corners.
But PJ and Bobby practically dragged me out of the dorm.
And honestly?
I’m glad they did.
The Gamma house is glowing red and pink like it swallowed a craft store. Heart-shaped lights everywhere. Streamers hanging from the ceiling. Music thumping through the walls hard enough to vibrate in my ribs.
PJ slings an arm around my shoulders.
“See? Told you. You needed this.”
Bobby pops up on my other side, grinning. “You’ve been a hermit, Goof. It’s unhealthy.”
“I have not,” I protest, laughing as someone bumps into me. “I’ve just been… busy.”
“With what?” Bobby squints.
“Breathing dramatically in your room?” PJ offers.
I shove him lightly. “I’m having a blast, okay? I’m glad you guys pulled me out.”
They exchange smug looks like proud parents.
“That’s what we like to hear.”
Bobby slaps my back hard enough to nearly send me forward and shoves a red plastic cup into my hand.
I stare at it.
It smells… aggressive.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Trust the process,” Bobby says.
I take a cautious sip.
Instant regret.
It tastes like melted candy and gasoline.
I cough. Grimace. “That’s criminal.”
They howl with laughter.
“Drink it anyway,” PJ insists.
I roll my eyes and take another sip, wincing as it burns down my throat. Warmth spreads quickly through my chest, loosening something tight I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Before I can protest further, Bobby grabs my wrist.
“Oh, you’re coming with us.”
“To where—?”
There’s a small crowd forming in the middle of the living room. A loose circle of people sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Girls in pink dresses. Guys with rolled sleeves and too much confidence. Giggles. Anticipation.
A bottle in the center.
Oh no.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter.
“Yes,” Bobby says, already dragging me down into the circle.
Someone scoots over to make room. I sit. Take another sip for courage.
Okay. It’s fine. It’s just a game.
I glance around casually.
Pretty girls. Laughing. Leaning into each other. One winks at me and I nearly choke on my drink.
This is fine. This is normal. This is good.
Then—
Someone drops into the circle directly across from me.
My stomach flips before my brain even processes why.
Nope.
No.
It’s him.
Bradley Uppercrust III.
I haven’t seen him since last year. Since the X-Games. Since the rivalry. Since the smirks and insults and competitive tension that never quite felt like just competition.
He looks—
Good.
Annoyingly good. Not that I’m looking.
I’m not looking.
If I were looking, though, I might notice how his hair is swept perfectly to either side, soft and deliberate like he ran his fingers through it one too many times in a mirror. I might notice the way his collared shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of skin. Just enough to tease.
But I’m not looking.
Nope.
I take another sip.
Across from me, he smiles. Perfect teeth. Devilish.
Slow.
He knows I’m looking.
I immediately drop my gaze to the bottle like it personally offended me.
Gulp.
A blonde girl claps her hands. “Okay! Change of plans. We’re not playing spin the bottle.”
A chorus of dramatic groans.
She grins wickedly.
“We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
The room erupts.
My drink almost goes down the wrong pipe.
Seven minutes.
In a closet.
With whoever the bottle lands on.
I suddenly become very aware of the heat in my cheeks.
“Who wants to spin first?” she asks brightly.
And of course—
Of course—
Bradley leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I’ll go first,” he says smoothly.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my brain.
Show-off.
He reaches for the bottle.
And for one split second—
His eyes flick up to mine.
Intent. Focused. Challenging.
The smirk deepens.
The room goes quiet as he spins.
The bottle whirls between us, glass flashing under pink lights.
The bottle spins.
And spins.
And spins.
The whole room leans in like we’re watching the Super Bowl.
My palms start sweating.
It slows. Wobbles. Tilts.
And then—
It lands on me.
Dead center.
The room explodes.
I stare at Bradley, waiting — hoping — he’ll laugh it off. Make some smug joke. Say he’d rather kiss a cactus.
But he doesn’t.
He just smirks.
Slow.
Dangerous.
And stands.
My stomach drops.
I glance at PJ and Bobby. They lean in close.
“You don’t gotta do it,” PJ whispers.
“Yeah,” Bobby adds. “We’ll fake a fire alarm.”
Bradley hears them.
Of course he does.
He tilts his head, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. “What is it, Goof? Getting cold feet?”
I glare at him.
“Shut up.”
He shrugs. “If you’re scared, just say that.”
That does it.
“Oh, I’m not scared,” I snap, standing up so fast my cup nearly spills.
The crowd whoops like we just agreed to cage fight.
Someone yells, “Seven minutes! Don’t waste it!”
Another voice: “Timer’s ready!”
Bradley gestures toward the hallway like some smug prince escorting me to my doom.
“After you.”
I shove past him.
The hallway feels hotter. Narrower.
The closet door waits at the end.
Someone pushes it open and we step inside.
The door shuts.
Click.
Darkness.
Not total — a thin sliver of party light slips through the crack under the door. Enough to see shapes.
Enough to see him.
He leans back against the wall like he owns the space.
Like he owns me.
I cross my arms. “I’m not gonna kiss you, Brad.”
He chuckles under his breath.
I look at him, still irritated, still defensive, heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“I don’t give a shit if you kiss me, Goof,” he says coolly. “It’s called seven minutes in heaven, not seven minutes in kindergarten.”
I’m about to snap back at him — really lay into him — but the words die in my throat.
Because within seconds he’s dropping to his knees in front of me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I choke out, back hitting the closet wall.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks up at me — and there it is. That look. The one I haven’t seen since the X-Games. Sharp. Competitive. Like he’s about to win something.
Then his fingers move to my belt.
Metal clicks.
“Holy shit— Brad.”
He glances up at me with that fiendish little smirk. “Taking you to heaven.”
My pulse explodes.
This is insane. We’re in a closet. At a frat. On Valentine’s Day. There’s a timer ticking outside.
And before I can even process what’s happening, he’s tugging me free, my breath catching as the cool air hits skin.
I’m already hard.
Embarrassingly fast.
Almost painfully fast.
He palms me slowly, deliberately, watching my reaction like it’s his favorite sport.
I try to look away, cheeks burning, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. The closet is barely big enough for both of us and he’s right there.
“Wow, Goof,” he murmurs, voice low and amused. “For someone as short as you, you sure make up the length elsewhere, don’t you?”
“Shut up,” I breathe, but it comes out shaky.
I open my mouth to fire back something clever, something cutting—
But instead—
A sharp sound tears out of me as he leans in.
The heat of his mouth is sudden. Overwhelming. My fingers immediately tangle into his perfectly styled hair without permission from my brain.
“Brad—” My voice cracks into a hoarse groan.
His grip tightens at my hips, steadying me as he takes his time, like he’s proving a point. Like this is another competition and he refuses to lose.
My head tips back against the wall.
I hate that he’s good at this.
I hate that he knows it.
And I hate that I can feel the smirk against me when I lose whatever argument I thought I was about to make.
After not too long—
Honestly, it had been a while for me. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
But yeah.
I don’t last.
My grip tightens in his hair, fingers curling hard as my hips jerk forward on instinct. A broken, breathless “ffuck—” tears out of me as heat floods through my body and my vision goes white at the edges. I shove him deeper without thinking, lost in the rush of it, the sheer shock of how intense it feels.
It hits fast.
Too fast.
And then I’m standing there, chest heaving, trying to come back to earth while the world slowly sharpens again.
When I finally look down—
Bradley’s glaring up at me.
Pissed.
Smug.
He pulls back, swallowing, then rubs at his throat with exaggerated annoyance.
“Gee, Goof,” he drawls, voice rougher now, “you could’ve used at least two of the seven minutes, you know.”
My entire face burns.
“Y-yeah? Well,” I shoot back quickly, scrambling for dignity, “at least now I know that mouth of yours is good for something.”
The second it leaves my mouth I regret how it sounds.
He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he stands, smoothing his shirt.
“Please,” he says coolly. “I don’t do freebies twice.”
He adjusts himself with infuriating calm.
Then leans in slightly.
“But perhaps,” he murmurs, voice dipping low, “if you work on your timing… perhaps I’d consider it.”
He punctuates it with a wink.
The absolute bastard.
I’m flustered beyond belief as I fix myself, fingers fumbling at my zipper. My hands are still shaking when I tighten my belt.
Outside the closet—
The timer goes off.
Cheers erupt.
Bradley smirks like he planned the entire thing.
“Oh boy,” he says smoothly, stepping toward the door. “That’s time. So long, Goof.”
And then he just—
Walks out.
Like he didn’t just have me unraveling in a closet.
Like he didn’t just swallow me whole.
Like I wasn’t seconds away from losing my mind again.
I stand there for a moment in stunned silence before shoving the door open and pushing past him into the hallway. People are hooting, laughing, asking questions.
I ignore all of it.
I push through the living room, past PJ and Bobby shouting my name.
Out the front door.
Cold air hits my face and I suck in a sharp breath.
I’m pissed.
That smug, infuriating, perfectly groomed—
But fuck.
If I see him again tonight, I might drag him into the nearest empty room and prove I can last longer than two minutes.
What the hell am I thinking?
Bad, Goof.
Very bad.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and start the walk back to the dorms, brooding the entire way — trying desperately not to replay the way he looked up at me from his knees.
Trying.
And failing.