CHAPTER 30
MATTY
Ipounded on her door again, three sharp knocks that echoed down the hall like gunshots.
Still nothing.
Doors cracked open down the hall, and a few heads peeked out.
Whispers slithered down the hall.
“That’s Matty Adler…”
“Holy shit.”
“Why’s he banging on Ophelia’s door?”
A girl in fuzzy socks and a robe leaned out from next door, her eyes wide.
I flashed a lazy grin that I hoped looked unthreatening. A hard task with how feral I felt at the moment. Last night had been one of the worst nights of my life, and this morning wasn’t looking up, either.
“Ladies,” I tried to say charmingly. Apparently it wasn’t charming enough, because they all popped back in their rooms like fucking groundhogs at the sound of my voice.
I knocked on the door one more time.
But she didn’t answer.
For a beat I just stood there, palms on the wood, the cold of the metal handle under my fingers. “Where the fuck are you? It’s five a.m.,” I muttered to the door, the words more plea than threat.
Then—like a stupid little beacon in my skull—I remembered the tracker app.
I pulled my phone out, my thumb fumbling over the screen. Of course it took me three taps to get to the right app, because technology was the fucking worst.
I stared at it in disappointment.
There was no blue dot.
Just a grayed-out Last known location: 11:47 p.m.
Her phone wasn’t on. She’d probably forgotten to charge it again.
She hated her phone, never even glanced at it when we were together. She let it die all the time without a second thought. I’d loved that about her, but at the moment, it was not my favorite thing.
I leaned back on the door, debating what to do.
I’d just have to wait inside her room. Which meant I needed to figure out how to get in.
I walked down the hall to the common area and stood in the shadow near the little desk, watching the R.A.
like she was a sleeping animal I didn’t want to spook.
The girl behind the desk looked younger than I expected—hair in a messy bun, hoodie swallowed by the chair.
She startled when I stepped forward, eyes going wide, but not with recognition, just surprise at seeing anyone on the girls’ floor this early in the morning.
Thank fuck. She didn’t seem to know who I was.
I forced an easy smile. “Hey, sorry to bug you. My girlfriend’s downstairs trying to do laundry, and it’s a mess. I think one of the washers exploded or something.”
Her mouth parted. “You can’t be—This is a women’s residence—”
“I know, I know.” I lifted my hands like I was trying to calm her down. “But I think you need to come help—there’s water everywhere. Everything is flooding. It’s already all over the floor, and my girlfriend’s freaking out.”
Her eyes went wide. “Flooding?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly, adding a note of urgency. “Like, bad. I tried to turn one of the washers off, but I think it’s still going. You should probably come take a look before it hits the hallway.”
She glanced down the corridor, chewing her lip. “I—uh—I’m supposed to stay at the desk.”
“It’s five a.m.,” I reminded her. “But seriously, if that water reaches the outlets…” I let the sentence hang, eyebrows raised.
That did it. She scrambled up, grabbing her lanyard and muttering something about maintenance.
“Thanks,” I called after her as she hurried down the hall.
The second she disappeared around the corner, I reached over the desk and snagged the universal keycard from the holder, sliding it into my pocket. Then I headed for Ophelia’s room, heart thudding, already half convinced this counted as an emergency, too.
I slid the card in, and the lock clicked. I was finally in Ophelia’s room for the first time.
The air was faintly sweet, like her perfume lingered in the walls. I shut the door quietly behind me and flicked on the light. My hand brushed along the edge of her desk, over scattered notebooks and something that looked like a ticket stub. Then I turned—and stopped cold.
For a second, I just blinked in shock. My pulse stumbled, my mind trying to catch up with what I was seeing.
Now I understood why Ophelia had never wanted me to meet her here.
One entire wall was me.
A shrine.
Photos ripped from websites, news articles, grainy candids someone had snapped at practice…
dozens of them, pinned in overlapping layers like a collage of obsession.
Some were torn straight down the middle and taped back together, jagged scars running through my face like she’d rescued them from the trash, refusing to let go.
Ticket stubs from every game I’d ever played.
My name was circled in red, over and over, bold and possessive.
Game programs, wristbands, a folded-up roster with my stats highlighted in neon yellow.
My breath caught.
There was the black beanie I’d lost two weeks ago.
The silver chain I’d sworn was in my gym bag.
A hoodie I hadn’t seen in weeks, sleeves folded like it was waiting for me.
And there, tucked in the corner, pinned with a single red pushpin, was the orange hat I’d worn after that press conference at the beginning of the season.
She’d taken them.
My pulse kicked—hard.
She’s been watching me. Collecting me. Stalking me.
Every photo, every stub, every stolen piece…it wasn’t just fandom.
It was devotion.
A secret altar to me.
And the longer I stared, the more the realization sank in:
Ophelia was my stalker.
I should have been disgusted. Should’ve felt my skin crawl, my gut twist with fear. Any sane guy would’ve backed out, called the cops, burned the keycard on the way down the hall.
But I didn’t.
I stepped closer.
My cock stirred, thickening against my thigh.
Fuck.
I yanked open the top drawer of her desk. There was more of me.
A stack of my practice jerseys—folded small, hidden under textbooks. A half-empty bottle of my cologne, the one I wore every game day. A single sock I’d lost after a practice.
My breath came faster, and I opened the next drawer. There were ten spiral notebooks, all labeled in her neat, looping handwriting.
Matty – Vol. 1
Matty – Vol. 2
Up to Vol. 10.
I flipped open Vol. 1 first. The early pages were sweet, her handwriting smaller, careful, like she was whispering secrets to herself.
We’re married in the stadium at sunset. He kisses me in front of sixty thousand people while the band plays our song. I’m Mrs. Adler in white lace, and he lifts me off the turf, spins me once, then carries me down the tunnel like I’m the trophy.
Our first baby’s a boy, Matty Jr., born in the offseason, when the stadiums are quiet and he finally gets to stay home.
The second’s a girl with his eyes, and we name her after his mom.
He teaches them both to throw spirals in the backyard while I watch from the porch, his jersey stretched over my belly, already carrying number three.
I swallowed, throat tight, scanning every word in disbelief. She’s planned our whole damn life.
I turned the page. The fantasies shifted, becoming darker…hungrier.
He kisses me on the fifty-yard line after the championship. Not a peck. A full, filthy claim—tongue in my mouth, hands on my ass, crowd roaring. Then he drags me into the end zone, shoves me against the goalpost, and fucks me while the confetti’s still falling.
We renew vows in the locker room. I’m in his jersey and nothing else. He ties my wrists with his armband, spreads me on the bench, and makes me come so hard I squirt across the team logo.
I groaned, cock throbbing.
I flipped to Vol. 3.
He pins me to the locker room wall after practice, rips my panties, and fucks me raw while the team waits outside, banging on the door, calling his name. He growls “mine” with every thrust, fills me up, then plugs me so I leak him all the way home.
I wear his jersey and nothing else, ride him in the back of his truck, and scream his name until the windows fog. He spanks me red, calls me his good little wife, then flips me over and takes my ass under the stadium lights.
He ties me to his bed and blindfolds me, making me come until I cry—fingers, tongue, cock, toys—over and over. Then he breeds me, whispering how many babies he’s putting in me while I beg for more.
I slammed the notebook shut, breathing hard.
My dick was steel, leaking in my jeans.
I flipped through another. Dates. Times. Locations.
Oct 12 – listened to him shower after a workout. Came twice in the stall next to him.
Nov 3 – stole his hoodie from the dryer. Slept in it for three nights.
I should’ve been horrified. Instead, I was throbbing.
I dropped to my knees and opened the bottom drawer.
There was a lockbox in there, and I popped it open, blinking as I stared inside.
A used condom—mine—from who knows when, tied and labeled in Sharpie: Matty—locker rooms. My eyes widened as I briefly thought about the hookup I’d had one day.
How the fuck had she even gotten that?
A Polaroid of me sleeping, mouth open, sheets low on my hips. I could see her knee in the picture. She’d just taken that one.
A strand of my hair, tied with an orange ribbon.
I laughed, breathless and a little unhinged.
She’s insane.
She’s perfect.
I stood, cock aching, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I wanted to find her. Wanted to drag her back here, bend her over this desk, and fuck her while she stared at her own obsession. Wanted to make every fantasy real.
I was harder than I’d ever been in my life.
My eyes locked on the shrine again, at me, everywhere, every angle, every moment she’d stolen.
The torn photos. The circled stats. The orange hat. My name in red.
I couldn’t wait.
I shoved my sweatpants down just enough, fisting my cock. It was hot and leaking…pulsing in my grip.
One stroke. Two.
The sight of her devotion burned into my brain.
She watches me sleep. She steals my things. She dreams of me breeding her.
I groaned, pumping faster. My thumb smeared precum over the head, hips jerking into my hand. I pictured her on her knees in front of this wall, mouth open, begging.
Pictured her watching me now—knowing.
“Fuck, Ophelia,” I rasped. “You want me this bad?”
I stepped closer and aimed my cock at the shrine.
At the photos.
At the stolen pieces of us.
One final stroke—
I came with a guttural roar, thick ropes of cum spraying across the wall.
Splattering the torn photos.
Dripping down the ticket stubs.
Coating my name that she’d circled and highlighted and starred.
Marking her shrine with me.
I kept stroking through it, milking every drop, smearing it over the orange hat, the beanie, the hoodie sleeve.
My cum glistened on the collage, claiming every inch she’d claimed of me.
I leaned forward, forehead against the cool wall, breath ragged.
She’s mine.
When she walked in…
She’d see.
She’d know.