The idea hit Alex like a shot of cheap tequila—sharp, sudden, and buzzy with potential. *Football game.* He imagined the roar of the crowd, hot bodies pressed together in the stands, the musky cocktail of sweat and spilled beer. A goddamn buffet of adrenaline. He could teleport right onto the fifty-yard line, bare-assed and microscopic, dodging cleats like some horny little gremlin playing the world’s most dangerous game of tag.
Then—*frat house.* Oh, fuck yes. The sticky floors, the bass thumping through the walls, the way people *touched* when they were drunk—no inhibitions, just hands and mouths and laughter. He could climb some jock’s thigh like a vine, watching the party from knee-height, unseen but *feeling* everything—the heat, the vibrations, the way someone’s fingers might graze his tiny body by accident and—
*Concert.* Strobes, sweat-slick skin, a sea of hips grinding to the beat. He’d ride in someone’s back pocket, pressed against denim and thigh, smelling salt and perfume and the electric charge of bodies too close. Maybe crawl out mid-song, scale a stranger’s arm, and—
*Hockey arena.* Cold air biting his skin, the brutal grace of players slamming into the boards. He could teleport onto the ice, a speck in the chaos, watching muscles flex under jerseys, feeling the *thud* of every hit through the frozen floor.
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