Kissed By the Bully (Off the Pitch #1)

CHAPTER 1. A PUNCH TO THE GUT

Saying I hate Sawyer Moon is like calling a knife to the eyeball mildly irritating. Just seeing him makes my blood boil. Which is why him kissing me in the Dallas Dragons’ locker room turns my entire world fucking upside down—in the worst way imaginable.

But before we get to that, let me explain.

I didn’t start hating Moon out of nowhere.

It’s been years in the making. Years of taunting on the soccer field—of him bullying me, calling me every name in the book, including but not limited to ballerina, bench princess, benchwarmer, buttercup, Cinderella (yeah, because she runs from the ball), mascot, prima (short for prima ballerina), waterboy, and every generic insult you can hurl at a gay guy in cleats: princess, cupcake, sweetheart, pretty boy, drama queen, sugarplum, Barbie, flower boy—the list goes on.

And not in the sexy, I’m-flirting-with-you kind of way. In the I’ll-humiliate-you-using-every-effeminate-word-I-can-think-of-and-make-sure-both-our-teams-hear-it kind of way.

I don’t even know what the guy’s deal is. I mean, I look more masculine than he does, so I’m guessing he’s either overcompensating or just plain homophobic. Probably both. Normally I’d ignore him—like I always do—but tonight, he crosses a line.

It’s the quarterfinals. The stadium’s packed. The tension’s thick enough to choke on. Moon’s the Dragons’ star forward. I’m the Centaurs’ captain and starting center back. So I stay glued to him—cutting off every angle, shutting down every run, every attempt to break into our half.

He fucking hates it.

Hates that I’m faster today. Hates that I’m not giving him an inch—not to breathe, let alone to score. There’s fifteen minutes left on the clock, and they’re down by one. Desperate now. Pushing hard, throwing everything into offense.

I brush past him during a corner. Nothing dirty. Just enough contact to throw him off his rhythm. He still gets a touch on the ball—just not enough. It slips past his foot and rolls out behind the line. He mutters through clenched teeth, pissed:

“You here to rub up on me like a fucking dog in heat or what?”

I don’t respond. Just keep my eyes on the ball.

Next play, he blows it again. He’s driving hard down the sideline, but I’m right there with him—shoulder to shoulder, pushing just enough. He takes the shot anyway, off balance, and I block it clean with my thigh before launching it back upfield.

That’s when he snaps.

Spins around and gets in my face, his delicate features twisted in fury. He’s objectively beautiful—I’ll give him that—but with all that hate packed behind his expression, he looks like some furious angel: blond hair pulled into a sloppy bun, plump lips trembling with rage, blue eyes burning.

“What, you get off on this?” he shouts, shoving me hard in the chest with both hands. “Just another limp-wristed fag who needs an excuse to touch me?”

It’s that word.

That fucking word.

It hits like a switch flipping in my brain—snapping something I didn’t even realize was wound that tight. Suddenly I’m back in high school, bleeding from my nose, my mouth, my knees—surrounded by fists and slurs and the same fucking word again and again.

I thought I was past this. Thought I’d built armor thick enough that nothing anyone said could cut through.

But that word.

That one still gets in.

I don’t think. I just shove him back like he weighs nothing and spit, “Shut your mouth, you fucking closet case.”

Yeah, I know—replying to a homophobic slur with another homophobic slur isn’t exactly my proudest moment.

But it just comes out. I’m angry, okay? And it’s not like Moon’s gay or anything.

He’s just ridiculously touchy about his masculinity, which is ironic, considering he’s been throwing shit at me since we met—stuff that always walked the line.

To be fair, this was the first time he actually crossed that line. But still—him dropping the f-word threw me. Up until now, he’s kept it just subtle enough to pretend it’s all locker-room banter.

He stumbles—then drops. Lands on his ass, hands braced behind him. It wasn’t that hard of a shove, but he just sits there, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting that.

For a second, neither of us moves. The stadium holds its breath. Every head turns. Every camera locks on.

Then he’s back on his feet, jaw tight, and lunges at me.

Has to, really—he’s wiry, all speed and rage—and a second later we’re both on the ground. He’s on top of me, elbow pressed to my throat, cutting off my air. His face is inches from mine, eyes burning.

My back’s in the grass, lungs straining. I twist, cough, and buck him off.

He scrambles to his feet again, breathing hard, teeth bared. I stand too, ready to punch him if he tries anything else, my lungs burning from just getting the oxygen back.

Our teammates are already on us, trying to haul us apart. The ref’s shouting. The crowd’s screaming. Benches clear. Coaches yell. It’s chaos now. And it’s all our fault.

Sawyer’s still glaring at me, chest heaving, eyes wild—like I just said the worst thing imaginable. Like me calling him a closet case hit some nerve I wasn’t supposed to touch.

Which—okay, really? That bothered him that much?

Yeah, I get it—he’s got that soft, pretty face. Big eyes, full lips, long blond hair tied in a bun. The kind of features people love to call feminine. Maybe that’s why the rest of him is all wiry muscle—like his body’s trying to overcompensate.

The fans eat it up though. He’s their golden prince—flawless, untouchable. His team worships the ground he walks on. Modeling agencies line up to put him in multimillion-dollar underwear campaigns. Even his rivals know better than to start shit.

So why the hell is he looking at me like I just crossed a line you don’t come back from?

I mean, I played the game. He overreacted. He’s the one who threw the slur and shoved me first. So what the hell is he so pissed about now?

The next part’s what I hate most—because the ref’s holding up a red card. For me.

The stadium erupts. It’s the quarterfinals. I’m the captain. This’ll mess with the whole team—and even if we win today, a red card means I’m out for the next match.

Disappointment hits hard in my chest as my teammates swarm the ref, shouting that it’s unfair. But he doesn’t even look at them. Doesn’t look at me. And I don’t bother arguing—because I know it won’t change a thing.

The Dragons are still circled around Moon, acting concerned, like they care. They’re not gloating about my red card—probably only because they’re afraid their golden boy might get one too—and he does.

As soon as the ref finishes writing my name, he turns and flashes the red at Moon.

I won’t lie—there’s a second where it feels good. Just a flicker of satisfaction. It doesn’t last, obviously. I’m still out. But at least Moon’s off the field too.

The stadium erupts again. The Dragons go wild, crowding the ref, shouting things I can’t even make out.

Derek Hill—my alternate—and Sam Styles, the Dragons’ captain—both try to push the teams back, to talk to the ref, but it’s chaos. Everyone’s lost it.

“You okay, Mark?”

That’s Eric Tolmachyov—our left winger and my best friend—frowning at me. I can see how upset he is. But he’s not going to blame me. He knows Moon’s the one who always starts shit. Especially with me.

“I’m fine,” I nod.

“I heard what he called you,” says Joe, our right back, from the other side. “He started it. He’s the only one who should’ve gotten a card.”

"Thanks, guys," I mutter, guilt already creeping up my spine.

I should’ve let Moon shout whatever the fuck he wanted and walked away. It doesn’t matter what he said. Doesn’t matter that he shoved me first. I’m the captain. I’m supposed to keep my head, play smart, set the example. Instead, I lost it—and now it might cost my team a spot in the semi-finals.

And yeah, I’m taller. Broader. From the sidelines, it probably looked like I snapped at a harmless shove—like I kicked a puppy for blinking at me wrong. I was provoked, sure, but I doubt anyone heard what he said. And it doesn’t change the fact that I fucked up.

The game has to go on, so they pull us both off the field.

I don’t look at Moon as we walk off, keeping distance between us, but I can feel every camera tracking us, every eye in the stadium locked on.

The crowd’s still roaring—somewhere between outrage and bloodlust. I hear the whir of lenses, flashes popping at the edge of my vision. I keep my head down, jaw clenched.

Coach Skinner meets me at the edge of the pitch, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t have to say anything—the look on his face says it all. He’s already working out how to get through the next match without me.

“What the hell happened out there, Woods?” he asks, his voice barely holding back his anger. No—not anger. Disappointment. And somehow, that’s even worse.

I don’t answer—just shrug, eyes on the grass, throat tight, tears stinging. I walk past him. He calls my name, but I don’t look back—I can’t do this right now. There’s no excuse I could give that wouldn’t sound like some seven-year-old trying to explain why they got into a fight.

Coach is a good guy, but I don’t have it in me to admit I screwed up, let alone ask for forgiveness. Not now.

So I head straight for the locker rooms. I need to hit something—hard—and I don’t want anyone watching.

When the locker room door finally slams shut behind me, the sound echoing through the tunnels, I let out a breath and sink to the floor. Silence folds around me—but the shame stays. Heavy, like a stone in my gut.

The sweaty jersey clings to me, prickling my skin.

Suddenly I’m so overstimulated by the feel of it that I yank it off and fling it across the room.

Then I rip off the undershirt too because even that feels wrong.

I should shower, but the anger only grows, so I get up and look for something to hit. It usually helps. Don’t judge me.