Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
KERIAN
I usually love away games, so I’m not going to admit why I would rather be back at my apartment instead of lying stretched out on a hotel room bed listening to Easton snoring beside me. I hate sharing rooms. I hate having to be around people.
And I hate that the glow of my phone in my hand is like a beacon to the bullshit that’s running through my head.
I’m looking at Zander’s name on the screen, at the texts we’ve been exchanging over the days while we’ve both been too busy with practice and games for me to fuck his brains out again.
My thumb idly flips the words up—it’s a lot of words.
It’s an entire paragraph of him complaining about an essay he had to write, because he thinks the professor is intentionally trying to fail half the class.
It’s Zander, sending me a picture of his breakfast, and telling me that if I keep eating pizza I’m going to get fat while he goes straight to the NFL.
It’s Zander, sending me a fucking selfie of a broad white smile and his tongue sticking out.
My eyes linger on the picture a little too long for comfort, and I let out a frustrated sound even as I punch in a text response.
Me: You look fucking ridiculous.
I stare at the message for a second and then backspace it.
Me: I can think of better ways for you to use tha-
I’m backspacing the message before I even finish it this time, and with a low grunt of irritation, I lift my phone into the air and yank the cover down, throwing my arm over my head so I can snap a picture of me looking exhausted and irritated.
That’s about right.
I send it to him and throw my phone onto the floor beside the bed before I do something absolutely ridiculous, like call him.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—every time I meet up with him, I tell myself it’ll be the last time. I’m used to running through people and getting over it, getting over them . I’m used to fucking and not caring.
But Zander is still there . His stupid fucking smile is still bright, and his body is still tight and warm.
Just the thought of it is enough to get my cock hard beneath the covers, and I let out a frustrated sound and press my palm against it beneath the covers. Unlike Braithe, I’m not going to get off while a teammate can hear me. The last thing I need is someone like Easton deciding he wants to jump on my dick. He’s always been jealous of my talent, and he hasn’t even tried to keep it secret. I don’t need his hate for me turning into some fucked-up, unrequited crush.
My jaw tightens at the sound of the phone buzzing on the floor beside me, and my hands clench into fists.
I’m not going to pick it up.
What I’m going to do is roll over and fucking sleep. I played an immaculate game earlier, and I’m not going to consider that I might have pushed even harder because someone texted me to tell me they would be watching.
I don’t play for anyone else.
I do the things I do for myself. It’s always been that way. I’ve never given a shit what anyone else thought or felt, and it’s served me just fine my entire life.
Fuck Zander.
Absolutely fuck Zander Braithe and the way he’s making me take even two seconds to consider caring about what someone else thinks.
Apparently that’s not enough to stop me from leaning over the edge of the bed so I can flip my phone over.
Dimples: Fuck ur hot. I miss u
Dimples: And by u I totally mean ur dick
Fuck him.
* * *
“Up, up, up,” Easton chants over and over in a singsong voice, and I half wonder if he’d still be able to say it if I knock his teeth out. With a grunt, I push the barbell up. I clear four more reps while he pretends to cheer me on in a taunting voice. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s obvious he’s trying to get under my skin.
“One more set,” he says when I set the barbell back in the saddle.
“I can fucking count, Easton.” Coach told us five sets of ten on the pull-up bars, bench press, rowing machine and overhead arm presses. I thought weightlifting would at least give me a chance to relax for a bit, but apparently not .
Easton blows me a kiss, walking around to finish his set. The asshole doesn’t bother to change out the weights, even though I noticed his arms shaking the last time he was lifting.
I smirk, leaning against the bench as he settles down. He tests the bar and I arch one brow smugly as he sits up and pulls twenty pounds off each side.
“What’s wrong, Easton? Too much for you?”
I can see the anger flare in his eyes, but it doesn’t bring the satisfaction it usually would. Even when his muscles are still shaking slightly as he does his reps and I fantasize about how fun it would be to drop the bar on his chest, I’m still irritated somewhere in the back of my mind.
And I know why.
Of course I know why.
With a mighty heave and his back bowed off the bench, Easton pushes the barbell up to the saddle. I let it hang there for a few seconds, watching his face turn red as he begs me with his eyes to help him. It would be so easy to just let him break himself… but…
That would probably get me into trouble, wouldn’t it?
I set the barbell down with ease. It’s Easton’s fault for wanting to lift with me. Usually, I lift with the bigger defensive linemen, since they’re the only ones who can keep up, but for some reason, Easton has something to prove. He’s learning his fucking lesson now.
And honestly, that should be enough to satisfy me. Instead, I space out, because my mind is still caught up on my fucking cellphone tucked away in the lockers and the fact that I know Zander Braithe texted me something before I threw it in there.
I didn’t look.
And not looking has me feeling… off.
It’s obnoxious.
Fuck, it’s obnoxious, and it’s worse because I know that Easton is seeing it.
“You seem distracted, Slade. Whatever fucking pussy you’re buried in, you should knock it off. I’m not losing my shot at going pro because of you.”
Whatever pussy I’m buried in. Right. I’ve never tried to hide the fact that I fuck whenever and whoever I want… but assholes like Easton are always fixated on it being a girl, on tits and legs and ass.
God, fuck this.
“Fuck you, Easton. I’m playing just fine. It’s not my fucking fault you can’t do your job for shit. Stop looking to the stands for scouts and start playing like you know what you’re doing.”
Even as he puffs up in anger, there’s a bit of fear in his eyes. I can see it, the way he knows he’s playing with fire. He wouldn’t be saying shit if we were somewhere alone.
“You think you’re hot shit, Slade, but you aren’t. What are you going to do when you don’t go anywhere after college? What are you going to do when the world realizes you’re full of shit and not half as good as you think you are?”
I drop the bar back in the saddle, not needing his help as a spotter, and walk away from him to get on the treadmill. I can feel him glaring at my back because I stopped his pump, but fuck him.
“Give it a few years, Easton. We’ll see who is in the NFL and who is flipping burgers. Hint.” I throw a middle finger up over my shoulder. “You’ll probably fucking suck at that too.”
I hear the low growl of irritation pool from his chest a second before he speaks again.
“One of these days someone is going to knock you off the pedestal you put yourself on, Slade. I just hope I’m close enough that I can fucking kick you while you’re down.”
I see red, and I actually turn and start toward him—but I notice the moment of satisfaction that surges into his gaze, and it’s enough to draw me up short.
We aren’t alone. I have to remind myself again. We’re surrounded by the team, and the shit-eating grin on his face tells me he wants me to slip while we’re in public, where he can fuck me over for losing my temper.
I don’t like that Easton apparently sees past the calm, ambivalent mask I wear, to realize I have anger issues beneath it.
I like it even less that he has no idea what he’s actually provoking when he flips me off before turning to do his next set. He doesn’t understand that I wouldn’t just hit him. I wouldn’t just throw a punch that he could recover from.
I think back to the motherfucker I went after for touching Zander—I haven’t heard shit about him, so I was right in assuming he wasn’t going to report the assault.
If Easton keeps pushing me, I’ll make what I did to that asshole look like child’s play in comparison.
He’s still grinning like an asshole when we finally finish for the day, and I’m itching to get the fuck away from him before I completely lose it. I’m usually better at controlling my anger than this, and I know what’s different.
I haven’t seen Braithe in over a week.
Not seeing someone shouldn’t put me on the edge of losing the cool exterior I’ve cultivated my entire life and worn like a mask so people don’t see how empty I am underneath, but here I am.
It doesn’t help that he pulls out his phone before he even gets into the shower, leaning his sweaty ass against the wall while he has a full-on conversation with someone about meeting up after classes tonight.
As tempted as I am to take Easton’s damn phone and use it to break his nose, I know better. It’s worse because there’s at least a little truth to what he was saying—I am distracted. I’ve been distracted.
And it’s time for me to finally prove to myself once and for all that I don’t need shit from anyone else, especially Zander Braithe.