Chapter 3
Noah
The last thing I want is a house full of drunk uni students.
Bass pumps through the speakers, and I grip the rim of my beer bottle as I tip my head back and chug the contents.
I toss the empty in the bin a little too hard, cringing at the sound of shattering glass, but that doesn’t stop me from snatching another one from the fridge.
I can’t stop thinking about the phone call this morning from my dad dissecting yesterday’s game.
With the rivalry between Beckford and BHU, our game was streamed online, and let’s just say Carl Bentley doesn’t let it go unsaid when his son fucks up.
My foul mood worsens when Zac Kincaid steps through the front door, a cocky grin on his face as he rakes a hand through his perfect blond strands and nods a greeting to a few people.
Fucking arsehole had gloves like a sieve last night.
I wouldn’t have copped an earful if he’d saved Sinclair’s cheap shot.
It’s not my fault the ball came off my foot wrong; he should have stopped it.
I watch as he strolls through the place like he owns it, greeting girls and guys with his easy grin and friendly charm. He’s such a fake it makes me sick. No one is that easy-going all the time.
His hair flops in an annoyingly perfect way over his forehead, and he brushes it back as he leans in to greet a pretty brunette with a kiss on the cheek. Like he’s fooling anyone with his act. Everyone here knows he gags for dick.
My stomach churns and the walls close in as I recall how my body thrummed to life in the arms of the masked stranger from the club last night.
The heavy press of his lips as his tongue tangled with mine.
How his silky hair felt twisted in my fingers as I fucked his throat.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I try to ignore the way my cock hardens against my jeans. This is wrong. I’m not—
“You all right, man?” My housemate claps me on the shoulder, startling me out of the rising panic attack. “You look like you’re about to upchuck.”
“Huh?” I say, ripping my gaze away from our goalkeeper, who’s laughing with a group of people across the room.
Jasper eyes me like I’m about to vomit on the rug. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, taking a swig of my beer only to realise it’s empty. Holding it up, I motion towards the kitchen. “I need a refill. You want one?”
He shakes his head, holding up his own drink, and I stalk off, trying to ignore the feeling of him watching me. I need to cancel my membership at Euphoria, cut off the temptation. This is not who I am. It was just a lapse of judgement, a phase or some shit.
I head straight for the fridge, freezing when I realise someone got there before me. No, not someone. Fucking Zac Kincaid.
He straightens as I approach, two fruity chick drinks in his hand.
My lips tug into a smirk. Of course he’s drinking that shit. Not manly enough to drink beer.
“Hey,” he says warily, his gaze darting around the room like he’s looking for an escape.
I say nothing, gesturing towards the fridge he’s still standing in front of.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” He moves to the side, and I open it, reaching in to grab another beer.
When I turn around, he’s still standing there.
“Can I help you?” I sneer, twisting the top of my beer and letting the cool liquid soothe my overheated body. Every time I’m around him, I’m on edge. He makes me uncomfortable, and it brings out my snarky side.
“Jeez, Noah,” he snaps back. “What’s your problem?”
I shrug. “You.”
Zac’s eyes widen like he didn’t expect me to admit it. “Fuck you.”
Bile rises up my throat at the thought. “No thanks. You’re not my type.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head, a humourless laugh falling from his lips. “Now I know what this is all about. Does Coach Johnson know he selected a homophobe to be our captain?”
He shoves past me, checking me in the shoulder, and I let him. My heart squeezes, suddenly feeling too big for my chest, and I rub at it, trying to chase away his cutting remark. That’s not who I am. How fucking dare he? He doesn’t know a damn thing about me.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, hating that I feel like shit. This is a damn party. I should be having fun.
What I need is a distraction.
Abandoning my beer, I move off in the opposite direction to Zac, and head down the hallway to the back of the house, where we have a games room set up with a pool table, table tennis, and a PlayStation hooked up to our big screen television.
My other housemate, Dane, shouts at the screen, his fingers punching the buttons on the controller as he locks into an epic battle with a bunch of zombies. The girl sitting on the couch next to him kisses his neck, but he doesn’t give her an ounce of attention.
In the corner, our left back, Alex Ritter, and a new kid on the team, Everett Mathers, are playing beer pong at the table tennis table with two girls I recognise from my Business Ethics class. A few other people are standing around watching.
Perfect.
I saunter over to the blonde girl and drape an arm over her shoulder. I think her name starts with M. Molly or Miranda. Maybe Matilda.
“Ladies,” I say, turning on my charm. “Who’s ready to take on the beer pong master?”
Ritter smirks, shaking his head as he holds his hands up and steps away from the table. “Show us, oh wise one.”
I flip him the bird before pulling Molly or Miranda, whatever her name is, to stand at one end of the table. She shivers when I lean in close, which brings a lopsided smile to my lips. “Don’t make me look bad, babe.”
The first game comes down to the wire, but we pull off the win. Mathers taps out, looking like he’s going to be sick. Ritter pats him on the back as he steps in. He has the advantage of being a little more sober than me, but I’m nothing if not competitive.
“Yes!” Miranda or Matilda shouts when we win, throwing her arms around my neck. I stumble back into the wall, a fair bit more intoxicated than I thought. A few people laugh, but then another couple steps up to the table, and attention shifts from us back to the next game.
“Woah,” I slur, wrapping my arm around her waist to steady her.
She looks up at me through her lashes, a suggestive grin curling her lips, and says, “Do you want to take this party somewhere a little more private?”
I wait for the anticipation to kick in, for my dick to show even the slightest bit of interest, but there’s nothing. She’s gorgeous. Big green eyes, a cute button nose, and don’t even get me started about my love for blondes, but there’s no flutter in my chest, no twitch downstairs.
With a sigh, I reach up and extricate her hands from around my neck. “Listen, Molly—”
Her smile drops and her eyes narrow. “It’s Hannah.”
Oh, shit.
“Right,” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry, Hannah, I’m a little drunk right now, and—”
“Save it,” she snaps, pushing away from me. “I didn’t realise you were such an arsehole, Noah.”
The fact she knows my name and I butchered hers makes me feel even worse, but there’s no fixing this shit now, and to be honest, all I want to do is go hide in my room and forget this whole weekend.
“I really am sorry, Hannah.”
She flips me off, flouncing over to her friend, who has her tongue down Ritter’s throat. Not hanging around to watch her bad-mouth me to everyone, I leave, bypassing the rest of the partygoers and heading straight upstairs.
I push open my bedroom door, cursing when I see my ex-teammate’s white arse staring back at me. “Jesus, Walters,” I snap. “Not my fucking bed.”
“One sec,” Theo grunts out, not even slowing his thrusts despite the audience. “Unless you want to join us?”
I freeze at the suggestive tone in his voice.
Is he fucking serious?
Hell. Fucking. No.
I avert my gaze, staring up at the ceiling. “Get the fuck out of my room. Now.”
A low groan slips from his throat, and I know I’ll never get the sound of him spilling his load inside this poor chick out of my nightmares.
“You’re an arsehole,” I mutter as he slips out of my room with his conquest in tow.
Slamming the door shut behind them, I stalk over to the bed and strip the sheets. Tonight has been an absolute shit-show.
Once I’ve fitted the clean sheets, I drop onto the bed fully clothed and sling an arm over my face.
I need to get a grip on myself before everything spirals out of control.
I need to figure out how to lead this team like Whitford did, and I need to stop letting Kincaid get under my skin.
If I can’t get my shit together, Coach Johnson will take the captaincy off me, and that won’t be a fun conversation with my father.
I worked too damn hard for this opportunity.
I won’t let some arsehole take it away from me.
Why should I care if Kincaid’s into chicks or dudes? It has nothing to do with me. It’s not like I’m interested in him, even if he’s blond and channelling some serious Hollywood hunk vibes. The guy’s a walking, talking cliché who can’t even decide what team he bats for.
Then why the hell is my cock thickening behind my jeans as I remember the angry look in his steel-blue gaze earlier. The way his strong jaw clenched and his plump lips—
No. What the fuck?
I jerk to my feet and pace the length of my room, tearing my hands through my hair.
No, no, no, no.
This is not happening.
I try to picture Hannah’s face, the way she looked at me like she wanted to jump me right there in the middle of beer pong. That’s what I should be concentrating on: wanting to stick my dick in her warm pussy.
But it’s no use.
My mind drifts to the masked stranger on his knees sucking me into his warm mouth, only it’s not a stranger anymore.
It’s my fucking goalkeeper. And when he looks up at me, it reminds me of the flash of pain in Kincaid’s eyes when I threw his sexuality in his face. It was fleeting, but it was there.
What am I doing?
I don’t want to be this person.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, and I stumble across the hall into the bathroom, only just making it before I spill my guts into the toilet bowl, heaving until I have nothing left to throw up.
When my stomach is empty and has stopped churning, I wash my face and brush my teeth, unable to look at my reflection in the mirror.
Instead, my eyes fall on the disposable razor lying on the vanity next to the sink.
After making sure the door’s locked, I unbutton my jeans and sit down on the closed toilet lid, sliding my boxer briefs up to reveal the small scars littering the top of my thighs and groin. As if in a trance, I crack the side off the razor and carefully extract one of the small blades.
Holding it steady between my finger and thumb, I take a deep, shuddering breath before pressing it into my skin.
The familiar sting grounds me as I watch the first drops of blood roll down my leg.
I release the pressure with a hiss, then do it again, slightly lower this time.
I wince each time the blade pierces my skin, but the pain helps clear my head.
After I’m done, I wipe the cuts with antiseptic and patch them up, then I wrap the broken razor in some tissues and hide it in the rubbish bin. My stomach swoops, dizziness sweeping over me as I stumble to my bedroom and collapse on my bed.
When I wake in the morning, all of this is going to be one huge fucking nightmare, and I can forget it ever happened.