Chapter Twelve
Rygaard
The Friday night lights blaze across the field as we brace ourselves for another brutal quarter. We’re getting our asses handed to us, and none of us can fucking believe it.
“What the fuck is going on out there, guys?” Coach Wilson shouts, red-faced and furious. “Get your heads in the fucking game or you’re gonna blow this!”
Yeah, great pep talk, Coach. Real motivational shit.
The guys are tense, hungry, and ready to swing back hard.
So am I.
But I can’t shake the knot in my chest. I haven’t seen Presley all day, and it’s fucking killing me. I sat out the first half because I absolutely couldn’t play without her.
She’s probably running late, dance class, most likely, but still, not seeing her before the game? It throws me off. I need her. It’s been a tradition since I started playing football, every game day, she presses her lips to my temple and whispers, “Go get ‘em, tiger,” and I always answer the same.
“For you, I will.”
But tonight, nothing. No kiss. No words. No charm. Just silence and this gnawing hole in my chest.
Coach wasn’t happy with my decision, but it’s something he just had to deal with.
I find myself pacing the sidelines, biting my nails, something I’ve never done in my life. It’s disgusting. But it’s like my nerves are clawing their way out of me.
Then, the air shifts around me.
My head snaps up.
“She’s here,” I whisper to myself, eyes scanning the crowd.
There she is.
Presley and her gang, laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. Ethan wasn’t wrong. She looks good enough to fucking eat, plaid mini skirt, white knee-high socks, black shoes. Suddenly I forget how to stand.
Her hair’s in pigtails with white bows. Fucking bows. And that face, bare, beautiful, and all hers. She doesn’t need makeup. Never has.
“Whoa, Presley and the crew showed out tonight,” Ethan calls from the bench. “Wiley, looks like you and your girl made up!” Ethan calls Wiley’s name, causing me to follow his voice.
I look at Wiley, wearing the same goofy-ass grin I wear when I think about Presley, and that’s when I see it.
She’s wearing his jersey.
Wiley’s. Not mine.
I see red.
“Yo, Ry, where are you going? Second half’s about to start!” Rafe calls out behind me, but I don’t answer.
I’m already climbing the railing, rage in every step as I storm through the bleachers, not caring who I shove aside.
Presley sees me. Her smile falters.
Good.
She should be scared.
I stop right in front of her, chest heaving. She smiles up at me, sweet, soft. But I don’t smile back.
“Care to explain what the fuck you have on, Presley?”
Her eyes scan my face like she’s trying to read the storm behind it. “Ry, what do you mean?”
I step closer, voice dropping. “Wiley’s jersey. Presley. Why the fuck do you have it on?”
Her bottom lip trembles, classic Presley. Trying to guilt me out of being mad.
“Nice try, Prez. That won’t work this time.” I grab her arm and pull her away from the crowd, away from her brother, from everyone.
“Rygaard, let me go!” she squeals, but I can hear the giggle in her voice.
She thinks this is funny?
“Is something about this amusing to you?” I snap. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Do you get off on pushing my buttons? On seeing how far you can go before I snap? Because guess what, baby, you woke the wolf. Is that what you want? You like it when I get like this?”
I push her gently in front of me as we reach the locker room door.
“You like pissing me off because you know the reward will be twice as sweet, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer. So I grab her face and kiss her, hard. Like she belongs to me.
Because she does.
She moans into my mouth, and fuck, it goes straight to my dick.
“My Little Hellion, do you know what it does to me, seeing his jersey on you ?” My hands trace down her back to her ass. “Take it off. Before I do it for you.”
She shoves me back with a laugh, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Does it hurt, Ry? Does it make you mad that I wore another guy’s jersey?” She steps closer. “He said some nasty shit to me, and then he apologized. As a peace offering, he gave me his lucky jersey, to ‘help me let it out.’”
“What?” I blink, trying to keep up.
She smiles like she’s won. “It’s the one that supposedly helps you idiots win all your games. I didn’t even want it, but he insisted.”
She lifts the jersey off in one smooth motion and tosses it at my feet.
“I don’t give a fuck what he said,” I growl. “Don’t ever put something on your body that doesn’t have my name attached to it. Got it?”
My chest is tight, blood pounding in my ears. Presley steps between my legs and gently pulls my hands away from my face.
“Rygaard?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She kisses my knuckles.
“As you should be.” I murmur, grabbing her chin and pulling her into another kiss. “Do you know who you belong to, Presley?”
She smirks. “My mom and Dad.”
“Don’t be cute.” I lick her bottom lip. “Who. Do. You. Belong. To?”
Her arms wrap around my neck, eyes locked on mine. “I’m yours, Rygaard Garrison. All yours.”
She kisses me again, stealing what’s left of my sanity.
“You weren’t there before the game,” I whisper. “You weren’t there…”
“I know, baby,” she says, cradling my head as I sink to my knees, arms locked around her waist. “But I’m here now.”
She strokes my hair, and the fire inside me begins to fade.
“I need you like I need every breath I take,” I confess.
She goes still.
“Don’t think I didn’t see those giggles though. You like waking the wolf.”
She lifts my chin until I meet her eyes. “Maybe. But you’re still on your knees, Rygaard. For me. Do you know what that tells me?”
I look away, and she smiles.
“It tells me you fucking like it, silly boy.” Then she kisses me again, slow and soft, like she owns me.
Maybe she does.
“Don’t get cocky, Presley.”
“Me, cocky?” she grins. “Never.”
We stare at each other for a moment.
“Good luck,” she whispers, pressing her lips to my temple. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
“For you, Presley, I will.”
She starts to walk off.
“I’ll see you at the afterparty,” she calls over her shoulder.
“What the hell do you have on?”
She glances back with a smirk. “Well… my brother made me take off a friend’s jersey. So now I’m just wearing what I had underneath.”
Tight halter top, plaid mini skirt, and white knee-high socks. “Fuck me,” I mutter, rising to my feet.
Time to win this damn game.