Chapter 21
BECK
I don’t know who this douchebag is, but I’m glad I’m the one paired with him instead of Brody.
There was something about the tension in his shoulders the moment he looked over and saw this guy palling around with Pierce Jamison that concerned me.
I know he doesn’t like Pierce, and for good fucking reason, so this guy probably deserves the beatdown I’m giving him so far this match.
The start of the third period was an aggressive grapple, but we’ve found ourselves on our feet. I’m locked in, confident and controlled, knowing that I only need to keep him from closing the gap in points to take this as my third win for today.
My opponent flicks his eyes up over my shoulder.
I take advantage of his momentary distraction and get him in a near-fall, but he recovers before I can get him down.
He’s pissed that he can’t get control of me, and despite being a decent opponent because I haven’t been able to pin him down yet, I’m running this match.
Gregg leans in. I’m anticipating the shit talk. This is how it always happens. They have to lean in close enough so the refs and coaches can’t hear it, but that’s not what he does. This bastard pitches his voice loud enough to be heard.
“So, Beckett,” Gregg says, mouth curling in a cruel smirk. “I heard you’re Miller’s new butt buddy. Which one of you bends over and takes it. I bet it’s you. You look like you’d spread real easy for him.”
For a moment, the gym falls into a strange hush. A breath of silence long enough for everyone nearby to register what he said. There are some gasps. A few choked laughs.
The loudest sound, though, is a buzzing that starts in the back of my head and gets louder until I can’t hear anything else. I freeze.
In slow motion, I stumble back and lose my footing.
Gregg doesn’t come after me to take advantage because the ref steps between us immediately.
There’s a whistle, I think, but it’s muffled.
He signals, and with one hand in the middle of Gregg’s chest, gestures to the Davidson coach.
The Davidson coach steps forward to grab Gregg by the arm, but movement to my left has me turning towards the bench.
My teammates look pissed, their mouths open and yelling something, or shaking their heads, but my attention is directed behind them.
At my father.
My father, who stands up, locks his eyes on me long enough to show his disappointment. No, his disgust.
Coach McCoy takes my arm and directs me off the mats, his face red as his booming voice yells something at Gregg and the Davidson coach. A few of my teammates come forward. Brody comes forward.
I back away and shrug everyone off, lifting my chin.
I’m fine. That guy was an idiot. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine.
I’m fine.
The team buys it. Coach McCoy buys it. I don’t look at Brody at all.
I chance a glance up at my father again, but he’s not there. My head swivels, and I see him halfway to the front door.
He didn’t buy it.