Scoring the Player (Chasing Rings #2)

Prologue Arnaz

FIVE SEASONS AGO

“Wild Woods”

What wounded souls monsters make.

P op!

Pop!

Pop!

Welts from my rubber band thicken against my wrist.

“What’s the matter? Coach won’t let you play?”

I level my middle finger at him , Dallas’ power forward. Salem. Jones.

“Cade,” Coach warns.

I ignore him, so he redirects the warning. “Move along, Jones. Can we get through one game without you riling him up?”

Pop!

Pop!

“But it hurts to watch,” he continues. “It’s too sad. Why is he—yo, how are you sweating from sitting there?”

My finger levitates again, but our center steals his attention, cutting through their defense.

“Be right back,” he tosses my way, as if he’s earned a single fuck.

“Remember why you’re sitting there,” Coach reprimands, gaze tracking Jones, whose thick calves flex as he sprints away.

My jaw tightens, and I almost sail my finger Coach’s way.

Our center continues a fast break up the middle lane, lobs the ball toward the backboard, and sets up to catch the rebound. The shot would be smooth, except Asshole Jones plucks it out of the air and then launches it downcourt to the opposing point guard, who hammers it in.

The crowd’s roar vibrates under my feet as he races backward, arms outstretched, fingers curled, demanding more, and the sucker crowd answers, their bass drumming up my thighs.

Chin sinking into my jersey, my back slumps against the chair.

This score is an embarrassment.

Coach sticking me on the bench is an embarrassment.

Not to mention this fucker…There’s something about him. Something that makes me want to smash my head into his face until I’m numb.

On the next possession, he dominates our power forward. Too damn slow to get around Jones, he passes the ball to Dickhead Andrews, our reserve shooting guard, who executes sloppy footwork with the confidence of an All-Star and fires a fucking air ball.

I groan.

How’s Coach still punishing me for clocking him two weeks ago? Look at him. Dickhead had it coming.

Except now he has my starting spot.

“Coach.” Jones returns. “Put him in the game. I’ll pay you.” He pats his chest and non-existent pockets, then shouts to the scorer’s table, “Yo, Oldhead, let me borrow a twenty.”

Coach ignores him and barks at our power forward to cover the wing.

“C’mon, Coach. He looks like cheese that’s been out too long.”

“What’ya call me?”

“Cade.”

“Not Cade ,” I mock Coach. “ Jones . All Jones .”

“What’s wrong with him?” Asshole asks. “His jumper broke?”

My jump shot ? “Fuck you. Go find out why your point guard’s aiming for a triple zero.”

“Enough,” Coach warns me.

“And you.” I glare at him. “In case you missed it, that was Andrews’s third air ball. You might want to, I don’t know, give a damn about our twenty-point deficit and eight-game losing streak and put me in the game.”

Coach stiffens, eyes shifting to icy slits.

The air stills like my bench mates and our assistant coaches—even the two randos at the end—are clenching their cheeks.

I shrug. Where’s the lie?

“Mm-mm-mm.” Asshole palms his chest. “Famous daddy ain’t teach him manners.”

“Fuck you say?” I fly out of my seat. “Say it again,” I grit out, squaring up.

Black orbs swallow brown, except there at the edges, cutting like lightning, a bloodthirsty glint.

A serpent slithers awake in my belly, forked tongue tasting the air.

Oh, how we feast when we’re mistaken for prey.

The bow of his top lip puckers.

A low-bellied hiss tempts me to sink my teeth in. Or latch on to his gold nose ring.

“Huh.” His head tilts as his gaze trails down my body. “Thought we had a mouse in the house.”

“Say. It. Again,” I grit out, ignoring the weak jab. At six-foot-six, he only has two or three inches on me, max.

“Jones, knock it off,” his coach yells from their side of the court.

“He ain’t wrong,” Asshole throws over my shoulder. “Andrews couldn’t cop a bucket if you bought it for him.”

“Nah.” I close in. “ I can say that shit. You can’t.”

“Just sayin’”—he steps back, raising his hands—“he ain’t no sixth man.”

I start to turn away...

“Forgive him, Coach,” the fucker taunts. “Silver spoons scratch easily.”

…but Christmas comes early this year.

He bobs to evade my first swing and the second. I fake a left hook, and my right crashes into his jaw. His head snaps quickly, then slowly, like it’ll keep turning—until it skids to a stop.

A dark rumble, too skin-dancing to call a chuckle, crawls out of his lips.

My back uncoils, each vertebra a revolving bullet in a chamber.

Steep-sloped traps draw up and then sink down his back like steel being sheathed.

The flex of his biceps pulls the cords beneath his skin.

My heart rate drops to a slow thump as power surges between us.

An ancient god of chaos curves time and locks us in a room, just me and him.

Famished and unbound by the rules of civilized society, it only accepts offerings of blood in exchange for the sweet release you can’t chase in a pill… or the tight heat of a man.

His eyes ignite, signaling he hears it too—the distant clank of a bell.

The sky opens, and he rushes me.

I thrust my elbow toward his jaw, but he ducks, throwing me off balance.

I’m yanked by my jersey.

Hard.

His head cocks up, then hammers into my face.

The floor arches its back, and a sweet crunch blares as the blinding burn of an ice pick twisted up my nose hits.

The chaos god accepts my offering. A rush of weightlessness lifts me from my body as iron and salt flood my mouth, and I’m freed of the knot jammed in the center of my chest.

The snap of a thousand rubber bands could never come close to the high of each metallic swallow.

“Get off,” I slur as I’m ejected into a sea of moving lips from the wasted breaths of teammates and security guards pleading with me not to be me.

“Move!” I growl, pushing them away. I’d rip through this entire stadium for another taste.

Lasering the swarm of bodies and identical jerseys, I find him .

Forehead creased, eyes and lips turned down. Is that regret I see?

“Look at me!” My voice surges, meeting its mark.

The skittering under my skin increases as he steps back.

Don’t you fucking dare…

More arms around me. More pointless stabs at getting me to stop.

“Get off of me!” I rip free and turn toward the bench.

If that ref blows his fucking whistle any harder, his head’s gonna pop off.

My steps falter as my gaze clashes with crossed arms, rigid shoulders, and a sneer…

Coach, don’t you see? Your disappointment is my pride.

They’re telling me I’m ejected from the game.

Cool.

I lift my chin, and with a flash of my bloody grin— Come and get me!

— I pivot mid-stride and crack through the guards on my six, except one grabs my arm, another grabs my jersey.

Neither got the stamina to hold me. Charging my muscles, I barrel forward, dragging them, ducking and spinning off teammates.

Where is he?

I wrench my arm free, bolting away from Dipshit Guard One.

Zigzag.

Skrrrrt!

I lose Dipshit Guard Two.

Bingo.

He’s staring right at me. Stoic, like his stillness is orchestrating the chaos.

You showed me your beast…time to play with mine.

I tense my muscles and blow toward the fucker like a battering ram, only he dodges left, sending me sailing through the air.

Shit.

My feet lift off the ground.

Holy shit.

Heart punching through my ribcage, wind smothering my face, I tuck in, curling my spine, and brace for a wipeout.

My back thuds against a floor of muscle.

“Hey, Blue.”

“Fuck off”—my elbows crash against his ribs—“me.”

Why’s he always calling me Blue?

He winces, coughing up air. My elbow slices through the air again, the fire in my belly craving the crunch of bone, when a hand wraps around my leg and yanks me down Asshole’s body.

I kick hard, jamming my foot in the air until I’m freed of the guard.

I flip to my knees, bear crawl up the fucker, and launch blow after blow, rage growing as each fist meets his elbowed shield.

A movement of rushing bodies at the edge of my vision distracts me for a split second, and a sharp ache in my obliques buckles me over.

“Shh, that was just a tap,” he soothes, rubbing the spot.

My hand wraps around his throat and squeezes, brightening the fucking glint in the fucker’s eyes.

We’re ripped apart.

He’s barely contained, yet an army of guards circles me.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his throat. “At least I got you off?—”

My stomach bottoms out.

“—the bench. You’re welcome.”

“You got a death wish?” I growl, fighting to get free.

He smirks. “If you’re doing the killing…”

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

He turns toward the tunnel, palms clasped, offering amends to the crowd. And they eat it up, rooting for him and screaming, “Refs, you suck!”

He spins to face me. The distance between us not enough to hide the hollows of his dimples. “I wish I could, Blue, but I can’t.”