Chapter 10
Holland
Tensions run high as we take the pitch and Ridgewood’s team follows suit. Some of the guys shoot death glares at each other, and I can already tell this is going to be a rough game.
My blood is already boiling since I saw Lainey talking to some guy at the concession stand. I don’t know who the fucker was, but they sure looked pretty friendly.
Not that you fucking care, Holland. You do not care if she’s talking to a hundred guys.
She can do whatever she wants. She is not your girlfriend, she’s not yours.
So why do I have the urge to go find that prick and punch his lights out for even touching her?
“Holland, dude. What are you doing?”
I hear my fly half, Ryan, ask as he pats me on the back. We’re not close, and I don’t know if I’d even consider us friends, but we’re on the same team and he’s a good enough guy. Shaking my head, I try to get rid of every thought that doesn’t involve this game.
“Nothing, I’m good.”
“Okay, man,”
Ryan says, running toward the rest of the team.
“Let’s fucking do this!”
he shouts.
I shake my head and chuckle softly before heading over to join him.
The crowd is going crazy, a sea of green and red as students and faculty show support for both teams. My eyes scan the people, and then they catch on a familiar head of dark, wavy hair, the top of her head covered in an Ellington U hat. She’s snuggled up next to my sister and Ryker’s girl, Gwen. Ryker stands by Gwen’s side, and their other roommate is jumping up and down with excitement.
“Go number 2!”
Ellie screams as she waves to me. I chuckle lowly and wave back. My sister has always been one of my biggest supporters, even though we get on each other’s nerves more than ninety percent of the time.
My eyes wander back to a pair of greyish blue eyes, and I swear my dick twitches just from the bit of eye contact. Lainey starts to jump up and down with Ellie, cupping her hands around her mouth and screaming, “Go Ellington!”
With that, she looked back to me and without any hesitation and huge grin on her face, she flips me off. It’s so unexpected and so her that I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. I’d flip her off right back, but there are a lot of eyes on me right now, and I don’t want them thinking I’m the asshole.
Instead, I hold up my hands in the shape of a heart in her direction and wink, laughing when she acts like she’s gagging.
“Yo, Monroe. Come on,”
Mason calls for me. Tearing my gaze away from Lainey, I turn around and get into position.
The floodlights burn down on the pitch, casting long shadows across the muddied grass. The air is thick with tension, a mix of sweat, earth, and the unmistakable scent of competition. My eyes lock with Ridgewood’s hooker, Tommy Crawford. He gives me a devilish grin and I reciprocate.
“You sure you’re ready for this, Monroe?”
he asks, his voice cocky as ever.
“I asked your mom the same thing when I fucked her brains out last night, Crawford,”
I say, giving him a wink. The grin falls from his face and he growls.
“You’re fucking dead, Monroe.”
I laugh loudly, and that seems to piss him off even more. God, it’s just too easy.
I run my tongue over my teeth and grin mischievously. I’m sure I look crazy, and that’s what I’m banking on.
“Bring it on, Tommy Boy.”
I adjust my grip on my green Ellington U shorts, rolling my shoulders. As hooker and captain, I’m basically at the heart of every scrum, every battle, every hard-fought inch of territory.
It’s a lot of pressure, but I love it.
Ridgewood has a reputation for playing dirty, and so far, tonight was no exception. Late tackles, high hits, shoving in the ruck. Things are escalating, and fast. I can feel the tension bleeding off of my guys and theirs.
But I’m not rattled. If anything, I’m thriving.
“Stay tight,”
I mutter lowly as me and the guy’s crouch into the scrum. "They want us angry. Don't give them the satisfaction. We can’t let them win because we can’t keep our heads."
Across from us, Ridgewood’s front row sneered, their prop, a hulking figure with a permanent scowl, spitting onto the grass.
“Nice speech, Captain. Hope it sounds as good when you're eating dirt,”
the big guy says. I think his names Allen or something stupid like that.
I can’t help but grin at his juvenile trash talk.
“Guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we?”
The referee raises his whistle.
“Crouch! Bind! Set!”
Our packs slam together in a violent collision, bodies straining for dominance. I can feel Ridgewood’s prop twisting illegally, driving up under my chin in an attempt to disorient me.
I bite down my frustration, keeping my form, hooking the ball cleanly back to my scrum-half.
But Ridgewood won’t fucking let up.
The moment the ball is out, their flanker slams into me, late, high, deliberate. I go down hard, skidding across the mud, elbows scraping against the rough turf.
The whistle doesn’t blow.
The crowd erupts, jeers and shouts filling the air. I barely have time to shake off the hit before the Ridgewood player is standing over me, pressing a heavy forearm to my chest.
"How’s that dirt taste, Monroe?" the Ridgewood flanker sneers.
Rage boils inside me and I know I’m about to lose my cool. Instead of trying to stop the anger from boiling over, I give in, because fuck it.
My hand shoots out, shoving the Ridgewood player off as I spring to my feet. The shove wasn’t hard, but it was enough. Enough to ignite the powder keg.
Players from both teams rush in, shoving, grabbing, and shouting. I look up just in time to see some guy from Ridgewood heading straight for Mason. Fists are flying, and I duck away from a stray elbow as I jog over to where Mason is throwing punches at Tommy Crawford.
With a growl, I yell, "back off!"
Yanking Crawford by the back of the shirt, I tug him backward, causing him to stumble to the ground. Crawford gets one good punch in, right on my jaw, before the whistle blows.
"Enough!" The referee storms between us, shoving us apart from one another, his face red with fury. "One more move like that and cards are coming out!"
Slowly, we all make our way back to position, but the tension remains, and I honestly just want this fucking game to end at this point.
My jaw clenches as Crawford passes me to get into his position, and I can’t help the glare I’m shooting at him. I can feel the ref watching my every move, and against my better judgement, I stay rooted to my spot.
"Keep it clean," the referee warns, locking eyes with both Tommy and me.
I exhale sharply, trying to hold my eyes back from rolling. Instead, I nod.
For the rest of the damn game, my mind is elsewhere. All of the thoughts running through my head, and almost all of them involve a five foot three, dark haired woman that for some reason has stolen all of my focus.
She never used to get to me like this. I used to be able to push the thoughts of her away. Sure, I’ve thought about what she looks like naked since she grew tits, but it didn’t used to take over every single brain cell I have.
Lainey Barkley is dangerous, because she doesn’t even have to try to get my attention. She’s always had it, and I have a feeling it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.