Chapter Thirty Five #3
“Her suffering is not a joke,” I spit into his face, driving him as far into the mud as I can manage.
“You don’t know her, and you never will!
” Hands grab at my jersey, the rest of the team rushing to his aid but their boots lose traction as we grapple and shove, neither of us willing to give up easily.
The game is forgotten, the desire to win fully lost. We’ve resorted to mud smears, rogue punches and hissed insults.
Lifting him by the shoulders, I drive him back down again, my actions driven by adrenaline.
His throat is turning purple from my stick’s strike, his jaw clenched tight as he strikes at my face over and over.
By whatever fury is fueling me, I barely react.
I taste blood, metallic copper flooding my mouth.
That alone should be enough to spur me to stop straddling him in the mud.
Fuck knows what my face looks like, but I don’t care what my father will say about it.
I lean in, pressing the length of my forearm across Marcus’ throat to cut off his air supply.
“The next time you even think about Meg, I’ll be there to remind you of this.
And next time, I won’t let up until I watch the life draining out of you.
” With a final shove, I push myself away.
Marcus scrambles for air, kicking to drag himself backwards.
I smirk then, silently praising myself for a job well done until a light force hits my shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Meg hollers as if I’m a million miles away.
I just got the impression she’s been shouting at me for a while.
Coach’s umbrella barely shields her from the downpour, but she’s dried enough for pure venom to have festered in her blue eyes.
I manage a half shrug, sensing a blossoming pain in my rotator cuff.
“What does it look like? I’m protecting you,” I jerk my hand out, gesturing to the pathetic mess on the floor. Meg’s brows fuse together, her lips pursing even further.
“Do I look like a damsel in distress to you?!”
“He said he…that you would…” As soon as I grind out the words, I know I’m screwing this up. It’s not sounding the way it does in my head. “He needed to be put in his place. You’re mine and the rest of the world needs to back the fuck off.”
Unadulterated rage flashes across her face. There’s no time to consider what that reaction was expecting, but it was something closer to swooning, I suppose. Then again, this is Meg and I really should have known better.
“Excuse me?” she asks low and quiet. Behind her, Coach’s widened eyes have dropped to the floor and they remain there. I run a frustrated hand through my hair. Screw it, I’ve come this far. Winding my arm around Meg’s back, I yank her into my side, placing her back beneath the blanket of rain.
“Listen up. Meg belongs to me. She is mine, and if anyone dares to talk about her in an unsavory way, you’ll end up the same way as this asshole.”
Marcus is still down, coughing and trying to suck air through his damaged throat.
Before anyone can stop me, and before I can think better of it, my foot drives forward, connecting with his ribs.
The impact is unforgiving, his body jolting as a broken sound rips from his throat.
My lip snarls as he curls into a ball instinctively.
This is his fault. He came with a plan to goad me, and I hope he’s happy with himself now.
“Stay the fuck down,” I snap in a voice barely recognizable to myself. For a second, only the pattering of water on my face and the rise and fall of my chest exist. Both teams litter the pitch, all confused as they stare on, not knowing what to do.
I should have known Meg would make the first move.
She jerks in my hold, fighting against my mud-slickened body.
Her hands shove hard against my chest, her body twisting away from mine as if the contact burns.
Before I fully process the shift, she steps in close again, and white-hot pain consumes me.
Her knee remains lodged in my groin, my balls screaming for her to release them.
Suddenly, my hold on her is less possessive and more of a necessity unless I want to join Marcus on the floor.
The air is knocked clean out of me, a strangled sound ripping from my throat. The world tilts, vision blurring at the edges as I stagger back a step, then another, fighting for breath that doesn’t want to come. Meg’s hands become fists in my jersey, her face filling the little vision I have left.
“I’m. Not. Yours.”
I don’t argue. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and Meg doesn’t wait for a response anyway. Releasing me and turning on her heel, she storms off across the pitch, cleats kicking up mud with every furious step. The rain swallows her quickly, not that I thought she’d look back anyway.
Holding back the need to throw up my guts, I snatch Coach’s umbrella, starting my long and uncomfortable walk back to my house. I wince with every step, the adrenaline that carried me now ebbing away. Reality crashes back in hard, drawing a whimpered exhale from my throat.
This whole shitshow was doomed from the start, and I had a feeling I would be retreating with my tail between my legs. I just didn’t think it would be my swollen balls that fell victim to my own arrogance this time.