Chapter 32 #2
I sighed and looked down at my Comets sweatshirt, the number 17 printed across it. A heartbeat later, I yanked it up, folded it neatly, and politely set it aside like it was a radioactive substance.
On my way back from the bathroom, a hand cupped my covered elbow. I wheeled around, half expecting Rudolph.
Only to be more surprised.
“You look pretty flustered today,” a deep voice hummed.
There was Skeleton Man. His silly mask was still glued on under his hood, barely revealing his face.
However, the sweater he wore was totally unzipped, flashing the sight of a whole mural of odd tattoos across his chest and stomach.
From a stampede of small chickens chasing a big T.
rex on one pec, to a finned monster in a pink ink lake on his ribs, to what looked like an apple pie on one ab with spiders crawling out its center.
And right above his heart? A scribbled K+T+C inside a lopsided heart, like a middle school doodle, except tattooed forever.
The bone patterns painted over his legs were still flawless. They must have been drawn in special ink, as they hadn’t even smudged during the game—and that was despite him flattening half my team earlier.
“You like the hot game, sweet pea? Hope you were cheering for moi.”
“Gentle Eyes! I knew it was you!” I smacked his arm. Some carbon smear came off on my palm. He didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat. “I’ve officially promoted you from Gentle Eyes to Satan’s Heir after that performance.”
He lit up like I’d just knighted him. “Satan’s Heir! Sweet pea, you spoil me.”
Of course he loved it. Rascal.
“You’re a nickname specialist.” He winked. “And I knew you wouldn’t forget me, because our connection is unforgettable!” Another wink.
If I was really a nickname specialist, he’d be called Winker.
I had liked him right away, despite his constant flirtations. Maybe it was the infectious positivity, or maybe it was because he reminded me slightly of Rudolph.
“Makena’s here, too.”
He scratched his temple in an adorable way. “Who?”
Of course.
I arched a brow. “My roommate, AKA your night buddy.”
“Ah! The lioness! Grrr!” He smiled like a kid in a candy shop. “Tell her I said hi. Well—no, don’t. She still owes me patches of skin from the last round’s scratches.”
Another wink.
I snorted, then sobered up. “Why are you in the enemy trenches? Shouldn’t you be in the locker room with your…pack of boneheads?”
It was the first time his face had ever turned serious.
“Had errands.” His enormous shoulder shrugged. “Speaking of, got any other friends to introduce me to?” He nudged me in the ribs and made me laugh.
“None with an STD wish. Or your type.” I chuckled, physically feeling the murderous stares boring into my back from those of my pack members who were witnessing me talking to the enemy.
“You’re my type, but you keep rejecting me!” He slammed his hands onto his chest, clutching it. “Repeatedly!”
“Of course I do! You were literally in my friend’s pants!” How was this wolf the same one who had nearly broken Gaius’s head? And half of my team’s players?
His grin turned fox-like. “Not only there.”
“Details not required!”
He laughed at my grimace and casually slung an arm around my shoulders. “Wanna come meet my boys? I’m heading back to the changing rooms. I can even get you a picture with Thor.” At that name, my heart screeched to a stop. He caught it and grinned. “You like my T-man?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I pulled at my sleeves. It was obvious that they were teammates, maybe even friends.
“To like him?”
“No!” Like him? What I feel for his T-man is another L-word altogether. “To go to your changing rooms.”
“Awe, come on. You’re cute, and you’re not a wereball player. They won’t care if you’re a Comet.” Wink.
Sure, until they realized I was the Highlander’s twin. Or, worse, my mate would think I was spying on him like one of his stalkers.
“No thank you, Gentle Eyes. Next time.” Which would be never.
“I get it. Most people are scared of Thor. He’s a beast, yeah, but a nice beast.”
“I heard he found his mate.”
I winced. Why did I say that? I’d just blurted it out without thinking.
Killian’s brows shot up behind the mask. “Oh, yeah, that. I had a hunch. And it’s quite convenient! My T-man has been throwing numbers my way.”
Annoyance flashed through me. “He still gets numbers? With a mate?”
I stomped my foot. How dare he? I was tempted to go to the changing rooms and toss the necklace at his face.
Killian laughed, oblivious. “Told you he’s nice.” Wink. That made five.
Smacking Killian in the head seemed like the best idea at that moment, but the first gong saved him. He swooped down, his laughing mouth pressing a sloppy kiss to my cheek, with winks six, seven, and eight coming in rapid fire. I watched him bolt away.
“Call me, sweet pea!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“As if, Gentle Eyes!” I yelled back, grinning despite myself.
With a chuckle at that delinquent, hoping he’d find his mate as soon as possible, I walked back toward the stands.
When the teams came charging back onto the field, my eyes zeroed in on my mate instantly.
This time, he was the first one out of the tunnel, striding in with that cocky, infuriating grin, still streaked with mud and somebody else’s blood.
Could anyone else be that handsome? Of course not.
Heat and rancor battled through the vessels of my heart. I just wanted to march over, grab him by the ear, and scold him for beating the organs out of everyone and collecting random girls’ numbers—and, at the same time, order him to kiss me. I was starving for cuddles.
Calm down, Yvaine! I sucked in a big breath.
An acrid scent flared my nostrils. I turned, spotting fire and smoke curling up from the Dark Diamonds’ corner of the field. That was also when I noticed that the offensive signs from the fan club were gone.
I sank back in my seat, watching Logan take shot after shot, witnessing how my twin made our pack proud. For every pass he caught, every push forward, the Comets section roared like it was shaking the heavens. Then came the play.
A brutal pass—too high, too far for a mortal man. But not my twin. He launched himself skyward, catching it like a hawk snatching prey. And before his boots even skimmed the mud, he flung his arm back and hurled that ball like a trebuchet, so far that he almost made a touchdown by himself.
That was the famous Highlander move. The catapult.
It should’ve been unstoppable. It was the kind of throw legends were built on, so high that no one could intercept it until it fell into a teammate’s awaiting hands.
But today was not the day of the catapult.
Another body rose into the sky—clean, fast, lethal.
Logan.
They were far across the field from each other, thank Stephen, but my brother stabbed him with his eyes before reorganizing the team to halt the coming attack.
The game went on, grass disappearing under layers of mud and blood, and the score fluctuated between the teams. The audience grew more and more tense, more rabid, louder.
My brother was targeted over and over, dragged down like prey, and still got back up with recharged fury in his blue eyes.
He seemed to be the number one target, along with Gaius. He lost a tooth. Or two.
When Lachlan went down again, Amaia squeezed my leg—a rare comfort from her. Only then did I notice the weird pallor on my friend, mixed with a sweaty forehead.
By the time we were down to the final half, it was clear that Logan also had a penchant for extreme shit-talking. But the way he held the ball…what would it feel like to have his fingers wrapped around my hips?
I followed his warpath as he tore down the field, matching Gaius, the forward from our team, stride for stride. Gaius slipped by him, but Logan threw his shoulder into his side, knocking him off his path and kicking him in the chin with a boisterous laugh.
“Keep it up, Thor,” a deep voice came from the Dark Diamonds sidelines.
It was calm, not shouting or insane, yet it cut through the chaos, yanking my attention like a hook.
It originated from a giant of a man who was built like a retired warlord, with golden hair streaked with silver that didn’t dare to leave the sideburns.
I knew that lifted chin and those high cheekbones. Logan’s father.
Next to him stood a bizarre older woman, her face hidden behind a full skeleton mask that resembled the one worn by Gentle Eyes.
“This is the kind of game I came to see. No mercy! I want lungs gasping. Now, Thor…” He leaned forward, onyx eyes burning. “…give me the blood I demand.”
The skeleton granny raised her cane like it was a sword. Wait, no, it was a pool cue! “And don’t you dare serve it lukewarm!”
Logan glanced their way, a smirk tugging at his mouth, before he dodged three players, punched one hard, knocked out another, and then threw the ball backwards, strategically. And he laughed all the while.
His presence captured the arena in a way that was difficult to assign words to, and I was unsure what scared me more: my twin, who was being bitten in the calf by one of the Jesters, or my mate, who had just brutally broken a Comet’s arm. The sound of bones snapping echoed through my head.
I watched my mate barrel toward the receiver my twin was passing the ball to, jumping in front of him and intercepting the ball before it got into the receiver’s hands. Again.
Lachlan wasn’t having it this time.
The second the ball ricocheted off course, Lachlan was already sprinting, red hair blazing under the lights. Oh, no.
No, Lachy, don’t. My finger stung as I bled a little from the hangnail I had just ripped from my thumb.
He slammed straight into Logan’s skull with a violent shoulder-check—crack!—and Logan hit the mud like he’d been shot. The ball slipped free before he had a chance to hand it off.
For one terrifying second, I thought Logan might stay down.
Not a chance.
He bounced back up, dusting the mud off his shorts. Only his eyes gave him away—meaner, an unexpected spark of…crimson?
Meanwhile, Lachlan tore through the Dark Diamonds hulks, shoving one of those walking wardrobes flat onto his wooden ass.
Light on his feet, he slipped between the defense with the confidence of someone who knew he was the better player.
He didn’t need to break bones to prove it; his speed and skill did the job for him.
My chest swelled with pride so sharp it hurt. For the first time that day, I shot out of my seat, screaming, “Come on, brother! You can do it! I love you!”
My mother—Stephen save her—stole Tiziano’s megaphone and bellowed, “Smash them all, Highlander!”
“Kick them! Stab them! Push it on, Alpha Nephew!” Uncle Andrew hollered from his spot next to my mother.
My mate glanced over at my insane family, then back at me. I swore I saw a smirk twitch at his mouth before he masked it.
Lachlan pivoted, hurled the ball like a missile, and scored clean.
Before he could celebrate, two mountains in black jerseys blindsided him, dragging him down into the mud.
They didn’t tackle—they mauled. Punches rained down, fists smashing into his ribs, one bastard even biting through his jersey like some rabid animal.
His knee bent under their weight with a sickening pop as it moved in a direction knees were never meant to go.
And what he did next left me speechless.
With a sinister grimace deforming his human features into something more wolfish, Lachlan wrenched himself upright on his good leg, grabbed that mangled knee with both hands, and cracked it back the other way.
His blazing eyes and lips pressed tight were the only signs of pain. He made no sound.
My brother was a true Highlander.
I clutched my mouth, a silent scream stuck in my chest, my heart pounding hard.
I could not wait for this daymare to end.