HABIT, page 8
“I know,” I say, continuing our march forward.
“I fucking lost it,” Theo finally relents.
“You did,” I say, breathing out a short laugh. Lost it is an understatement. He went full MMA fighter on Raskin.
When we reach the top of the hill, I pause and let him finish cooling down. We’re not so different. I let my emotions get the best of me in private, and sometimes I say things I regret. I can’t even imagine how it felt for him to hear someone speak badly about his sister, and the fact Raskin did immediately puts him in my off-limits category. I don’t need negative shit like that in my life, and if I have any say about it, his time on the field will be cut dramatically—assuming neither of them are kicked out of school after this.
Theo’s breathing finally slows and he scans the stands, probably looking for Lily or his family. His eyes finally make it back to me and he flattens his palm on top of his head, weaving his fingers through his hair and gripping, tugging.
“Fuck!” he shouts. His body rocks with this new wave of pain. This is regret.
I place a hand on his shoulder and dip my chin so our eyes meet, coaxing him to hold on to my gaze.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Everybody knows he had it comin’. It’s going to be all right, dude. Just breathe.” I try to keep him calm and present. I know grief, too. Maybe my journey wasn’t as public or horrific, but it still hurt.
It still hurts.
His lips vibrate as his emotions shift again. Rage and regret have the ability to quickly turn into helplessness, and I think that’s where Theo is headed. I would never point it out because I sense he would rather I didn’t, but Theo’s eyes are glossy and red. Whether he wants to or not, he’s going to cry.
“Go dress out. Shower, or maybe go for a walk. Put some distance between this and you, for now. I promise, I’ve got your back.” I move my hand to the back of his head, nearly cradling him as our eyes meet once more. He finally nods in agreement, and I pat him on the shoulder before turning to jog back to the field.
While I was playing therapist on top of the hill, we managed to get the ball back and Toby is currently getting his shot at showing what he can do. I wouldn’t worry about his three-yards-at-a-time running game and shit passes if it weren’t for the fact I literally almost led us back into the wrong end zone when I was in. I do my best to live by my own words, though, and I shout encouragement and move along the sidelines as our offense slowly chugs along, still heading the right direction, even if it’s slowly.
I wince when Toby throws an interception, but clap loudly to pump up our defense, telling our guys to pick him up. I pat his back when he comes in and tell him it’s all right as he heads for the water station. But when I’m finally on my own, I slip my helmet on and grin, ear to fucking ear. There is no way I’m not scoring the next time I touch that ball.
Despite the slow start to the game, the remaining minutes fly by, and while I manage to complete twenty-one passes with two in the end zone, Toby doesn’t totally suck. He handles the running game and takes the ball in himself for our last touchdown. It’s nothing impressive, and he basically gets pushed in with the help of our offensive line. But it’s the last score of the game, and it’s the one that sticks in memories.
I should be celebrating. I am on the outside, for now. The locker room is full and everyone in here is on the high of our big win. My dad’s speech echoed my feelings. Nobody would know but me, but I sensed those things he was communicating behind his words. It was in his tone. The way he was guarded and told everyone not to get lazy and that we simply did what should have been done—we were the better team going in.
What he said to me without speaking, though, was that we should have won by more. I should have scored more. And if I can’t get my so-called group of friends to snap out of acting like dicks out there, I’m going to lose this starting gig. That can’t happen.
My father makes eyes at me as he passes through the locker room from his office, giving knuckles to a few of the guys on his way out. He lifts a brow at the last second, and I feel his message like a punch to the gut.
You gotta do better, son. Gotta do better. That’s the message I get. I have zero doubts I’m wrong about it.
I spend extra time in the shower to avoid Toby and the guys who are clearly rallying on his behalf. None of this is about winning for them. It isn’t about what’s best for the team. This is about status and ego, and their guy is the one they want wearing the QB1 title because he’s one of them.
Me? I’m an outsider. I’ve gone and made friends with people at this school who all stand out because of their own baggage. Most of it isn’t their fault, though I’m not sure why Cameron feels the need to be high all the time. Theo’s grieving, and he has so much to work through, and Lily and Brooklyn are processing a lot, too.
And then there’s Morgan. I probably shouldn’t have spent as much time looking for her in the stand as I did, but she’s like this celestial phenomenon pulling me in. And even though there’s a risk to getting too close, I can’t fucking help it. I spotted her when Lily left her sitting alone so she could go after Theo. Brooklyn joined her after halftime, and every time I did anything remotely worthwhile on the field, my attention zoomed right to her for approval. For praise. For affection.
The locker room is empty by the time I drag my ass out of the shower. I take my time getting dressed at my locker, throwing my towel into the bin with angry zest, the same fire I put behind the fling I give to my locker door as I shut it. I shove the metal door so hard it fails to latch and flies back at me, catching my forearm.
“Ahhhhh!” I pound the door again with my fist, using my arm as a hammer, and my aggressive closing breaks off the pin that keeps my locker closed. I laugh quietly at how pathetic this entire scene is. I came here with one job, and it’s a job I’m good at. Throwing a ball might be the only thing I’m good at. But talent doesn’t matter here because the only thing my dad has to offer this place is his acceptance of the coaching title. They could fire him in a blink. Hell, they got rid of the last guy.
I slump down on the bench and drop my bag at my feet before running my palm over my face. I have to find my calm. I’m no good like this. Papa would be ashamed. He said ego was the devil’s work, and I think he was right. And as if the devil himself were watching me now, something draws my gaze a few lockers to the right and up, to the name and number plates that flank every locker owned by someone. It’s Toby’s locker, and even though I know nobody gave him the right to put that plate up there, it still mocks me.
SULLIVAN
#17
QB1
I breathe out a small laugh and shake my head. It’s a tin plate made in the school’s shop class. Everyone has one. Mine says FUENTES #5. So what that he had someone make his special. It’s sad that he needs that to feel good about himself. What’s sadder, though, is that I want to rip it from his locker and destroy it.
My stomach twists with envy, and I mentally imagine cutting off the QB1 part and gluing it to my plate. When Toby confronts me, I’ll step up in his face, towering over him by at least five inches. I’ll make him feel small, and dress him down with shame. I’ll let my worst instincts come out to play.
I’ve gotta get out of this room.
I’m about to get to my feet when the locker room door creaks open. I freeze, my fist tingling with the urge to fight. A large part of me wants it to be Toby walking in, and an even lower version of myself wants it to be his dad.
“Hello?” It’s a female’s voice. My hand flexes as I rid my arm of the desire to go to battle.
“It’s just me. I’m almost done,” I call out, figuring it’s one of the ladies who collects the laundry after games.
“James?”
I freeze hearing my name. There’s a raspiness to the voice, but I recognize the way Morgan’s pitch goes up at the end of my name. She must have been screaming at the game. For me. She was screaming for me.
“Yeah, it’s me. Come on in,” I say, lowering myself back down to sit on the bench.
The sound of the door clicking shut is followed by the shuffle of sneakers against the concrete floor. I lean back and grip the bench between my legs as my eyes refuse to blink, afraid they’ll miss the moment Morgan clears the corner and comes into view.
“Good game,” she says the second her eyes meet mine.
I laugh silently to myself and tuck my chin.
“It was definitely interesting,” I respond, shifting my gaze from my thighs to the glitter W painted on her cheek.
“You’re very spirited,” I say, gesturing toward her face.
Her mouth twists with the cutest smirk—part playful and maybe a little embarrassed. She pushes away from the wall she was half hiding behind and steps toward me. I sit up tall and move my palms to my thighs.
“I wasn’t sure what your number was; otherwise, I’d have painted that on this cheek,” she says, tapping the other side of her face.
“Maybe next time, assuming I’m not benched for Toby Sullivan,” I huff out in a jaded laugh. I sneer for a brief second, ashamed of letting my bruised ego show in front of her.
“Toby Sullivan is an idiot. In the classroom, and on the field. Even I know he’s shit at football,” she says, still making her way closer to me. When I realize she doesn’t intend to stop, I rub my hands along my thighs and chew at the inside of my cheek while my dick swells underneath my joggers, which I wish were a bit thicker.
I nod as she approaches and push my tongue behind my teeth as my smile gives me away.
“He is fucking shit at football,” I say, as if that’s what I care about right now. I scratch at my chin as my gaze dips down to where the flare of her Welles skirt tickles her upper thighs. She’s wearing those dark navy socks that stop just above her knee with her white canvas shoes, and her Welles sweatshirt is definitely not the kind they sell at the school bookstore. It’s cut in half, high enough to expose her belly button and the silver ring piercing it.
“How does the country club feel about that little piece of hardware,” I say, glancing up briefly before zeroing back in on her tummy. She’s close enough to touch, and my fingers itch to reach forward and grab her hips.
“They don’t see it. There’s a lot of things I keep hidden from other people,” she says, stepping between my knees and removing any of the doubts I had a few seconds ago.
Her hands land on my shoulders and I give in, moving mine to her hips. She smells like cotton candy, and specks of blue and orange glitter cover her body. I bite my lip as I stare at that damn belly button ring, my mouth watering with the strongest fucking desire to lick it. I scan up to the cut edge of her sweatshirt and swallow hard knowing if I were to lift it even the slightest bit I’d find what I think might be the most perfect tits ever made. Morgan steps in closer and my cock flexes when she reaches down and lifts my chin. There is no way she doesn’t see the effect she is having on me, but I don’t give a shit. She is literally the only thing on my mind right now, and I can’t even remember why I was pissed off about winning a football game five minutes ago.
Her hair is pulled up high on her head, the ponytail curled into caramel waves, and her eyes are this bright green that are nearly impossible to look away from. She bites her candy pink lip and offers me a coy smile, which gives me the courage to run my hands down her skirt to the bare skin of her thighs. She shifts her weight and takes in a quick breath as my palms trail up her legs and follow the curves of her ass until the tips of my fingers reach the small lace triangle of her thong.
Fuck, do I want to see that.
“So, what kinds of things do you hide . . . under there?” I glance to her skirt then back up to her eyes and her smile grows a tiny bit. I’m so hard I might bust through the seam of my pants.
“Why don’t you look for yourself?” Morgan drags her knee then inner thigh over my leg until my hand is forced to slip away and make room for her to rest her foot on the bench next to me.
I glance up, my eyes heavy with the desire to rake over her most intimate parts just before I taste them. I can’t believe this is fucking happening. Morgan’s hands slide up my neck until she’s stroking my jaw with her cool thumbs. She bends down enough to bring our mouths together and I suck in her bottom lip so hard it nearly snaps as it leaves my mouth.
“You taste fucking amazing,” I say, giving in and pressing my lips to her bare stomach before glancing up and smirking. Both of my hands inch their way around her hips again, my thumbs flirting with the thread on her skin. So delicate. So easy to tear away.
Our moment comes to an abrupt halt with the sound of the locker room door creaking open then slamming closed. The heavy clomp of shoes grows closer in a breath. My hands fall to my sides as I twist to straddle the bench, putting my back to Morgan who has moved to flatten her back against the locker. There’s nowhere for her to go, and thank God I didn’t rip her clothes off, making what someone is about to see blatantly obvious.
“Oh, hey.”
Fucking hell, it’s Toby.
My head bobs up and I swing my legs around, acting as if I just finished tying my laces.
“Hey, Toby. Man, great game today,” I say, acting as if there is nothing wrong with Morgan waiting for me inside the men’s locker room, only feet away from me, her skin flushed.
I hold out a fist, grateful that my dick deflated the moment panic set in. Toby leans toward me and pounds it but shifts his focus to Morgan for a beat, a knowing smirk playing at his smug mouth.
“Thanks. You, too. You, uh . . . need help getting dressed or something?” His smile slips into something more sinister as his eyes shift between Morgan and me, and I push down the urge to punch him in the center of his face.
“That’s what I said! He was taking forever,” Morgan says, crossing her ankles and folding her arms over her midriff as she feigns irritation. “He lost a bet, and he owes me a very expensive lunch.”
Toby chews at the inside of his mouth, his superior expression lingering as he studies her, then me.
“Yep. I promised her three touchdowns, but I only got two,” I say, a superior tinge to my tone. If we’re going to make shit up to throw Toby off what was really going on, I may as well point out that I scored more than he did.
“Ah, well . . . maybe you should get her to count mine in your favor too. I closed the deal for you,” Toby responds. Prick played me right back.
“Nope. I said him and him alone. Next time, maybe,” Morgan says, pushing away from the lockers and wrapping one of her curls around her finger. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I nod and utter, “Okay.”
Morgan makes her escape, but my chest still burns with nervous poison, maybe even more now that Toby and I are alone. No way he bought any of that bullshit.
While Toby heads to his locker and pops it open, I gather my bag, glad it was already packed and that my locker was closed. I get to my feet and am about to tell him to enjoy his Saturday when he cuts me off before I utter a word.
“You should be careful there, Fuentes. With that?” He glances toward the exit, where Morgan just left.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, unable to stop the roll of my eyes. I salute him and keep the Saturday well wishes to myself. But before I round the corner to head down the hallway to freedom, he dishes out one last piece of advice.
“Wouldn’t want the headmaster to know you had a girl in here . . . alone. And I gotta say, if he knew it was that girl . . . oof! Let’s just say Morgan Bentley is not an easy case to prove your innocence.” He shrugs, then pushes his locker closed before slipping on his platinum watch that is definitely worth more than my pitiful college savings account.
I press my molars together and tighten my jaw, forcing my best version of a smile with what’s left. My hand flexes around the straps of my bag, gripping with the force of a life-or-death tug-of-war. I should leave without speaking. I should turn around and simply go; nothing good will come of me being in this space with him for any longer.
“I hear she’s a really good fuck, though, so . . . don’t blame you there.”
And that’s it—I break. In a blink, I throw my own rules out the window, forget my dad’s advice, and risk my entire future. I drop my bag to the ground and hurtle at Toby, flatting my palms to his chest until his back is pressed against the metal locker doors. I grip his shoulders hard and toy with the idea of wrapping one of my hands around his pencil-thin, pimple-scarred neck. I’m grounded enough to hold myself back from crossing that line, but I hurl back and throw a fist into the locker next to his head, denting it and busting my knuckles open. I leave it there, letting the blood pool on my fingers and stain the locker door.
Toby’s fear flashes across his eyes as they widen, and his jaw tightens with his held breath. But just when I think I’ve scared him enough to stop playing this dangerous game, his body rumbles under my hold with quiet but menacing laughter. I push into him again before backing off, and he coughs at the feel of losing air from his lungs. But that fucking laugh keeps going. I hold his stare as I walk backward and pick up my bag, turning around the second it’s in my grip and leaving before I make things worse.
Thankfully, Morgan isn’t waiting for me outside. I want to make sure she’s all right, and I’d love to take her to dinner for real—to laugh with her and kiss her again and touch her. But I have to go home and get my head right, then find a way to repair the damage I’ve done. My fantasy got soured in seconds, by a rich kid with zero talent but enough money to erase my hopes and dreams on a whim.
Chapter 9
Morgan
For about an hour, I thought James would show up at our dorm room and make good on my fake bet scenario. The more time that passed, the less weight I gave to indulging the fairytale and the more I let practical possibilities take over.
He’ll check on me to make sure I’m okay and not in any trouble.
He’ll thank me for helping get us out of that situation.
