Page 16 of The Striker
Third time's the charm. I’ve got this.
Me: We have a game against Crown Point University coming up. It’s a home game. You should come.
I hit send and wait.
Fuck. Should I have worded that as a question? If I made it a question, she’d feel more obligated to respond. Damn. I should have?—
Three little bubbles appear. She’s typing a response.
Yes.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I turn around to find Holt leering behind me, eyes locked on my phone. A cruel smile curls his mouth and he lets out a piercing whistle.
“Damn, Herrera. Who would have thought you’d be the one to turn pussy for a fucking cleat chaser?” He laughs and some of the Zeta Pi members join him.
Julio and Felix drop their shit and immediately step up to flank me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Deacon rise from the bench beside his own locker, but Julio must wave him off because he sits back down, his expression calculating.
“Do you need something?” Julio asks, his voice steady.
Holt eyes him up and down with a sneer. “Not from you,” he retorts. “Unless you plan on acting like our fucking captain for once and put your boy back in his place.”
Silence.
The background noise in the locker room from the team’s chatter, faucets being turned on and off, and other random sounds come to a halt as all eyes turn our way. The tension between us ratchets in the room.
Julio folds his arm over his chest and dips his chin. His eyes narrow into a cold glare. “You wanna run that by me again?” There’s a warning in his voice, but judging by the smirk on Holt’s face, he’s not going to heed it.
Austin takes a menacing step forward. “Get your boy in line,” he growls.
“Or what?” Julio deadpans. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. To curse. Every guy in the room knows how serious Julio is right now.
“Or we’re going to have problems,” Austin snaps, but some of his earlier nerve is slipping away. His mouth dips, eyes now wary.
I laugh. I can’t help it. One second it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop and the next I’m fucking cackling. “Or we’re going to have problems,” I repeat, my voice mocking. “You’re such a fucking cliché. We already have problems, so why don’t you back the fuck off? Or better yet, quit the team so we don’t have to deal with your pretentious ass any longer.”
Austin bares his teeth, but before things escalate further, Jamiea—our assistant coach—pokes her head into the locker room. “Everyone dressed?” she calls out. Her hand covers her eyes as she walks further into the room.
“All clear,” Julio says, keeping his voice controlled.
She drops her hand and, almost as quickly, drops her smile. Her dark brown gaze flickers over each of us. “Everything alright?”
Austin takes a step back.
“All good,” I tell her, not bothering to remove my gaze from Holt’s.
“Just catching up with friends,” he adds.
“Mm Hmm. I absolutely buy that.” Sarcasm. Walking toward us, Jamiea inserts herself between us, forcing both Austin and I to take several steps back in order to give her enough room to pass for respectful.
Now, Deacon climbs to his feet. It looks like he’s still got eyes for our assistant coach.
That’s too bad. Jamiea won’t cross that line. Not now that he’s a student at PacNorth. She isn’t much older than us. Twenty-five or twenty-six if I had to guess. And she’s not a teacher. But she’s still faculty and there are rules. Ones I know Jamiea well enough to know she won’t break.
“Anyone want to explain what’s going on?” She folds her arms and taps her foot, her impatience clear.
Holt and I glare at one another over the top of her curl-covered head, our eyes never leaving each other.
“It’s all good,” I tell her. “We were just heading out.”
