Page 38 of Gabriel
His jaw flexes. “You’re a dick, you know that?” He storms out of the room and onto the field.
Fuck him. Things don’t have to be like this. He’s the one making it an issue.
I turn and meet Julio’s amused expression, not liking the glimmer in his eyes.
“He’s not wrong,” he says.
Felix chuckles beside him, clearly in agreement.
“About what?”
“You are a dick.” Julio grins.
“Asshole,” I retort, though without any real heat.
“Yeah, yeah. But you love me.”
I throw my shirt at him. “You’re lucky I do.”
The guys make jokes at Holt’s expense as I make quick work of changing. I know they have questions. My no-dating rule during the on season isn’t mine alone. Julio and Felix abide by it too, so I’m grateful when both let it drop without asking any questions.
It's temporary. It always is with these two. We know one another inside and out. Share all our fucking secrets like teenage girls at a slumber party. But since shit last week was heavy, they’ll give me a day, maybe two, to fill them in before they bombard my ass for information.
I love these two assholes. They’re family.
I catch sight of Cecilia, ass in the stands like I asked her to be. She’s got her nose in a book, pretending to be fully engrossed in whatever she’s reading, but I don’t buy it. This is her saving face. Acting like the kiss between us was no big deal.
That's fine. I’ll let her have the next hour to regroup, but when I’m done, I’m going to remind her what a big fucking deal shit really is between us.
I’ve never been like this over a chick. I’ve barely gotten to know her, but my thoughts are already consumed by her. She makes me impulsive. Possessive. Crazy. It doesn’t help that Holt decided to be an asshole, egging me on like that, but I’m willing to throw my friendship with Holt down the drain to keep her—not that it was much of one to begin with but, that’s not like me.
There’s something about Cecilia Russo that calls to that primal part of me. The part currently insisting she’smine.
I shake myself out, doing my best to keep my head in the game and my eyes off the girl in the stands. The first thirty minutes of practice are normal. Coach puts us through the regular gauntlet of drills. Nothing out of the ordinary. But things take a turn when we line up to scrimmage.
We split into two teams; my group plays shirts. The other half of the team plays skins. I’m an attacking midfielder, my usual position, so it's not uncommon for me to take the occasional hit in a game from an opposing defensive player.
Sometimes it’s an accident. Usually it’s intentional. But it’s all part of the game. I don’t really think about it too much.
Whatisunusual is when your own teammate takes cheap shots every chance he gets, which is what Holt does now.
I take an elbow to the ribs. A jab to my side. He slices my shin with his cleat, tearing through skin. The asshole isn’t pulling any punches.
Blood spills down my leg, and a quick glance confirms it’s bad. Coach shoots me a concerned look from the sidelines, spotting the blood, and I know he wants to signal me off field. But that’s not going to happen. Holt is gonna get his first.
On the next play, I get the ball and dribble up field, dodging the offensive players as Holt hangs back, his steps mirroringmine. He’s supposed to be their striker, so he shouldn’t be hanging back, waiting for my approach. Matching my moves. His ass should be on the other side of the field, keeping open until he can either steal the ball or someone passes it to him to score.
He’s so fucking obvious about it, which only pisses me off. When only a few feet separate us, I pick up speed and slam into him. I don’t even bother to make it look like an accident. I lay his ass out and score before he gets back on his feet.
I’m fouled. No surprise there. The shot doesn’t count, but what do I care? Seeing Holt on his back like that—wincing as he climbs to his feet—makes it worth it.
The fucker should back off now if he knows what’s good for him, but instead, the asshole jams a thumb between my ribs when Coach isn’t looking. I let loose a string of curses and lose the ball to another player, but not before I rear back, slamming my elbow into his nose.
“Goddammit,” Austin shouts, cupping his hands over his nose. Blood oozes between his fingers. “That was on purpose.”
I lift my shirt to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Sorry, man. You know how it is when you’re laser-focused. Didn’t even realize you were there.” I shrug. “Kinda like when you got me in the ribs. And kicked me in the shin.”
His eyes darken, but he doesn’t say anything else as he storms off the field heading for our assistant coach, Jameia.
