Page 95 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Ripping us apart.

Pinning us down.

Damage control.

But I don’t fucking care. I’ve had enough.

And when Tino and Drew push me off the field, it’s my dad’s face I see in the stands before they usher me down the dugout steps, and I can’t quite read what it’s saying.

“How stupid could you be?”

All this work—months of healing, hours of strengthening—and Easton risks all of it by fighting Santiago.

“You should have seen the other guy,” he jokes, then hisses when I push his hand with the ice pack back up to his cheek.

“It’s not funny.”

I slam stuff around the training room. The door is shut so no one can hear us, or the drawers I shove open then close, or the cart of the ultrasound machine as I bang it against the table where Easton’s sitting. I hate that I’m pulling out the shit I used when I first started his rehab, because who knows what he just did to his shoulder other than just telling me it hurts.

“It’s a little funny.”

“Don’t. Just don’t!” I smack my hands down on the counter and brace them there as I let my emotions roil through me.

The confusion when I first heard the shout of “I’m gonna kill him.”

The shock of seeing Tino and Drew physically restraining Easton from running back onto the field.

The bewilderment when they shoved Easton toward where I stood in the training room, when I saw his knuckles on one hand were bloody, his T-shirt was torn, and his cheek had an angry red mark on it.

And then the fury, the goddamn fury, when I saw him wince as he moved his shoulder.

“Scout.” He sighs my name, and the resigned defiance mixed with apology only infuriates me further.

“What? What could possibly be your excuse?” I shout as I throw my hands up and turn to face him. “You couldn’t control yourself? You couldn’t be the bigger man and walk away? At least for a few more days?”

“Ah. Now it all makes sense. You don’t give a fuck about my arm right now. All you care about is the meeting. The goddamn contract and what’s in it for you.”

His words punch out into the small space and slam into me harder than his fists probably did into Santiago’s face. Because if he is aiming to lash out at me, he just got a direct hit.

Why am I fighting him? Why? Santiago deserved to get punched weeks ago. Better yet, he deserved it months ago, when he hurt Easton and was only fined and given a four-day suspension.

So why are you so pissed at Easton for actually doing it?

Why are you fighting him so hard?

Because I’m scared.

Over what this means for him and his position here. What this means for me and working with the team in the future. What this means for the two of us as a couple. And most definitely what it means to my dad’s final wish.

It’s so much more than the contract. Doesn’t he see that? And yet, that’s how highly he thinks of me right now—that I value the contract over him?

Add some more hurt to the anger, Scout.

“Excuse me?” My body trembles with restless fury. The kind you can feel deep down in your bones and have no clue how to get rid of.

“You heard me.” Easton stands and squares his shoulders. His rage toward Santiago is still there, still raw, but right now it is directed at me.

Well, bring it, Hot Shot, because I’m primed for a fight, especially when you say bullshit like that.