Page 43 of Forever Offsides

His arms pan out wide. “The parking lot is a public space. Anyone can be in it.”

“Why are you here?” I grit out.

“I missed you.”

Missed me? “Fuck you!”

His arms swing in, and he stretches his hands toward me. “Quinn, stop. Can we please be adults?”

My eyebrows shoot up into my hair and become one. “Adults?” Is he kidding? The prick broke up with me over a text after almost three years together. “What are you doing here?” I bite out, enunciating the words since he still hasn’t answered.

He grunts and returns his hands to his hips. “I’m here for several reasons.”

“Which are?”

“The coach. The team. The girl.”

I glare, and my fists ball up as nerves rattle through me. Clearly, I’m still bitter. Or perhaps simply hateful. “The girl you’re referencing better not be me. And the team better not be this one.”

He doesn’t respond, and I swear, he’ll lose a limb in a few seconds. I have no patience this week.

“Why do you want the coach and the team? What would that have to do with you calling me?”

Before he can answer me, shouts come from behind me as a figure zooms by my right side. I catch a flash of hair and a large body before a fist flies and a sickening crunch fills the air. Russel is knocked off his feet, his body catching air for a half-second before he slams on the ground of the parking lot, the back of his head narrowly missing the asphalt. He curses and covers his face, but blood is already seeping through his fingers.

“You motherfucker,” Crew barks, standing over him, his fist balled so tight, the skin is white. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years. What the fuck do you think you’re doing here? You have no right to talk to her! Stay the fuck away from my sister, or next time I’ll do more than break your pretty-boy nose.”

“Fuck you!” Russel snarls as he sits up, wiping his nose with his shirt and spitting blood on the ground.

“Fuck me?” Crew bites out and grabs the front of Russel’s shirt, ready to hit him again. “You dumb piece of shit. What the hell are you doing in Boston? This isn’t your team or your town.”

“Crew. Let go!” I step in front of him and push him back just as Mason comes charging in.

“What the fuck is this piece of shit doing here?” Mason is about to kill him too.

Russel gets to his feet as about half a dozen players come over. “Why don’t you ask your sister what I’m doing here?”

Oh no, he didn’t.

Mason charges, and I step in front of him.

“What the hell is going on here?!” Coach comes running over and pulls Russel back. I put my back to them and plant my hands on my brothers’ chests.

“You son of a bitch!” Mason bursts out and tests the strength of my resistance against his chest. “You don’t know her. You hear me?!”

“You don’t get to talk about her!” Crew adds.

“Quit it! Both of you,” I yell in their faces. “What are you doing? He’s not worth your hands.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Mason rolls his head until his neck pops. “Hitting him would make my hands very happy.”

“Don’t tell me you’re defending that piece of shit?” Crew is a half beat from flying off the handle.

I get right up in their faces, my fists gripping their sweaty jerseys. “Not even a little. But I won’t let you break your hands over him either. Why do you think I didn’t hit him? Let me see your hand.”

“Fuck that!” Crew snaps.

“It was a sucker punch,” Russel grouses. “No way you’d have gotten that good a hit on me otherwise.”