“You sure you’re alright?” I ask worriedly, holding on to his upper arm.
“Yes, of course I am, you giant. Couldn’t help me back up with a bit more finesse? Geez.” He brushes himself off, and it's evident when he slips back into his Jace-the-performer persona. The fans swarm around us, instantly drawn to him upon realizing he's unharmed.
I leave him to it, focusing my attention on the table with the soccer players now I know that Jace’s okay.
When I proceed to the table, people get out of my way, like they should, looking curiously over to the table to be a firsthand witness over what is about to go down.
Because something sure as hell is going to go down, preferably involving the jerk in the lead, sporting preppy brown hair and anabsurdly expensive attire. He's the one I spotted earlier, the one hurling insults at Jace.
Lamar is already there, maintaining a vice grip on the guy's neck, and you must be one hell of a dude if you think you can get loose from that gigantic thing that Lamar calls his hand. My other friends stand around the table, making sure that these losers stay the fuck down.
The atmosphere grows eerily quiet, all eyes trained on us. The music has ceased since the band finished playing, and Gus is conspicuously absent. Some waitresses are, though, but I don’t think they are going to intervene.
“Where’s Gus?” I inquire of Lamar, just to be sure.
He shrugs his burly shoulders. “Probably on break. He usually takes one around this time, otherwise, these morons would've been kicked out already.”
“Seems we'll have to take matters into our own hands, right?”
He nods. “Absolutely, King.”
Lamar doesn't often call me King, except when he's teasing me about how everyone else addresses me as such. So, he's using it now to make a damn statement about who holds the authority. Because normally I don’t act like ‘the king’ that they call me, hating the nickname fiercely, preferring to just blend in with everybody else.
However, in this situation, it’s the first time I’m grateful for it and the purpose it serves. Touch my friends, and you're touching me. Throwing a glass at someone is just reckless; they shouldn't get away with it.
Returning my focus to the imbecile who seems to be leading this pitiful crew, I confront him. “You threw that glass?”
He remains silent, but his gaze meets mine, seething with hatred.
“Well?”
He squints his beady eyes. “So what if I did? He's hitting on our girlfriends. He's a loser. He deserves it.” He shifts his gaze past me, and I'm fairly certain Jace is standing behind me. Yeah, I know he can be flirtatious; I'm a living testament to that, given that I'm often the object of his attention. But in the last month, I haven't witnessed him hooking up with any girls–or boys–nor has he mentioned it.
“He deserved to have a glass thrown against his head, what could’ve led to a serious injury–not to mention that the glass could have hit one ofyourgirls there–because he was talking to a couple of them?”
At least a touch of fear crosses his face, his eyes widening slightly. “I'd never target the girls. I'm good at aiming.”
A grin spreads across my face, wicked and wide. “You think you're a better shot than me?”
Given that he's well aware I'm the school's quarterback and skilled at precision throws, that at least shuts him up. My friends, including Lamar, chuckle.
“Should we put it to the test?” Lamar asks, wiggling Loser number one a bit, who is trying to swat his beefy arm away.
I almost reply in the affirmative, when a hand lands on my shoulder. Jace.
“Just let it go, man,” he murmurs, his words for my ears alone. “It’s not worth it. They’ve been dicks since the start of the semester. Don't jeopardize your career for me. If you do something stupid and shit gets out, you're done, and you know it.”
I frown because he’s right. Yet, I also know about the hate-crime he endured. While this incident didn't stem from his orientation, I still despise hazing and bullying. I’ll not stand for it, and since I hold the unofficial title of 'king' around here, I need to dosomething.
I tilt my head toward him, offering a small smile. “I'm not planning on jeopardizing anything, trust me. But they need to understand that I won't tolerate this. I'll behave otherwise, I promise.”
That earns me a squeeze in my shoulder in agreement, before he lets go.
“Anyone have a football lying around?” I call out to the room, and in under a minute, a ball is in my grasp. It's an unusual accessory for a bar visit, but given that it's a student bar and practice just ended a couple of hours ago, it's not surprising.
“So,” I begin, playing with the ball, spinning it expertly on my fingers. “Who's up first?”
They scramble to their feet and make a beeline for the exit in record time. Of course Lamar holds the leader of the douchebag convention a bit longer than the rest, so he’s the last to leave.
