CHAPTER 1. A PUNCH TO THE GUT
Saying I hate Sawyer Moon is like calling a knife to the eyeball mildly irritating. Just seeing him makes my blood boil. Which is why him kissing me in the Dallas Dragons’ locker room turns my entire world fucking upside down—in the worst way imaginable.
But before we get to that, let me explain.
I didn’t start hating Moon out of nowhere. It’s been years in the making. Years of taunting on the soccer field—of him bullying me, calling me every name in the book, including but not limited to ballerina, bench princess, benchwarmer, buttercup, Cinderella (yeah, because she runs from the ball), mascot, prima (short for prima ballerina), waterboy, and every generic insult you can hurl at a gay guy in cleats: princess, cupcake, sweetheart, pretty boy, drama queen, sugarplum, Barbie, flower boy—the list goes on.
And not in the sexy, I’m-flirting-with-you kind of way. In the I’ll-humiliate-you-using-every-effeminate-word-I-can-think-of-and-make-sure-both-our-teams-hear-it kind of way.
I don’t even know what the guy’s deal is. I mean, I look more masculine than he does, so I’m guessing he’s either overcompensating or just plain homophobic. Probably both.Normally I’d ignore him—like I always do—but tonight, he crosses a line.
It’s the quarterfinals. The stadium’s packed. The tension’s thick enough to choke on. Moon’s the Dragons’ star forward. I’m the Centaurs’ captain and starting center back. So I stay glued to him—cutting off every angle, shutting down every run, every attempt to break into our half.
He fucking hates it.
Hates that I’m faster today. Hates that I’m not giving him an inch—not to breathe, let alone to score. There’s fifteen minutes left on the clock, and they’re down by one. Desperate now. Pushing hard, throwing everything into offense.
I brush past him during a corner. Nothing dirty. Just enough contact to throw him off his rhythm. He still gets a touch on the ball—just not enough. It slips past his foot and rolls out behind the line. He mutters through clenched teeth, pissed:
“You here to rub up on me like a fucking dog in heat or what?”
I don’t respond. Just keep my eyes on the ball.
Next play, he blows it again. He’s driving hard down the sideline, but I’m right there with him—shoulder to shoulder, pushing just enough. He takes the shot anyway, off balance, and I block it clean with my thigh before launching it back upfield.
That’s when he snaps.
Spins around and gets in my face, his delicate features twisted in fury. He’s objectively beautiful—I’ll give him that—but with all that hate packed behind his expression, he looks like some furious angel: blond hair pulled into a sloppy bun, plump lips trembling with rage, blue eyes burning.
“What, you get off on this?” he shouts, shoving me hard in the chest with both hands. “Just another limp-wristed fag who needs an excuse to touch me?”
It’s that word.
That fucking word.
It hits like a switch flipping in my brain—snapping something I didn’t even realize was wound that tight. Suddenly I’m back in high school, bleeding from my nose, my mouth, my knees—surrounded by fists and slurs and the same fucking word again and again.
I thought I was past this. Thought I’d built armor thick enough that nothing anyone said could cut through.
But that word.
That one still gets in.
I don’t think. I just shove him back like he weighs nothing and spit, “Shut your mouth, you fucking closet case.”
Yeah, I know—replying to a homophobic slur with another homophobic slur isn’t exactly my proudest moment. But it just comes out. I’m angry, okay? And it’s not like Moon’s gay or anything. He’s just ridiculously touchy about his masculinity, which is ironic, considering he’s been throwing shit at me since we met—stuff that always walked the line.
To be fair, this was the first time he actually crossed that line. But still—him dropping the f-word threw me. Up until now, he’s kept it just subtle enough to pretend it’s all locker-room banter.
He stumbles—then drops. Lands on his ass, hands braced behind him. It wasn’t that hard of a shove, but he just sits there, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expectingthat.
For a second, neither of us moves. The stadium holds its breath. Every head turns. Every camera locks on.
Then he’s back on his feet, jaw tight, and lunges at me.
Has to, really—he’s wiry, all speed and rage—and a second later we’re both on the ground. He’s on top of me, elbow pressed to my throat, cutting off my air. His face is inches from mine, eyes burning.
My back’s in the grass, lungs straining. I twist, cough, and buck him off.
