The sweaty jersey clings to me, prickling my skin. Suddenly I’m so overstimulated by the feel of it that I yank it off and fling it across the room. Then I rip off the undershirt too because even that feels wrong. I should shower, but the anger only grows, so I get up and look for something to hit. It usually helps. Don’t judge me.
There’s nothing here worth breaking though—just metal locker doors and plaster walls that’ll snap a fist. I hover there, buzzing with rage, Moon’s face looping in my head. That asshole had the nerve to act offended after he dropped a slur. But I can bet my foot that tomorrow’s headlines will paint me as the problem, not him.
A low urge to punch him flares in my gut, and before reason catches up, I’m already out of the locker room, moving down the long empty corridor toward the Dragons’ quarters.
The scary thing is, as I walk, I have no idea what I’m about to do. The sensible part of my brain goes quiet, like it’s waiting to see what the violent part decides. I never thought punching someone actually solved anything, but right now I’mset on settling this Moon thing once and for all—talk or punch, I don’t care. I don’t even care if it wrecks my career.
I push the doors open, and he turns, startled. His eyes go wide, color rising in his cheeks. Only when I cross the room do I notice he’s half-naked, in nothing but briefs—probably about to shower. He looks infuriatingly perfect, like a walking example of under ten percent body fat.
“What the fuck are you—” he starts, but his voice catches as I step into his space, crowding him back against the lockers. In my head, I’d pictured grabbing him by the collar—but he’s shirtless, so I just stand there, towering over him, channeling every ounce of fury and contempt I’ve got.
“Get the hell out of here,” Moon says, but his voice is weak, barely a whisper now that I’m this close. “What the fuck is your problem?”
I let out a sharp breath, jaw tight. “Myproblem? You called me a fag—and what, I’m just supposed to let that slide?”
Anger flashes across his face, his porcelain cheeks flushing deeper as he spits, “If you don’t want to be called a fag, then fucking stop rubbing against me.”
I snort right in his face. “I wasn’t rubbing against you. It’s called playing defense. And if that’s got you feeling weird and excited, maybe talk to a therapist—’cause the problem’s not me. Might be something you’re not ready to admit.”
Okay, I know implying a homophobe might be gay is kind of a low blow. Especially when I can feel, deep down, that his constant jabs are rooted in his own insecurity. But he doesn’t deserve my empathy—not with the way he treats me.
And just as if to prove my point, the moment I finish, his fist comes flying at me. It doesn’t connect though—there’snot enough room for him to swing—and I react fast, grabbing his wrist and slamming it against the locker.
Moon curses, breath hitching, trying to free his hand with the other, but he can’t. His fingers are long—like a pianist’s—not built for brute force. He pinches and pulls at my arm, but it’s useless.
“Let me go,” he hisses, then punches my chest. He doesn’t have the range to do real damage, so it barely registers.
“Hit a little too close to home?” I smirk, lips curling. “You’ve got a lot to say on the field—but if you’re gonna run your mouth, back it up. Don’t wait for your teammates or the ref to bail you out.”
He hits my chest again. And again. I sigh, catch his other hand, and pin that too. He looks so helpless now, my anger starts to fade—draining into something more like mild irritation. I almost laugh at how different he is like this. Not the snarling hound he pretends to be on the field, but a desperate little puppy barking at a bigger dog.
“Stop hitting me if you don’t want—” I start, but I don’t get to finish.
His knee slams into my gut and the pain blinds me—sharp, piercing, all at once. I let him go without meaning to, doubling over as it cuts through my stomach and up into my skull. I drop to my knees, wheezing.
“Shit,” I hiss, clutching my stomach.
Moon starts to move, but even through the pain, I grab his ankle and yank him down. He crashes forward, landing on all fours, cursing as he kicks at me, trying to break free. I pull him closer. He scrambles up and throws himself on top of me, pressing his forearm across my chest and pinning me to the floor—for the second time today. It’s starting to feel like an annoying habit.
I try to buck him off, but this time he clings to me. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed like he just ran a mile, his silky blond hair loose from the bun and falling around his shoulders. His half-naked body—soft in some places, hard in others—is lined up against mine, and suddenly it feels too intimate. Like we’re not fighting anymore but fucking. Like he’s riding me.
“Fuck off,” I growl, and I swear I see panic flicker across his face.
That’s when I feel it. His cock—pressed against my stomach through his boxer briefs. Hot. Throbbing. Unmistakably hard.
I freeze. My brain blanks.
Wait—what?
Our eyes meet, and I can tell—he knows I felt that. For a second, I think he’s going to punch me.
But before I can react, he leans in and crashes his mouth against mine.
For a moment, my brain short-circuits. I don’t know what’s happening. We were just fighting and now—what, he’s kissing me? Still lying on top of me, hard, heavy, and shaking with adrenaline? His lips press and bite against mine like he’s trying to force them open—and that’s when my brain kicks back in.
I try to nudge him off, but he doesn’t move. So I shove him in the chest.
He freezes, hovering above me, his expression a mess of frustration and fear.
