“Easton.” He gets to his feet, brows furrowing.
“Please.”
“Of course I won't." He shakes his head. “I’d never tell anyone. Ever.”
“Thank you.”
“But...”
“I gotta go.”
“Easton.”
I know I’m running again, and I drown in self loathing as I step away. But I just unloaded some heavy shit, and I’m trying not to spiral right now.
I have work tonight anyway.
“I’ll see you later.” Opening the door, I rush out of the room and down the hall.
My heart is racing like a drum, stomach in knots. I need to take a few minutes outside before I leave.
Work helps distract me. We’re busy tonight, so I’ve been slammed with dishes. But when I’m done, I offer to stay late and help clean up.
It’s not any earlier than three in the morning before I’m walking home.
I’m too tired to think, so it works in my favor.
As soon as I walk into my room, I see Bennett sleeping in his bed after nights of being away. Nights of me lying in my bed, staring at his and wondering how much he’d hate me now.
My feet shuffle forward toward him. I hover over him, eyes slowly taking in his face. How can someone who looks so masculine and rugged be so beautiful?
My heart clenches, and my stomach twists, hands itching to reach forward and brush the hair from his face.
He looks so peaceful right now. Lips parted as he breathes softly, long lashes fanning out over his cheekbone.
My eyes travel down his body. He’s not wearing a shirt. His blanket is draped over his lower half, leaving his chest and stomach on display. He’s so fucking hot, his body carved from stone.
It kills me that I’m going to have to make it seem like I don’t want him, because everything inside me is telling me I do. I really fucking do.
Sleep didn’t come easily. By the time I fell asleep, I only had two hours before I had to be up for football.
“Wright, what the fuck is wrong with you!?” Coach Creed shouts. “Get your head in the fucking game!”
Anger boils inside me. This is fucking practice, not an actual game. So I missed the fucking ball? Big deal. If he keeps yelling at me, I’m going to lose my shit.
Balling my fists in anger, I take a deep breath and keep going.
Doesn’t matter. Between my head being a jumbled mess of thoughts about Bennett, of what we could have if it wasn’t for my father, and the fact that I’ll never have it, add on the lack ofsleep, making my body physically weak, I’m useless for the rest of practice.
Body aching, head throbbing, and lungs screaming, I walk over to the bench a sweaty mess. Grabbing my water, I chug it, groaning when Coach makes his way over to me with a pissed-off expression.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Coach asks. “My fucking grandma could have caught those throws. And you're telling me you wanna make it to the pros? Not like that, you're not.”
My jaw grinds, nostrils flaring. “Fuck you.”
His eyes darken.
“Excuse me?”
