After dropping my bag into my locker, I pull my shirt off to start getting changed. The door opens, and footsteps come closer. Just as I turn around, my head whips to the side, and painerupts through my jaw, spreading the taste of iron through my mouth.
“You fucking asshole!” someone yells, and grabs onto me before I can orient myself.
My fist flies out of pure reflex, but the person is suddenly too far to reach. I stumble only to be shoved back.
“You’ve got some balls on you showing up here after what you did,” my assailant yells. If the familiarity of their voice is any indication, it’s my fucking teammate.
The door slams open again. It takes precious brain cells for the fog to dissipate from my head and my vision to clear. Mitchell takes his place as mediator between me and Simon, who’s looking at me like he’s going to send me out of here in a body bag.
I sweep my gaze around the room, expecting Norton to come running around the corner. Tweedledee and Tweedledumb are never far apart.
“As warm as this welcome was, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I spit blood out to the side.
Bastard almost broke my tooth. My fist twitches, itching to return the favor. The last thing I fucking need is to get into more trouble and give the team another reason to hate me.
“Don’t play stupid,” Simon hisses. “I knew you were a snake the moment you stepped in here.”
“There’s no evidence that Leo did it,” Mitchell defends.
“Didwhat?” I demand. I glare at both men who conveniently ignore me.
“Fuck off, there isn’t,” Simon snarls, looking at me with raw accusation. “Jack messaged the chat saying his name when it happened.”
Jack?
“I don’t know what the fuck you think I did, but I didn’t do shit.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, a cold, familiar dread twists down my spine. I practically said the exact same thing to my parents when they approached me, saying Jack was worried about my drug use.
“You expect me to believe that after all the times you’ve targeted him? Last night, I saw you argue with him. Do you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that he gets jumped in his own home and the only thing he messages before going to the hospital is your name?”
That’s it?Jack has convinced people to turn on me just from that. Three letters. My fuckingname.
And the argument before the game wasn’t even a fucking argument. The cunt tried to hug me, and I shoved him off.
Like he thought I would.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
That meddling psycho is doing it again, turning people against me for his own sick gain.
Whether it’s shock, stupidity, or self-preservation from knowing nothing I say will change their mind, I keep my mouth shut. They’ll always choose Jack.Always.
I glance at Mitchell to make sure he’s just as pissed off, but he might as well have gutted me with the sideways look of uncertainty he sends me. Hereallythinks I’d be stupid enough to do that?
Unbelievable. He’s taking their side too.Again.
“What?” Simon laughs bitterly at my silence. “The guilt eating at you, that’s why you’re late? You’re fucking lucky he’s got no broken bones.” He raises his arm. “You’re a piece of?—”
I lunge forward, just shy of making contact with Mitchell’s outstretched arm. “Get your fucking finger out of my face, or?—”
The door slams open, and Coach comes barreling in, wearing a vicious frown. “What is going on here?” Mitchell pulls backwhen Coach takes his place. He points to the door, staring him down. “Simon, cool off.”
Simon scoffs and holds his hands up in surrender, moving back, but not before growling, “You better hope Jack can start playing again?—”
“Simon,” Coach snaps.
He gives me one last scathing glare before retreating.
