“Tomorrow?”
He grins. “I hope you’re ready to put on a good show in front of the student body and all our friends and family members.”
My stomach lurches. Tomorrow night is the intra-squad showcase where the team shows off our skills by pairing up against each other. And of course, Brody and I are the only ones in our weight class. So we have no choice but to match against each other.
“Oh, and hey Captain?” he adds, leaning in close enough that his breath grazes my cheek. “Try not to get hard in front of your dad.”
I shove him away so fast I almost fall over.
He only laughs.
The second Coach calls our names, something low in my stomach tightens so sharply I almost pitch forward. It’s ridiculous—I’m not nervous. I’m not. I know I can beat him. I’ve beaten bigger, stronger, tougher guys. I’ve crushed athletes he couldn’t handle on their best day. That’s what I’m telling myself, at least.
Realistically, I know well enough that Brody is an exceptional athlete. He wouldn’t have the stats he does if he weren’t, and he wouldn’t have earned a scholarship to one of the best Division One schools in the region. But I’m a damn good athlete, too. And really, when I think hard about it, we’ve never truly faced off against each other. Because the first time I was too shocked and horrified by what happened, and every time since I’ve been too scared.
I need to stop being scared.
But the moment my eyes land on him across the mats—hair damp, shoulders loose, expression annoyingly relaxed—a hot, traitorous twitch sparks in my gut.
Not now. Not here. Christ, please not here.
I force my lungs to stay even, force my jaw to lock, force my brain to behave. In a room full of parents, siblings, alumni, and my own goddamn father, I willnotlet my body give away anything.
I pinch the skin on the inside of my arm hard enough that I know it’s going to add another odd bruise, but it’s better than the alternative. Pain helps. Pain focuses. Pain redirects.
The twitch subsides. And once I’ve gotten my bearings, I look up at the stands to where my father is watching me with a stone-faced expression. Next to him, Caty is grinning and waving with a knowing look on her face that I both love and hate her for. She places a small hand on my father’s shoulders and bats her eyes up at him innocently as she says who knows what, and he actually laughs.
That girl is some kind of witch, I swear it.
The ref calls us up to the mat. Brody steps up first, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up for a dance floor instead of a wrestling match. He looks like he’s having fun—as always, like this is a game, not something that matters.
He shakes my hand with a smile that borders on wicked. I grip harder than I should.
Then we crouch into position.
“Set.”
My stance tightens automatically. Weight forward, hips low, elbows tucked. I talk myself through it. I have the height advantage and a longer reach. If I focus, I should be able to easily control the pace.
The whistle blows.
We circle each other. He reaches with his left hand, and I dodge it and swat it away. He chuckles. That bastard actually chuckles. But his cockiness gives me an opening. I throw myself at him, taking him down with my shoulder in his hip and my hands wrapped around the back of his thighs.
He's sturdy, and the moment of resistance lasts long enough that I mentally start recalculating, but I keep my feet driving, head up, my chest to his thigh. His balance shifts, and I get the takedown as we crash down to the mat. Brody is already building up on his base, trying to peel my hands away. I hook his ankle with my leg and press my weight forward.
God, he's strong.He keeps turning his hips, forcing me to slide my chest higher across his shoulders.
"Ride him out!" one of my teammates encourages.
Brody makes a sound, halfway between a groan and a chuckle. "Yeah, Beckett. Ride me out. You can take it."
He shifts his hips, pressing up into me like he's thrusting, no longer trying to escape but pulling me down on him harder. I falter, and he snaps his hips out from under me. My grip slips, and he catches my right arm, hooks it tight, and rolls. His back brushes the mat for an instant before he's behind me.
I hit the mat with my palms, scrambling to turn, but he drives forward, chest against my back. Coach calls the points for the reversal.Fuck.
I try to shift my weight to get leverage, but he presses hard into my back. His hands reach under my arms to lock my wrist. No matter how much I try to bridge and roll, he's got me pinned down.
Coach is counting. The more I wriggle and fight, the harder he presses into me, and I can feel… it. I fight harder, managing to roll a little, but he forces me flat again, breathing into my ear.
