Oliver fucking Hughes comes out of nowhere like a rabid boar hiding in the brush waiting to stab his prey with its tusks, but the bastard doesn’t just take him down—he rams into his side, sweeping him over the side line and directly into a group of people on the wings. They go down like pins at the end of a bowling lane, plowed down by two massive players.
I jump up out of my seat, on the verge of yelling at the referee to stop dicking around and card the asshole for the gross penalty, but then I remember who I am. I have to keep my composure, because Lawrence Chapman is sitting only a few chairs away, probably cataloging anything he would deem inappropriate of a shareholder.
God, I hate that guy. I, genuinely and sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, hope the sock in his right shoe persistently slips down and bunches under his heel for the rest of time.
“Urm, hello!” Lottie stands on her seat, making her pink head rise over the row in front of us. “Are you going to make a call, or are you getting handies from Olli-pop to not do your job!”
The official heads toward where the two players are rising to their feet, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow card. A yellow card? That was definitely cause for a red, and I’m certain steam is coming out of my ears. Dad always found it amusing when I got overly heated as we watched a match together. I would pace the room, hands on my head, and try my best not to scream at the screen because then he would make me put money in a jar.
Let’s just say my allowance always found a way back into Dad’s wallet.
“Oh, fuck,” Lottie huffs, her tone worried.
It snaps me out of my reverie, and I look to where she stares.
Across the field, Tieran is helping a small ball boy to his feet, the kid no older than eight. He kneels, clasping his shoulders, searching him over head to toe for injuries. I can’t hear his voice, but I can imagine the worry that must be etched onto his face as he ensures the kid is okay before checking on the other people who got bulldozed.
Then, he stands, muscles flexing and contracting beneath his sweat-soaked jersey as he rolls his shoulders, slowly turning to face Hughes.
And then, all hell breaks loose.
All I see is red.
With the nature of the game we play, I can’t fault Hughes for seeing an opportunity to take me down. I will, however, fault him for tackling me into a group of people, including the young boy who was now trying to put on a brave face for a crowd of people.
“Are you alright? What’s your name?” I ask him before looking behind me. “Grab him a chair!” I call out before someone springs into action.
The boy nods. “Nathaniel.” His voice shakes, but it’s the tears lining his chocolate brown eyes and the sight of Hugheswalking awaywithout checking on anyone he just plowed to the ground that makes my rage snap like an elastic band pulled too taut.
“Nathaniel, can you sit down for me? I want the medic to look you over to make sure you’re alright.” He nods, a tear escaping his eye, and I reach forward and wipe it away. “It’s okay to cry, mate. I do it all the time.”
“Really?”
“For sure! I’ve gotta go have a chat with Hughes, but I’ll check on you later, I promise.” He nods, and I turn away, chasing after Oliver fucking Hughes.
When I catch up to him, I grab his shoulder and swing him around to face me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The smug, satisfied smirk on his face makes me borderline homicidal.
“Just playing the game, mate.” He shrugs.
I step further into his space, using every bit of my six-foot-four frame to intimidate him. “The game doesn’t include knocking down bystanders, you pillock. Pull your head out of your arse, you sodding narcissist.”
He snorts, not cowed in the least by the three inches I have on him. “That’s a lot of talk for someone who hasn’t won a game this season. What exactly are you fighting so hard for, Stone? You do realise your team blames you after every loss, right? You’re supposed to be leading them to victory, and all you’re doing is making them the punchline of rugby. Give up, or I’ll just keep taking from you. I already have your girl warming my bed every night, and soon enough—once you’ve mucked it up beyond saving—I’ll swoop in and take your spot on the Legends too.”
I take an involuntary step toward him, wanting nothing more than to lay him out. But Coach’s words from the start of the season sound an alarm in my head.Stay focused. No scandals. Keep us at the top of the leaderboard and your name out of the press.
Putting Oliver Hughes several inches into the turf would certainly kick up news stories, but he’s not worth it. I take a step back.
But Hughes follows my retreat, stepping into my space with a puffed out chest.
Around us, I can hear the fans cheering—taunting, hungry for blood. They probably don’t care whose gets spilled, they just want a good show.
“Go back to your side of the pitch, Hughes.” I turn, giving him my back against every instinct warning me against it.
“Yeah, I think I will,” he says too casually. “It’s much closer to that delightful ray of sunshine sitting over in the Legends VIP box next to your sister.” My step falters, but I keep going, giving nothing away. “That’s your new teamowner, right? Fuck, she’s fit. Though she seems a little angry, by the looks of it. Maybe she just needs me to fuck that frown right off her pretty face. I bet her cunt will feel like heaven, even if her attitude is hell, and I do like it when they put up a fight.”
The elastic band on my control snaps.
