“You fucking—” he starts, launching himself at me. We collide with each other and the ground hard, sticks forgotten and fists taking over, slipping and swinging in the mud. The rain turns everything slick, punches glancing and landing in uneven bursts, bodies crashing into each other with enough weight to knock the breath from lungs. Someone is shouting but I can’t make out the words. Marcus swings, catching my jaw with a slick crack that snaps my head to the side. I respond immediately, driving forward and slamming my fist into his ribs, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm. Clasping his throat, I manage to overpower Marcus, flipping him onto his back in the grass.
“Her suffering is not a joke,” I spit into his face, driving him as far into the mud as I can manage. “You don’t know her, and you never will!” Hands grab at my jersey, the rest of the team rushing to his aid but their boots lose traction as we grapple and shove, neither of us willing to give up easily. The game is forgotten, the desire to win fully lost. We’ve resorted to mud smears, rogue punches and hissed insults.
Lifting him by the shoulders, I drive him back down again, my actions driven by adrenaline. His throat is turning purple from my stick’s strike, his jaw clenched tight as he strikes at my face over and over. By whatever fury is fueling me, I barely react. I taste blood, metallic copper flooding my mouth. That alone should be enough to spur me to stop straddling him in the mud. Fuck knows what my face looks like, but I don’t care what my father will say about it. I lean in, pressing the length of my forearm across Marcus’ throat to cut off his air supply.
“The next time you even think about Meg, I’ll be there to remind you of this. And next time, I won’t let up until I watch the life draining out of you.” With a final shove, I push myself away. Marcus scrambles for air, kicking to drag himself backwards. I smirk then, silently praising myself for a job well done until a light force hits my shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Meg hollers as if I’m a million miles away. I just got the impression she’s been shouting at me for a while. Coach’s umbrella barely shields her from the downpour, but she’s dried enough for pure venom to have festered in her blue eyes. I manage a half shrug, sensing a blossoming pain in my rotator cuff.
“What does it look like? I’m protecting you,” I jerk my hand out, gesturing to the pathetic mess on the floor. Meg’s brows fuse together, her lips pursing even further.
“Do I look like a damsel in distress to you?!”
“He said he…that you would…” As soon as I grind out the words, I know I’m screwing this up. It’s not sounding the way it does in my head. “He needed to be put in his place. You’re mine and the rest of the world needs to back the fuck off.”
Unadulterated rage flashes across her face. There’s no time to consider what that reaction was expecting, but it was something closer to swooning, I suppose. Then again, this is Meg and I really should have known better.
“Excuse me?” she asks low and quiet. Behind her, Coach’s widened eyes have dropped to the floor and they remain there. I run a frustrated hand through my hair. Screw it, I’ve come this far. Winding my arm around Meg’s back, I yank her into my side, placing her back beneath the blanket of rain.
“Listen up. Meg belongs to me. She is mine, and if anyone dares to talk about her in an unsavory way, you’ll end up the same way as this asshole.”
Marcus is still down, coughing and trying to suck air through his damaged throat. Before anyone can stop me, and before I can think better of it, my foot drives forward, connecting with his ribs. The impact is unforgiving, his body jolting as a broken sound rips from his throat. My lip snarls as he curls into a ball instinctively. This is his fault. He came with a plan to goad me, and I hope he’s happy with himself now.
“Stay the fuck down,” I snap in a voice barely recognizable to myself. For a second, only the pattering of water on my face and the rise and fall of my chest exist. Both teams litter the pitch, all confused as they stare on, not knowing what to do.
I should have known Meg would make the first move. She jerks in my hold, fighting against my mud-slickened body. Her hands shove hard against my chest, her body twisting away from mine as if the contact burns. Before I fully process the shift, she steps in close again, and white-hot pain consumes me. Her knee remains lodged in my groin, my balls screaming for her to release them. Suddenly, my hold on her is less possessive and more of a necessity unless I want to join Marcus on the floor.
The air is knocked clean out of me, a strangled sound ripping from my throat. The world tilts, vision blurring at the edges as I stagger back a step, then another, fighting for breath that doesn’t want to come. Meg’s hands become fists in my jersey, her face filling the little vision I have left.
“I’m. Not. Yours.”
I don’t argue. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and Meg doesn’t wait for a response anyway. Releasing me and turning on her heel, she storms off across the pitch, cleats kicking up mud with every furious step. The rain swallows her quickly, not that I thought she’d look back anyway.
Holding back the need to throw up my guts, I snatch Coach’s umbrella, starting my long and uncomfortable walk back to my house. I wince with every step, the adrenaline that carriedme now ebbing away. Reality crashes back in hard, drawing a whimpered exhale from my throat.
This whole shitshow was doomed from the start, and I had a feeling I would be retreating with my tail between my legs. I just didn’t think it would be my swollen balls that fell victim to my own arrogance this time.
Chapter Thirty Six
That asshole.
I’m seething. Beyond furious. Not only was the match a write-off from the instant I stepped onto the pitch, Everest had the audacity to start a fight over the fake claim he has on me. The only way he could have driven his point home harder would have been to publicly brand my ass with a hot poker. I’m Everest Calloway’s property. His obedient little bitch, if that display back there was to be believed. I don’t fucking think so.
My bad mood continues to spiral as I stomp my way across campus towards my dorm. Vibrations pulse through my bag strap, my phone ringing out and picking up again straight away. I know Thi is trying to get a hold of me, wanting to know how itwent. I’m so thankful I managed to convince him to skip coming to support, using the bad weather and his own introverted nature against him. I can’t even think about him right now, the welling of tears behind my eyes threatening to spill over. I’m not even sad. I’m beyond angry, and although I don’t have any other outlet, I damn well refuse to give this campus and its spectators any more of me.
Throwing open the main door, I trudge into my apartment block, my sneakers dragging up each step. Clumps of mud clinging to loose strands of my braid swing wildly, smacking against my cheeks and neck. The rain has soaked through my jersey and taken root in my soul. My leggings are sodden, stuck to my legs as I force just enough power into my thighs to get up these stairs.
Screw having our first real match in a thunderstorm. Screw Everest, screw absolutely everything that isn’t a hot shower and my bed. With a scowl cemented on my face, I reach the top step just in time to see Reid about to enter the bathroom, a towel thrown over his shoulder.
“Oh no you don’t!” I shout, drawing on my last burst of adrenaline. Running the length of the hall, my arms pump and my braid slaps a wet thud against my back. Reid half turns, appearing alarmed at the sight of me, caked in dirt and charging towards him. He hesitates before rushing forward, attempting to slam the door shut but I’ve already collided with it.
Reid lets out a grunt of frustration as I wedge my shoulder between the door and the frame, using the full force of my weight to keep it from closing. My arms are slick with rain and mud, my fingers fumbling for purchase as I grapple with the handle. He pushes back, his towel slipping halfway off his shoulder, his expression caught between disbelief and growing irritation.
“Back off,” he growls, digging his heels into the tile. “I’ve earned this.”
“Oh,you’veearned it?” I bite out, shoving harder with a grimace as a fresh glob of mud slides down my cheek. “I’ve been out there getting pelted by rain and god knows what else while you sat around doing... what, fucking your paint palette?”
His foot slams forward to stop me, but I twist, wedging my knee into the gap and shoulder-barging my way inside. Reid stumbles back with a curse as I breach enemy lines, my cleats dripping a trail of sludge across the tiles. From the stormy look on his face, I bet he wasn’t expecting me to overpower him. That’s what he gets from wielding a stick of charcoal whilst I’m spending every afternoon swinging a crosse, picturing Everest’s stupid face as my target.
