Page 94 of Lovefool

“Buford wouldn’t tell me jack shit. Why are you protecting him?”

There’s a chilly detachment in my boyfriend’s voice—one that has never been reserved for me. And I’m more than aware that the moral superiority Olympics we’re playing right now is turning neutral ground into a war zone.

He doesn’t cage his truth; he doesn’t even water it down so there’s a cushion for its hard-hitting blow. “I’m not excusing his behavior, but if we’re thinking logically here, maybe some subconscious part of you realizes this is the perfect opportunity to get revenge.”

I got revenge one time, and now he thinks I ruin people’s lives just so I can watch them scramble to put the pieces back together. Does he even know me? I’m not that kind of person.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to do better for myself, my family, and the people around me. My trauma ironed me out to be a girl who takes action when nobody else will, and now I’m being persecuted for it.

“Wow. I can’t believe you think that lowly of me,” I whisper, indignation rattling through my body on some unauthorized mission to turn my stomach inside out.

“Then why do you care?” he growls, stepping closer to me, dwarfing me in every conceivable way.

I’m seeing a side to my boyfriend that I never knew existed. Maybe he was just exceptionally good at hiding it beneath his moon-eyed optimism, or maybe I was blinded by something I knew was too good to be true.

“Because what he did was wrong and illegal. I can’t brush this under the rug. This is a serious offense. Shit like this could continue if we don’t put a stop to it. He could lose the championship game for you guys if that’s what he was paid to do. Buford is quite literally sacrificing all your hard work as a team for some extra pocket money. I’m just trying to⁠—”

“Play moral police,” Sutton finishes.

Ouch. Getting a right hook to the face would’ve been less painful. Why isn’t he on my side? Why am I suddenly the bad guy for wanting to do what’s right?

Tears finally carve tracks down my cheeks, singeing my skin, secretly working in tandem with the fire in my sinuses that makes it hard to breathe and see and speak. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re going to sabotage me…your friends…all based on an unsubstantiated accusation.”

His insinuation slingshots bile up my throat and burns my stomach. “I did my research. If Buford isn’t guilty, then you won’t get disqualified.”

“The damage will have already been done,” he concludes, spitting metaphorical gunfire my way and not caring for the sharpness of his words or the slabs of skin they wound on their way out. “I thought I mattered to you. Are you really choosing your moral high ground over everything we’ve built together?”

“It’s not personal, Sutton.”

“Bullshit. Of course it is. The fact that you can’t see how badly this will ruin everything is astounding.”

There’s no use in trying to remain cordial. I explode back at him, staring at the man who doesn’t have the decency to snuff out the match I’m still holding between my fingers—the fleeting and fast-burning representation of our love.

“What about me, huh? You’re choosing your teammates over me! I thought we were in this together. Did all those vulnerable moments we shared together mean nothing to you? I told you about my sister, I let you meet my brother. I don’t do those things with just anyone.”

“They meant everything to me, and that’s why this hurts so much.”

Sutton drags a vexed breath through his teeth, exerting every muscle in his face to frown. Narrowed eyes, set jaw, the all-consuming air of distrust that reminds me I’ve only known this man for a couple months. Not only that, but I’ve confided my deepest, darkest secrets to him.

I don’t recognize the person standing before me. How could he turn a blind eye to Buford Montgomery, of all people? Showing up to protest with me—was that all just some performative activism?

Sutton is a good person who does the right thing. I’m a bad person pretending to be good. If I was looking for a surefire way to end this relationship, I found one without having to lift a finger. This is bigger than both of us, and yet I didn’t hesitate to sacrifice the trust it’s taken so long for us to build together.

“Do you know how hard the Mustangs have worked to get here? I’ve seen my brothers get put through the goddamn wringer for months on end. We’ve sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears. I’ve put my body through hell to keep up with Coach’s strict regimen. And all of that will be for nothing if you go through with this.”

“You were the one who said people should take more accountability. Where’s that Sutton?” I bark, grief shortening my cadence.

“I can’t believe you’d betray me like this,” he scoffs, his voice cutting too close, lightning strobing in his eyes and thunder rumbling deep in the base of his throat.

“It’s not about you!”

“It’s not about you either!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I exclaim, finally stockpiling the courage to forge my voice into a weapon. I’m at the point where all I want to do is hurt him like he’s hurt me, and that’s a juvenile way of resolving a conflict.

“This need to do the right thing? It’s not because you actually want to help people. It’s because you want to absolve yourself from the shit you did in your past,” Sutton snarls, practically digging his finger into the figurative, bloody gashes on my body that only exist because he put them there.