Follow the River

With that said, I give him a hard shove and turn away, heading to the sidelines until I’m needed on the field again.

Only I don't make it more than two steps before he grips my arm, yanking it so I spin back around. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Ciaráin. The way my skin is scorching under his hand is confirmation enough. It’s searing, actually. The way our sweat mixes on my arm, adding to the burn already present any time he touches me.

It’s so distracting, I don’t even feel it at first when his fist meets my cheekbone.

My head snaps to the side as a throbbing pain radiates from the spot where he landed the punch. I stumble back a couple steps, wincing at the pain as a hiss escapes my lips. My hand makes its way to my cheek, cupping it in my palm as I glance up at this asshole.

My first thought is this fucker actually just hit me.

And, fortunately or not, my second is an immediate I’m the quarterback. I can’t hit him back.

No matter how much I want to.

But what I can do…?

My hands are on his chest pads, shoving him as hard as I can away from me. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout at the top of my lungs, the words ripping from my throat in a snarl.

He pulls back for another punch, but I’m prepared this time, ready to block or dodge him.

Only, I don’t have to because Aiden is behind him, restraining him in a headlock while he fights and struggles to get at me. Drew steps in between us, a palm on either of our chests when I feel someone’s hand on my throwing wrist, holding me in place.

Glancing up, I find Elliott at my side, his eyes on his twin, Aiden, and Rain.

“Think about who you’re throwing punches at, Grady,” Elliott says in a low voice, eyes narrowed on him. “Because it isn’t a fair fight when you know he won’t hit back.”

Ciaráin doesn’t have the chance to respond though, because everyone is crowding around us now, including Coach Scott and the officiating crew.

“Eighty-three, eighteen, those are flagrant personal fouls,” the white hat says. He turns to Coach, nodding his head at us. “I have to toss these two, Coach. They need to hit the showers.”

“I understand, Al,” Coach Scott says to the referee, his glare aimed at us. “You two. Locker room. Now. And you’ll wait there for me until after the game.”

Anger bubbles inside me.

Ejected.

I was just ejected.

Yanking my arm from Elliott’s grip, I stalk toward the tu

Fuck.

Never in my life have I been ejected from a game.

Never in my life have I gotten into an altercation with another player for any reason.

And never in my fucking life would I have thought both would happen in the most important game of the season, maybe even my life.

Pushing through the locker room door, I rip my pads over my head and toss them into my locker, the plastic banging against the wood with a crack. I quickly slip out of the rest of my uniform and toss that in too. Grabbing the towel from the top shelf, I head to the shower.

As I stand under the spray, I attempt to let it wash this bullshit off me, along with my shitty attitude. But the water does nothing to curb my anger. Instead it feeds it, soaking into my pores like toxic venom until I’m ready to burst.

I hear a stall slam closed and another shower start, signaling Ciaráin must be in here finally. What took him so long to get in here, I don’t know.

Nor do I care at this moment.

Fuck him.

The rage inside me is a new feeling, one I’m not used to coping with. I’m a laid back, go with the flow kind of guy. Some would even say happy-go-lucky. Rage does not mix with any of that.

But unfortunately, that is the emotion Ciaráin Grady seems to bring forth in me more than any other.

Turning off the shower, I exit with the towel wrapped around my waist and head back to my cubby to get dressed in a pair of sweats and a long-sleeve tee. I wince as the fabric brushes against my face, already having forgotten I’m going to sport quite the shiner for the next week or two.

I head over to the mirror in the bathroom, glancing at my cheek.

It’s not terribly swollen, but it’s red and angry and most definitely will be black and blue in the morning.

“Aw, damn. Checking out how bad I messed up your pretty face?” Ciaráin’s voice says from behind me, causing me to meet his gaze in the mirror.

I give him a glare, noting the asshole is once again only wrapped in a towel. It brings me back to the day only a few weeks ago, when I said fuck it and tugged it off him to give him the best blowjob of his life, even if he would never admit it.

Cocking my head, I turn to face him, leaning against the sink with my arms crossed over my chest. “The joke’s on you, because you’re the one who has to look at it every day, not me.”

He taps his chin as he looks over my face and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Well shit, in that case, I’m regretting not giving you a matching set.”

I bite my tongue so hard it starts to bleed because if I don’t do something, I most definitely am go

And that would be very, very bad. Because this damn hand is my ticket to tuition free college. Which is extremely helpful if I’m going to be in school long enough to get a doctorate in physical therapy.

Buuuuuuuuut that doesn’t mean I have to keep my mouth shut.

“Well why don’t you?” I taunt, raising my arms out to my side to offer myself up to him. “I fucking dare you.”

Ciaráin takes a step towards me, his eyes narrowed into slits like a snake ready to strike. And I try really, really hard not to notice how the knot in the towel around his waist slips slightly with the movement, revealing more of that tattoo inscribed on his hip.

A tattoo that I’ve licked and sucked like it was my own personal piece of candy.

You’ve licked and sucked a lot more than just his fucking tattoo, you idiot. That’s why you’re in this mess in the first place.

“You don’t think I will?” he asks, stalking closer and closer until he’s right in front of me, his face less than a foot from mine. I can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest, seeping into me through my shirt.

And I hate it.

That his proximity does this weird thing to my body and I can’t seem to get a hold on long enough to fight it.

My eyes meet his, hard and determined, and I smirk. “No, I think you will. I want you to, in fact. Do it again. Please. So Coach has no choice but to suspend you from the team. Or better yet, kick you off entirely because I sure as fuck have no interest in playing ball with you ever again. Especially for the shit show you put on out there.” I look him up and down, purposely pausing on his cock for a moment too long before meeting his glare once more. “Fucking Heisman worthy, my ass.”

His hand is around my throat a second later, his face only inches from mine as he sneers at me with malice. “Maybe I’ll just fucking kill you instead. Snap the golden boy’s pretty little neck like I promised in that classroom. Because my world will sure as fuck be a much better place without you in it.”