Page 93 of Burning Embers

“They do that shit often?” I stare at him in disbelief.

Yes, I hear about bullying in schools, but I can’t really say I’ve ever been a victim of it before, nor have I seen it with my own two eyes. I may not have had a lot of friends, but people didn’t hate me.

Not the way they seem to with Ansel.

“It’s no big deal,” Ansel murmurs, attempting to fix a strand of wayward hair that has fallen into his eyes.

“It is a big deal if they’re physically touching you,” I snap. An inexplicable wave of anger surges through me. “I’ve always known that Kain was a dick, but this is ridiculous. I’m going to punch him in the damn balls if he goes near you again.”

Ansel stares at me with a strange expression. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because we’re friends, aren’t we?” I shrug awkwardly. “At least, we sort of are.”

Maybe acquaintances is a better word, but eh.

Ansel just continues to stare at me, and I can’t quite read the emotions percolating in his fathomless eyes. After a long moment of tense silence, he clears his throat and jerks his head towards the camera in my hands.

“I’ll let you get to it.” Without another word, he walks briskly to his side of the stadium.

I honestly don’t think I’lleverunderstand the inner workings of a guy’s mind.

As I move back and forth across the track, snapping pictures left and right, I make eye contact with Emery, who’s drinking from his water bottle. His helmet is off and tucked underneath his arm, allowing me to see his sweaty, mussed blond hair and red face.

Desire floods me at the sight of him.

Good lord…

Bad, Izzy! Bad! No lusting after bad-boy football players.

He offers me a flirty smile and a wink. “I’m winning this game for you, pretty girl.”

“You’re ridiculous.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the stupid grin from forming on my face.

“Ridiculous for you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Senseless for you.” He winks again.

The player beside him hits him across the back of his head, and it’s only then I realize that he’s standing next to Ashton.

Emery glowers at his friend and teammate but reluctantly shoves his helmet back on to focus on the game.

The third quarter begins.

I find myself just as invested as the rest of the crowd as both teams make a touchdown. We’re still ahead by three points, but the Vipers have the ball and are in field goal range. I bounce on the tips of my toes in excitement as I snap a few more pictures of the players.

The Vipers’ quarterback throws the ball, and their player catches it and races down the field. Someone from our team begins to chase him.

I continue to snap picture after picture as the visiting team goes wild with anticipation.

The Vipers’ player skirts quickly to the side, but our defense is right there, shoving him towards the foul line. The player steps out of bounds, and the ref blows his whistle. But still, the player keeps running, not losing momentum.

Right towards me.

I attempt to race to the side, but I’m too slow, shock holding me immobile and freezing my joints in place.

The next thing I know, I’m being tackled by a two-hundred-pound player.

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