Page 5 of Offside Rule

While I hoped to be able to stop him again, somehow I knew I couldn’t stand in his way.

The look on his face seemed determined, and goddamn scary.

“Hijo de puta,” he spat through his teeth. While I didn’t know much Spanish, it wasn’t hard for me to figure out what the insultmeant. I ran faster when Xavier grabbed his cousin by the collar. Isaac didn’t even try to fight him off, just swallowed the dryness in his throat with sad puppy-dog eyes.

“Xavier Kevalle, I suggest you step aside,” I threatened, trying to keep my tone professional. In reality, I was rooting for this stranger to get back to his senses, and not make me do something neither of us wanted. If he didn’t take his hand off Isaac Kevalle right now, I would have no other choice but to suspend him. I had too many eyes on me, and they would jump like hyenas the moment I stepped off the field if I didn’t make him pay for his aggression.

“You’ll be suspended,” I informed him when he made no move, already taking the yellow card out, somehow knowing he wouldn’t let it go.

He froze for a moment, and I thought he was going to let it go, but then he fisted his hand tighter around Isaac’s shirt and pushed him to the ground. He backed away, and with a deep, disappointed exhale, I raised the yellow card in the air and wrote his name down.

“I’m done with this,” Xavier announced, sharp as a knife.

I watched him stalk off the field, and while my eyes begged me to keep track of him, the match had to go on. Spain was going to continue the remaining minutes of the game with only eleven players.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I heard his coach scream just before I blew the whistle.

THREE

XAVIER

Idrove a fist into one of the lockers in the changing room, the sound of my knuckles crashing into the metal shattering the deadly silence. A throbbing sensation wrapped around my hand as I pulled it away, and I held back a hiss as I fixed my eyes on the fresh dent in the locker's door in the shape of my fist.

I didn't glance down at my hand to inspect the damage I had most likely done to myself, but instead took a step back, fighting to regain my breath. As I threaded my fingers through my hair, I felt them shaking uncontrollably.

"Fuck," I shouted, fisting locks of curly hair as the urge to let my anger spill over rushed through me. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I kept repeating, and flipped one of the benches with a loud crash before moving my attention to my backpack.

My fingers curled on it before I sent it flying toward the window. Losing my temper to the point of wanting to break everything and everyone around me was new territory. I hadn't felt this much frustration, wrath, or stress since I had been a kid struggling with anger issues.

What I felt when that fucker missed the goal ... pure rage. Especially knowing that I or any-fucking-one else could've putthat damned ball in the net if it hadn't been for my uncle and his need to prove shit to people.

Why did I pass the ball to Isaac? I should've taken the shot and saved my team from the penalty that was sure to come. It wouldn't have been my first time defying my uncle's orders on the field, but when he’d screamed at me to let Isaac take the strike, I’d seen the guilt swimming in his son’s eyes. For a moment, I had seen the desperation of making his father proud, and sensed how confident he had been about getting it right this time.

But I had been wrong. I’d handed him my trust, and he’d shattered it. I was even more mad, because while I knew it wasn't his fault, I’d still unleashed all my anger on him.

It was my fault. I’d put my feelings into the game instead of thinking about my team. At that moment, I had resembled my uncle too much for my liking.

My chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and I found myself dropping to the ground. I propped my elbows on my knees as my head hung low between my legs.

I ignored the greater pain buzzing in my chest, which made the scratch on my knuckles seem like nothing. Both were on me. I was responsible for the potential loss today, and also for signing myself up to sit out the next game or two.

Time slowed, and I didn't know how long I crouched there listening to my own breaths. When steps sounded in the distance, I felt a flicker of fear mixing with the unbearable pain.

Had they lost? Had they won?

I waited for the usual cheers and whistles, but only silence accompanied their steps. Even those were silent.

They’d lost. They’d fucking lost.

Vane was the first to enter, his brows pinched together as he strode into the room. For a moment, I thought he was going tostep right past me. But when he gripped me by my collar and pinned me against one of the lockers, my eyes widened in shock.

"Why did you do that?" The rest of the guys spilled into the small space around us, watching the encounter, but making no move to intervene.

And I deserved that. Even if they all threw me to the ground and launched a fist or leg directly into my stomach, I'd suck it up.

"We'll lose the next game without you, you fucking selfish bastard," he murmured, his hold on me tightening. The hurt in his eyes choked the air out of me.

My eyes softened. "You won't," I pushed.

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