Page 236 of By His Play

I storm forward, uncaring about everyone else in here witnessing what’s about to go down.

The very moment I’m in reaching distance, I twist my fingers in the back of his sweat-damp shirt and drag him backward off the machine.

His legs go in different directions and he scrambles to stay upright while trying to work out what the fuck is happening.

Shoving him to the floor, I loom over him, giving him just a second to predict what’s coming next.

“Kieran, what the?—”

“You fucking asshole. How long?” I bellow. “How long have you been fucking her?”

Before he has a chance to get a word out, I drag him to his feet and throw my fist into his face.

The second it connects, pain radiates from my knuckles and up my arm. But instead of lessening my anger, it feeds it.

No sooner have I pulled my arm back, I get ready to go again.

It doesn’t matter that he’s back on the floor, that he’s at a disadvantage. I’m blind to everything but what he’s taken from me.

The one thing in my life I care about more than anything. I lunge forward to take another swing, but a large pair of hands grip my upper arms and drag me back.

“That’s enough,” Easton barks as two other guys rush toward Brax to help him up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, shaking them off and dabbing his cut brow with his hand. Then, he looks up at me. But there isn’t anger or irritation in his eyes like there should be. Instead, there’s understanding and compassion, and I hate him even more because of it.

“How could you?” I bark, refusing to fully acknowledge what his expression is telling me.

I don’t want to believe anything but what those photos showed, the story they told.

“Bro, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“That’s not gonna help,” one of the guys beside him mutters.

“It doesn’t matter,” Brax says, lifting his shirt and wiping sweat and blood from his face. “Motherfucker will believe what he wants to believe.”

I surge forward in the hope Easton has loosened his grip, but I’m bitterly disappointed.

“I know what I saw,” I seethe.

“Yeah? And I know the truth.” I sneer at him. “We’ll talk,” he states before swiping his towel from the machine. “But not like this. Go home, Kieran.”

Without another word, and without looking back, he marches from the gym.

It takes long seconds before Easton finally lets me shrug out of his grip.

“The fuck, Callahan?” he demands once he’s stepped in front of me.

“Fuck off,” I grunt, not willing to get into it with him.

His lips flatten and his nostrils flare.

“You do not get to come in here throwing punches and think you can walk out again like nothing happened,” he warns.

Easton is a fucking killer quarterback and a fantastic captain.

I respect the fuck out of him both on and off the field, but right now, I barely have any respect for myself, let alone anyone else.

“You need to start talking.”

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