Page 121 of The Stud

Alone.

Abandoned.

Potato gets called for hooking right at the end of the first, putting us on the PK for the start of the second and pushing Cap over the edge for what I know is going to be a less than enjoyable break.

Particularly for me.

My ass hasn’t even touched my seat in the locker room when he grabs a fist full of my sweater like I weigh absolutely nothing. “Where. The. Fuck. Were. You?!”

“Seriously, Snowman,” Looferz sighs from the other side of the room, bucket being chucked in frustration. “You couldn’t tell whatever bunny to wait ‘til postgame and be on time for fuckinggameday?”

The man who always has my back,everyone’s back, tightens his hold.Noticeably.“Were you fucking around?” His volume lowers to just above a whisper. “On your fucking Slayer?!” He cranes his sweaty, pale face uncomfortably closer to mine. “After all mine’s done for you?!”

“No.” I hold his stare hostage to ensure there’s no question about my loyalty to Arden. “I would rather never lace up another day in my life than hurt her.”

One single nod of respect is offered.

I work too hard trying to keep her in my life to fuck it all away on some smash and pass.

Not to mention I actually bloody love her.

Though that is sonotup for discussion tonight.

Or tomorrow.

Or really anytime this season since I’m quite certain she’d just fold our entire relationship.

Fuck, just getting her to admit we had one damn near took an act from The League.

“Where, Frosky?” Cap repeats, grip unwavering. “Where. Were. You?”

“The hospital.”

His brow instantly furrows. “Why?”

“Becks.” Just his name is enough to grant me my freedom. “He hit his head. He’s alive but unresponsive.”

“Shit,” mutters an eavesdropping player somewhere in the background.

“Pecks is with him now-”

“I was wondering where bro was,” Wahl comments, joining Cap’s side. “It ain’t exactly his style to miss a game.”

“Not without threat of bodily harm,” one of the Goonie Tunes chimes.

“Or benching,” the other comments.

“Unless a teammate needs him,” Cap sighs on a step back, removing his mouthpiece. “Just like you.”

“Just like me, Cap.”

He gives the side of his face an uncomfortable scratch, unhappily sighs, and extends his gloved fist to bump. “Ferda.”

“Ferda.”

His stumble away exposes me to Coach who sternly lifts his eyebrows into the air. “We got forty hard milesup fucking hill, Frosky. I expect you to make it snow.”

“Yes, Coach.”

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