Page 3 of Beautifully Conflicted

Checking my watch as I wander through the aisles, I see I’ve got several hours before the library closes and nothing to do. Not that I want to stay here in the almost eerie quiet, but…Ooh, there’s a smoothie shop in here? Do they have peanut butter?

My brows raise to new heights as I try to scout the menu from across the room.

Oh shit… they do!

I don’t think I breathe until I’ve ordered their largest size smoothie. Peanut butter banana with extra protein, just how daddy likes it.

The barista tells me my total and I cash out, only to find the café is just as empty as the rest of library. The blender is abnormally loud, and I retreat to an empty table by the window to wait, noticing I can see the stadium from my seat.

My stomach does a little flip, whether from nerves or anticipation I’m not sure.

The coaching staff want me to start building a rapport with my new teammates as soon as possible, which makes sense. Although, that leads to a bit of regret about leaving my former team, and the coachthat got me here. But the dream has always been to go pro, and I have a better shot at doing that here.

The Bighorns are regarded as one of the better teams in the country, and even though they didn’t end the season the way they wanted last year because of injuries, most of their top tier players are returning. Chances are, we’ll compete for the title.

That has me downright giddy with excitement. But I’m also a little nervous, considering I’m walking into hostile territory by being here.

My lifelong rival, Bennet Armstrong, is a star receiver here, and when he sees me in the locker room, I fully expect all hell to break loose.

I’m not sure why the guy hates me so much, except that I have his number. We’ve played against each other since we were kids and I know every move he’ll make before he makes it because of that.

I guess, that means I make him look his worst. Maybe that’s why… Except it’s just a game. Beating him on the field doesn’t explain the vitriol in his gaze when he looks at me.

If it were anyone else on the field, literally anyone, I wouldn’t give two shits about what they think of me. But I don’t want Bennet looking at me with contempt. I never have. All I’ve ever wanted is for him to justlook at me.

Since the first time I tackled him in a pee wee football game, and those ocean blue eyes blinked up at me, I’ve wanted his gaze on mine. Teenage me might’ve been a brat about that, seeing as how I thought any attention was good attention. And okay, maybe that’s why he’s not a member of my fan club. Still, I don’t think any of my antics rose to the level of heat – the scorch from the earth kind not the lusty kind – that he looks at me with.

No matter what I do, I seem to get under his skin.

Yeah, I get why shutting him down in a game would rankle him, but it’s not like he makes it easy. The fucker is so damn fast, and he’s got talented hands. I’ve seen him make catches most other receivers can’t. I’ve been in awe over it before.

In fact, I enjoy the challenge he brings me, because no one else can. Except maybe his teammate Jagger, but it’s because of their skill that I’ve grown as a player.

That’s why I always try to give him credit where it’s due. And possibly why I try to ruffle his feathers on the field. I want the challenge he brings. I want him at his best and he’s at his best when he’s angry.

So, I offer encouragement. A wink here and there, an occasional slap on the butt… I even tried blowing a kiss after a game once, just to switch things up, but his teammate had to hold him back from charging at me.

I’d say he’s a poor sport except he doesn’t glare at anyone else when they give him shit, just me. For years I thought that meant he liked me back—the wholebe mean to people you’re crushing onthing that kids do when they don’t grasp what their feelings mean—but as I got older, I realized he legitimately doesn’t like me.

Maybe even hates me.

That hurts since I’ve only ever wanted to be a player—a guy—he admires, but on the flip side…angry Bennet is hot as fuck. All shadowy and dangerous, despite the cobalt eyes, like a dark angel. It’s why I call him Lucy, after the original dark angel, Lucifer.

He makes my stomach do somersaults, so many of them that I can even sense them in my dick. It feels incredible, and my genuine appreciation for his game has sort of taken on a slightly evil flare. Since we only see each other a few times a year, goading him wasn’t something I’ve had to temper.

But now…

We’re going to be sharing a locker room… Hopefully, I won’t feel the need to rile him, and he’ll chill out a bit. Both as a teammate and… Yeah, I probably shouldn’t go there seeing as how he’s straighter than a fence board.

The barista calls out an order for a peanut butter banana smoothie and a guy I hadn’t noticed before stands up and walks toward the counter. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t here all along, although I was too lost in my own thoughts to notice when he might’ve come in. Still, I stand and approach the counter too since I think I was here first, and that’s my smoothie.

“I ordered the same thing, are you sure that one’s yours?” I ask as he reaches for the cup.

The guy, who’s about my height with a slender, more leanly muscled body, frowns at the cup. “How do I tell?”

“I got extra protein, did you?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Aah, no.” He spins the cup, noting the dark black checkmark next to the space for protein, and hands me the cup. “You’ve got good taste, aside from the protein thing.”

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