Page 17 of I Blame the Club

"Ya man, we were just havin' a bit of fun. Chill the fuck out."

The one wearing a baseball hat flashes me a grin and that's when I snap.

Grabbing the one closest to me, I lift him up by the collar and slam him against the side of the truck. He whimpers when his back makes contact with the broken window, but I don't give him a chance to scream. I lean in closer, his pockmarked face blurring into something cold and disdainful.

Something that looks a lot like my father.

“Touch another person again and I will ruin you. Not kill you, ruin you. I will drain your family’s measly income and destroy every acre you grew up on. Do you understand me?”

Bloodstained eyes blink a few times before he gives me a shaky nod.

"Good. Now get out of my sight."

I throw him to the ground and he shrieks when he lands on broken glass. Stepping over him, I hold my bat steady as I approach the rest of the group. They scurry like rabbits, running over to pick up their friend and pushing each other into the truck.

“Fuck! There’s glass everywhere.”

“Just go!”

The headlights flicker as they rev the engine, shards of glass littering the concrete as they peel out of the gas station.

Good riddance.

Taking a calming breath, I take a moment to shove my emotions back under lock and key. Carefully rearranging my expression back to neutral, I turn to see the shopkeeper staring at me in horror.

I meet his gaze with a slight tilt of my head, “You can keep the change.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, I walk over to the man lying on the ground. The guy's dark hair is caked with blood, his red shirt torn so thoroughly that I can see the dark bruises blooming all over his unconscious body. I swallow the nausea rising in my throat and kneel next to him to search his pockets for a wallet. Finding it in his back pocket, I flip it open and stare at the face smirking back at me.

It’s Nico Montez.

Nico

A cool washcloth presses against my forehead.

I blink, my vision blurry as a ball of fury pounds its way through my brain. Groaning, I try to sit up only to lie back down.

Fuck. Friday nights are the worst.

Shutting my eyes again, I lean into the washcloth pressed against my hot skin, “Wes, you bastard. How many times do I have to tell you I’m not allowed to crowd surf anymore? I’m too old for that shit.”

My voice is hoarse and my chest feels like it got trampled. No one must have been in a catching mood tonight.

“You're too old for a lot of the shit you pull, Montez.”

I blink, tilting my head to look up at the pale blue eyes watching me.

I scream.

Mo raises a brow, tossing the washcloth on my lap, “Do that again and I’ll duct tape your mouth shut.”

My mouth snaps shut and my panicked gaze skitters down to my bare chest.

Oh my God. I slept with our assistant coach.

I watch in horror as Mo crouches down to face me, “Do you remember what happened tonight?”

His gaze is calm and collected, the exact opposite of what I’m feeling. I glance around the room and spy bloodstained bandages covering an otherwise gorgeous apartment.

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