Page 33 of I Blame the Club

Staring back at him coolly, I reply, “My only regret is not beating you in a fourth round of pool. See you on the field, Montez.”

He doesn’t say another word as I leave, my footsteps echoing through the suddenly empty locker room.

Nico

Why does he have to be sohot?

Even if you took away the sculpted body, that face would sell magazines around the world. And let’s not forget the dominant and untouchable façade he marches around with. One lookat Maurice O’Brien and you get the mouth-watering basics: disciplined, rich, and used to getting what he wants.

But then you throw in the assault charge he almost got for smashing in some guy’s truck, the condescending father, the dark groves under his eyes, and suddenly there’s a lot more to Mo than meets the eye.

It’s safe to say that I am addicted.

“There’s my favourite co-captain!”

Wes comes barreling around the corner like the overexcited golden retriever he is and wraps me in a hug.

I barely hold back a groan when he picks me up off the ground. “It’s good to see you too, Wes. How was your weekend with Trip?”

Wes grins, his green eyes sparkling more than usual, “Too good to be true. I could go into the dirty details, but I would much rather hear about your rendezvous with a certain assistant coach.”

I laugh, hugging my best friend tightly, “There is too much to tell. Where would I begin?”

“The beginning would be a safe bet.”

Wes flashes me his dimples before pulling his shirt over his head. I turn away to give him some privacy – not that I haven’t seen it all before – and reach for my water bottle sitting on the top shelf.

“What is that?”

I peek over my shoulder to see Wes frowning at my exposed lower back.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Wait until you see the rest.”

Shaking my head, I pull up my shirt to give him a front row seat to the Nico-got-his-ass-kicked show. Wes’ eyes go wide as they take in the tragic state of my normally spotless skin.

“Nico, what the hell did you do?” His brows pull together as he stares at my back, “Are those… boot prints?”

I laugh darkly, “It’s not about what I did, it’s about what Maurice did. You should have seen-

“Mo did this to you?” Wes’ eyes harden as he glances between my face and the boot-sized bruises gracing my body.

“What? No, Maurice didn’t… Wes, wait!” I run after Wes as he storms from the locker room and breaks into a sprint towards our assistant coach.

Shit, shit, shit.

I scurry after him, cursing myself for not telling him about the gas station situation earlier. I’m halfway across the field when Wes reaches Mo. Willing my legs to speed up, I run as fast as I can to stop my best friend from making an ass of himself.

Damn it. I should have tried harder during sprints.

Thankfully, Mo had the foresight to initiate warm-up, so the rest of the team is busy running laps when I finally reach the men facing off. It’s comical seeing Wes square off with Mo, the latter towers over him with at least forty pounds of extra muscle.

What is not comical, however, is the furious look on Wes’ face. The last time he looked this mad, it took me and half the soccer team to drag him off Lacey’s ex-boyfriend.

“What the fuck is your problem, O’Brien? You show up in Taber as an assistant coach and the next thing I know you're beating the shit out of my co-captain.” Wes is practically spitting while Mo stares at him coldly.

“Not sure I understand your allegations.”

I throw myself between them, forming a human barrier between the snarling golden retriever and Iceman.

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