Page 22 of Blitz'd

I should go back to the club this weekend, find a girl and fuck her in the bathroom. Fuck taking her home. I need to get Kerian out of my system sooner rather than later. The sooner I know that I’m not into dudes, the better.

A faint laugh bubbles up my throat as I call the play. If I didn’t like dudes, Kerian wouldn’t have the effect on me that he does.

Over the past few days, I’ve had time to think and try to figure shit out. It’s almost impossible, trying to wrap my head around everything. If it were any other dude, I’m sure I would have been able to come to terms with it. But it’s fucking Slade. He shouldn’t have this much power over me.

But if I’m being honest, he does. I can’t face it, not completely, but when it comes to my rival, I’m fucked.

“Hut, set hut.” Chuck snaps the ball and I grip it, twisting it around my palm. Dropping back a few steps, I cock my arm back and let the ball fly. I duck Russ’s rush, grinning when he flies over my back. I stand just in time to see my tight end clutch the ball to his chest, running into the end zone.

Coach blows his whistle again. “That’s fucking better, Braithe. Now keep your head out of your ass and we can win the game against U of C in three days, yeah?”

“Yes, Coach,” I say, pulling my helmet off to push my hair from my eyes before shoving it back on.

“Run it again.”

We line back up and run the play over and over until Coach deems it perfect.

He blows his whistle three times again about an hour later, signaling the end of practice. The special teams let out grunts of pain as their punishment ends. This time, I allow the grin to bloom across my face when I meet Justin’s eyes. He sucks his teeth and waddles to the locker room. He and the rest of his team have to be hurting from running suicides for an hour.

When I finish my shower, like a fucking pathetic asshole, I pull my phone out of my locker to check it. It’s what I’ve been doing every day after practice to see if Kerian texted me. And every day I’m disappointed, dread sinking in my gut when I see I have no messages.

But today is different. His name on my screen has my breath catching. I sit on the bench, my towel wrapped around my waist as I look at his text. The thin material does nothing to hide my growing erection. Fucking Kerian.

Fucking Asshole: How’s it going, Dimples? You missed me?

I changed his name in my phone after day number two of him ignoring me. It’s childish, but I don’t give a fuck.

My dick twitches as I remember how deep and gravelly his voice sounds when he calls me Dimples. Fuck, why is Kerian in my head like this?

Me: You got sum fuckin nerve textin me. I should have blocked you

Fucking Asshole: Yeah, but you didn’t. That means you wanted to hear from me. I’m flattered.

Me: Fuck u. What do u want

Fucking Asshole: You, Dimples. How’s practice?

Me: This conversation is over. bye fucking asshole

I toss my phone away, scoffing as I stand to get dressed. My dick still hasn’t softened. With a sound of irritation, I quickly drop my towel and pull on my briefs and pants, hoping no one caught my boner.

I’m pulling my shirt over my head when I feel a presence behind me. “I should beat your ass for that shit you pulled in practice,” Justin says, anger dripping from his tone.

I turn to him with a raised eyebrow. “And what did I pull? Last I checked, you’re the one who made your team run suicides.” I lean against my locker and cross my arms over my chest. “Won’t be able to fuck your girl with sore legs, huh?”

He snarls, stepping closer to me. “You wish you were fucking her, don’t you?”

Thoughts of Kerian and how he made me come like a fucking freight train from a hand job flutter through my mind. Megan nor any other girl has ever made me come that hard, that fast.

Smirking, I shake my head. “Nah, bruh. That’s all you. I met someone at Nirvana who’s better than Megan. Glad you’re enjoying fucking behind me, though.”

He tries to leap at me, but a few of the guys who were listening to our interaction stop him before he can.

“Chill,” the first-string kicker, Brett Moone says, pushing Justin in the chest. “I’m not about to run more fucking suicides because you don’t know how to take the fucking win. You got the girl. Give it a fucking rest.”

Justin eyes me, then storms off. Well, he tries to. The hour of running at almost full speed under Coach’s watchful eye prevents him from exiting gracefully.

“Thanks man,” I say to Brett. He nods and goes to his locker to get dressed.

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