Page 4 of Freckles

No offence taken.

“You do look exceptionally fine,” I agree. “If your gameplay sucks, you can always use those guns to charm the ref.”

He checks over his shoulder, and bends to whisper, “There’s been a few grumbles about me being included in the starting lineup. This stint on the team could be over sooner than I think.”

“Nonsense. All it takes is a few minutes to prove yourself on the field.” I give him a quick hug. “We both know you will absolutely smash it.”

“And if I don’t, I’ll have my good looks to fall back on.”

The abrupt shift back to his typical excess of confidence makes me grin. “That’s the spirit.”

More of his friends come to wish him luck and I move towards the bleachers, enjoying the warmth of the weak winter sun, even if the stiff breeze cancels out the full effect. I smile at the other spectators, some obvious WAGs, some here just to watch a good game, and the rest lending their support, like me.

A boy shoves past me, scowling when I say, “Excuse me.” He gives me the finger instead of an apology, joining with a group of three further down, laughing as they glance back my way.

I shiver, the sudden cold more to do with their rudeness than the stiff breeze.

Despite what the colourful pamphlets implied when I accepted the scholarship here, it doesn’t feel like I belong at Westlake. A fact hammered home by the ones who do fit into this pretentious place.

Until Aidan befriended me, I spent every day alone.

With a defiant sniff, I raise my chin.

Let them laugh. It doesn’t make me any less worthy, despite the hollow sensation in my chest.

Kincaid Tana runs onto the field, jogging into position, drawing every spectator’s eye with his commanding presence. He nods to a few players before facing forward, a mask of concentration slipping into place.

Watching him in motion, I forget the rumour that he killed a man over summer, cutting the body into so many pieces the autopsy table looked like a grisly jigsaw.

All I see is his physical perfection.

The permanent sneer of his upper lip, the cheekbones sculpted into cliffs so high you could dive off them and never surface. When he pulls up his shirt to clear the sweat from his brow, I swoon at the chiselled abs rippling underneath, the deep V dipping under the low waistband of his black shorts.

Another far more prevalent rumour around campus is that he has an enormous shoe size and the—ahem—appendageto match.

One of those is certainly true. His rugby cleats are gigantic.

My gaze falters when his cousin Ezra takes position a metre from me, and I retreat until the students beside me act as a privacy screen.

A few weeks back, I’d had the daft idea to auction my virginity on a specialised website. My joy as the bids met reserve was soon tempered when Ezra showed up at the hotel room on the appointed day.

I’d expected a middle-aged man attempting to reclaim his youth, not a boy my age.

Not a boy who went tomy school.

I tried to follow through, but when he struggled to get hard, he got rough, and I got scared. I scurried out of the hotel as penniless as I’d arrived with the lingering taste of his revolting cock in my mouth, too appalled to try the auction again.

To my dismay, Aidan now seeks Ezra out, joking with him good-naturedly. Their heads are so close together they almost touch, then my friend gives him a shoulder bump, and moves to claim his own position.

With an effort, I focus my attention back on the rugby pitch in front of me as the ref blows his whistle to start play.

Apart from Aidan and Ezra, the guys on the field are indifferent to me at best, arseholes at worst. But watching their massive thighs driving them headlong into collisions, the tackles intimate and aggressive, they are gods.

My arms fly upwards at the first try, screaming my throat hoarse with the ragged cries of victory.

I’m so absorbed by the action, I don’t notice Alice Forsyth until she taps me on the arm.

“Hey,” she says, smirking at my startled yelp. “Chess, isn’t it?”

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