Page 121 of The Off-Limits Play

He laughs and guns the engine, pulling out onto the road. I have no idea where the fuck I want to go. Maybe he’ll take me back to Football Frat so I can sleep it off. I’m about to tell him that’s what I want, but then I notice we’re pulling up outside the football stadium.

“What the fuck?” I bark.

He jumps off the bike with a laugh, and I give his arm a backhanded slap.

With a little flick, he pushes me away. “Figured you had practice. You got playoffs to prepare for, right?” Stepping back from the bike with a smug grin, he throws me my keys.

I miss them, and they land on the ground with a clunk. “Shithead,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome, fuck nugget.” With a two-fingered salute, he turns and starts walking back toward campus.

Glaring after him, I stay seated on my bike, my head still spinning.

Fuck that asshole.

He probably just saved your life, dude.

With a snarl, I rip off my helmet, dumping it on my seat and snatching my keys off the ground before acting like a complete idiot and walking toward the stadium.

What the fuck are you doing? Go home!

And do what? Mope in my room? At least this way I get to play a little football. Besides, I’m not that fucking drunk. I rub my forehead, only a little dizzy. I’ve been worse. I’ll just down a few glasses of water, and I’ll be good to go.

Reaching the locker room, I make a beeline for the water station and force down three full cups before I acknowledge anyone behind me.

The guys are all filing into the room, ready to pad up for practice.

Shit. I missed the pre-practice meeting.

Clenching my jaw, I keep my eyes on the ground and shuffle over to my gear. The guys are all talking around me, their voices loud and irritating. Someone’s laughing to my left, and it’s pissing me off.

It makes me want to unleash a little hell, curl my fists and just start punching the shit out of whoever’s closest.

Coach is fucking right. I’m reckless. I’m a loser. I only tear people down.

Fucking love.

Fucking feelings!

Nylah is too good for me, and I should be thanking Coach that he reminded me of that before I made the mistake of telling her I’m in love.

I don’t even know what love fucking is.

Anger swells and surges through me. I’m gonna practice like a demon today. I need to discharge some of this energy or I’ll explode all over that green grass out there.

Running onto the field, I do my best to follow the coaches’ shouted instructions. They’re giving us an easy practice because the playoffs aren’t for another two and a half weeks. We’re gonna win and get into the quarterfinals. It’s gonna be epic.

“This is our year! It’s our year!” Coach Mitchell is yelling from the sidelines.

I try to tune him out. My brain’s foggy, and I don’t need the extra noise.

I’ve just got to catch the fucking ball.

The ball.

Catch the ball, Carson. The ball.

I look over my shoulder, running forward and only just getting my fingers to it. The leather brushes along the tips before flipping off and dribbling across the grass.

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