Page 16 of The Off-Limits Play

I can’t even believe?—

A ball smacks me in the side of the head, and it fucking hurts.

Spinning with a growl, I look for the culprit, and the second I spot him, this fiery surge of anger rises within me.

“Heads up, dickhead.” Fleischer laughs. “Put your fucking helmet on.”

I growl and start running toward him. He laughs like this is one fucking fantastic joke. Does he not realize I’m about to rip his throat out?

I’m three steps away from punching him in the throat when Grady steps into my path. His hand lands on my chest, and for a guy who is smaller than me, he’s surprisingly strong.

“Think,” he snaps. “Use your head and think!”

“I’m just gonna beat him up a little bit,” I hiss. “He’ll still be breathing. Through a straw.”

“I know that would so fucking great. I’d like to see that, I really would. But you’re not doing any of us a favor if you let that asshole bench you.”

I growl, and Grady pushes me back a little.

“We need you tomorrow.” Snapping his fingers in my face, he forces me to look at him and repeats in a low voice, “We need you. And he knows that. If you fuck with him right now, he’s gonna get game time.”

Gritting my jaw, I seethe, “He hit me first.”

“Yeah, because he’s a total fuck nugget. And you…” He taps me in the center of the chest with his pointer finger. “You’re the bigger man. And you’re the better player… unless you let him bench you right now.”

I huff out my nostrils, sounding like a bull, and Grady starts to relax.

“Just turn around and walk away.”

Glaring over Grady’s shoulder, I curl my upper lip at Fleischer. He gives me a cheesy smile, raising his middle finger and laughing until a ball hits him in the side of the helmet. His head snaps to the right, and I can’t help a soft snicker.

Turning to my left, I spot Zander, who raises his chin at me. “Got your back, man.”

It’s impossible not to give him a lopsided grin while Fleischer curses up a storm. Zander stops, turning to give our idiot teammate the best fucking stink eye. Fleischer’s foul-mouthed diatribe peters off, and he ends up muttering, “Whatever,” before stalking down to the other end of the field.

Sending my captain a silent thank-you, I then slap Grady on the shoulder and turn around, jogging back to my position and opening my hands for a fresh catch.

I’m still pissed.

I still want to see Fleischer curled up on the field in the fetal position, whimpering like a fucking baby. But I’m not going to make that happen today. I’ll save it for some other time. Maybe once the season’s over.

For now, I’ll get back to practice and focus on the fact that I have a game tomorrow and I need to play well, because that’s about the only thing in my life I actually get right these days.

The rest of practice goes by without incident, and it’s dark by the time I’m walking to my bike and getting my standard phone call from Mom.

She calls every Friday around the same time to wish me…

“Good luck for the game tomorrow!” Her face lights up the screen, looking all happy and bright. She’s like the living embodiment of a circus—all stars and sparkles. Her voice is loud, her smile is dazzling, and I have to put up with this fucking show every time I speak to her.

Sometimes I wonder if she is just a stupidly happy person.

But most of the time, I’m guessing it’s fake.

Just a show she puts on for her ass of a husband.

He must be standing in the kitchen, just off-screen or something. My insides twist into a tight, painful knot, and it’s too much effort to put on a smile.

“You feeling good about this one?” Mom sips her wine.

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