Page 3 of Scoring the Player
My back uncoils, each vertebra a revolving bullet in a chamber.
Steep-sloped traps draw up and then sink down his back like steel being sheathed. The flex of his biceps pulls the cords beneath his skin. My heart rate drops to a slow thump as power surges between us. An ancient god of chaos curves time and locks us in a room, just me and him. Famished and unbound by the rules of civilized society, it only accepts offerings of blood in exchange for the sweet release you can’t chase in a pill…or the tight heat of a man.
His eyes ignite, signaling he hears it too—the distant clank of a bell.
The sky opens, and he rushes me.
I thrust my elbow toward his jaw, but he ducks, throwing me off balance.
I’m yanked by my jersey.
Hard.
His head cocks up, then hammers into my face.
The floor arches its back, and a sweet crunch blares as the blinding burn of an ice pick twisted up my nose hits.
The chaos god accepts my offering. A rush of weightlessness lifts me from my body as iron and salt flood my mouth, and I’m freed of the knot jammed in the center of my chest.
The snap of a thousand rubber bands could never come close to the high of each metallic swallow.
“Get off,” I slur as I’m ejected into a sea of moving lips from the wasted breaths of teammates and security guards pleading with me not to be me.
“Move!” I growl, pushing them away. I’d rip through this entire stadium for another taste.
Lasering the swarm of bodies and identical jerseys, I findhim.
Forehead creased, eyes and lips turned down.Is that regret I see?
“Look at me!” My voice surges, meeting its mark.
The skittering under my skin increases as he steps back.
Don’t you fucking dare…
More arms around me. More pointless stabs at getting me to stop.
“Get off of me!” I rip free and turn toward the bench.
If that ref blows his fucking whistle any harder, his head’s gonna pop off.
My steps falter as my gaze clashes with crossed arms, rigid shoulders, and a sneer…
Coach, don’t you see? Your disappointment is my pride.
They’re telling me I’m ejected from the game.
Cool.
I lift my chin, and with a flash of my bloody grin—Come and get me!—I pivot mid-stride and crack through the guards on my six, except one grabs my arm, another grabs my jersey. Neither got the stamina to hold me. Charging my muscles, I barrel forward, dragging them, ducking and spinning off teammates.
Where is he?
I wrench my arm free, bolting away from Dipshit Guard One.
Zigzag.
Skrrrrt!
