Page 106 of Unwritten Rules
“Shit, Sin…”
Frowning, I follow his eyes as they drop to the ground. I see blood seeping from the open wounds split across my knuckles, sliding between my fingers and falling to the ground in droplets.
“Fuck,” I wince, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You need to hit the showers and cool off.” It’s not a suggestion but a demand. “If the guys see you like this, it’s only going to make things worse after an already shit night.”
“You’re right,” I rasp, chest aching. “Shit, man, you’re right. I lost my shit.”
Khai plants his hands on my shoulders, eyes searching my face. “I understand what happened with Tatum is shit. It’s obvious how much you like her, so I understand your pain, Sin. But you can’t let it get the best of you, okay? You need to keep your head in the game for the team’s sake.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t have the energy to tell him that. All I manage is a nod in response.
Khai exhales a sharp breath and guides me toward the showers in the next room over. “We have a long bus ride home, so take as long as you need in the shower. I’ll cover for you with Coach Phil.”
Thank God.
If I had to sit in the same room as the man who tore my girl away from me all while he rips into us about the game, I would surely lose my fucking mind.
The bus ridehome was frosty, to say the least. I avoided Phil like the plague, choosing to sit in the furthest seat at the back of the bus with my headphones in and my ‘don’t fucking look at me’ attitude firmly in place. My teammates are under the impression I’m in a bad mood because we lost the game, but it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Khai did his best to keep everyone out of my way so I could stew in peace, but the more I listened to one of the playlists Tatum made for me, the hotter my skin got and the deeper my rage burned.
I’m angry at myself for letting her walk away. I’m angry that her father put in place a dumb fucking rule that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. I’m angry that he thinks I’m not good enough for his daughter. And I’m angry that there is nothing I can do to fix this.
I stew in this anger until I step off the bus and walk to my car at the training facility without so much as saying a word to my teammates. I don’t have the energy to deal with anyone right now. All I want to do is go home and be by myself. Khai told me he’s going to grab a drink with Nico. I have no doubt it’s because he wants to give me space, which is fair enough. I wouldn’t want to be around a brewing storm either.
By the time I get back to the apartment, the twenty-one-year-old scotch in the cupboard is calling my name. It gets pulled out for special occasions, but not tonight. I need something to distract me from the turmoil in my mind. Something to ease the pain. And I need it now.
The brief moment of relief is short-lived when I step through the front door to find my father sitting on the lounge, eyes locked on me.
Fuck my life.
Could this night get any worse?
“What are you doing here?” I don’t have the energy for small talk.
Not waiting for his response, I toss my gym bag on the ground beside the black leather lounge and walk through the open plan living space to the kitchen. I flick the dark grey cabinet open and reach for the scotch bottle. Dad’s presence on the other side of the granite kitchen island looms, but I barely register it asI reach into another cupboard and pull out a crystal glass. Only the best for a fine scotch.
“Sin, are you serious?” Dad demands, gesturing to the scotch flowing from the bottle, half filling the glass. “Is that wise?”
I shrug and take a long sip. The liquid burns as it slips down my throat, but I welcome the pain. It’s exactly what I need to relax my tense muscles and soothe the ache burning in my chest. I don’t give a shit if my father disapproves of me drinking. I’ll add it to the long list of things he is already disappointed in me about.
I lean against the counter behind me, swirling the amber liquid around the glass. “What do you want, Dad?”
He’s dressed in another one of his many expensive suits, likely having just got done with commentating for a game and following it up with punter recaps and interviews afterwards. His hair is well-kept, along with the black leather shoes without a single mark on them. But despite his professional exterior, the anger swirling in his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Here comes round two for the night.
“Tell me why I got a call from Phil tonight telling me you have been sleeping with his daughter behind his back for a month when he gave you and the rest of the team strict instructions to stay away from her.”
There it is. The same disapproving look I have seen far too many times to count. It hasn’t changed from when I was ten and didn’t get my pen license in primary school with the rest of my class, when I was sixteen and got the lowest mark in my maths class, or when I was twenty-two and got my first sin bin for a high tackle. Nothing has changed.
No matter what I do, my father will find a way to be disappointed in me.
“It’s none of your business,” I bite out, jaw clenching.
