Page 18 of Unwritten Rules
Chapter Six
SINNETT
Achorus of voices echoes through the room, bouncing off the walls and settling deep in my veins, putting me further on edge. Mint consumes my senses, courtesy of the Deep Heat tubes that were passed around the sheds when the team returned from the field. It’s a scent I’ve grown used to after many games, and is a welcome relief from the BO and Lynx deodorant coating the walls.
My biceps bulge as I tighten my folded arms, eyes sweeping across my teammates jumping in the middle of the room. Liquid sprays in the air from someone’s water bottle, coating everyone in the vicinity. Thankfully, I’m standing at the edge of the room, out of the crossfire.
“We are the Wolves, we’re standing tall. We’re here for the win, we’ll answer the call!”
My focus shifts to the woman standing on the opposite side of the room, eyes wide like a newborn deer as she takes in the chaotic scene. She drags her plump bottom lip between her teeth—the same lips that were wrapped around my cock a week ago.
Electricity thrums in my veins as I drink her in. Strawberry blonde hair spills over her shoulders in subtle waves, accentuating the curve of her jawline and high cheekbones. Herslender shoulders are pushed back as if trying to feel bigger in a room full of overly large men. It must be an impossible feat considering the number of men taking up space.
What is she doing here? When I dropped her at her house in Barrenridge last weekend, I had expected to never see her face again. Now here she is, invading the space I keep heavily guarded, and reminding me why I was drawn to her in the first place. Why I couldn’t walk away without getting a taste of her that night.
Her constant questions and ability to get under my skin weren’t a deterrent for me. Nor was the joy emitting from her soft skin every time she did manage to rile me up. If anything, it pulled me closer, my body wanting to see what else this woman was capable of.
It was a change in pace, being with someone who didn’t know me or my family. Who couldn’t care less about my career or being attached to the Baxter name. At that moment, Tatum didn’t know a single thing about me. It gave me the chance to get lost in her softness and forget about my fucking injury. To forget about my overbearing parents and the pressure I face each day from the media and the club.
It was just me and her.
And now I’m facing her again, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
Coach Phil walks over to Tatum and says something to her. She smiles and nods. My gaze follows her as she walks past me to leave the room. I wish she would look up, to allow me a split second of seeing those jade eyes that have found their way into my dreams over the past week. But she doesn’t.
With Tatum out of the room, I release the breath I had been holding and slump on one of the plastic chairs forming a circle in the centre of the room. My hands fall to my knees, fingers tightening around them as I watch my team celebrate a win Idesperately wanted to be part of. If it weren’t for this stupid injury and the conditioning team refusing to give me the go-ahead to get back on the field until the six-week recovery mark, I would’ve been out there with my friends.
“Hey.” A large mass I recognise as my best friend plops down on the chair beside me. Strands of sweat-soaked brown hair fall limp over his forehead, matching the moisture slicked across his bare torso. “Why the long face?”
“I don’t have a long face,” I huff, leaning back on the chair. The movement puts pressure on my right quad, sending a jab of pain down my leg. I bite on my bottom lip to keep from letting on how much that fucking hurt and rub a hand over the swollen muscle.
Khai nudges my side with his elbow. “Come on, man. I’ve known you a long time, which means I know when you have a long face.” He gestures to the team settling down after the celebration. Beers are being passed around, and someone switched on their portable speaker, Kendrick Lamar’s voice bouncing off the walls. “Is it because you’re stuck watching from the sidelines?”
My jaw clenches at the reminder. “No.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.”
I exhale a breath and run my hand through my hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”
Khai snorts a laugh. “Yeah, you, asshole.” He leans back on the chair and spreads his legs out. “Talk to me, Sin.”
What the hell do I say to him?
I’m gutted I can’t play for at least four weeks, and even then, the timeline of my recovery is still in the air.
I’m angry at myself for getting injured during a tackle.
I’m frustrated with my father and his constant nagging about me getting back on the field.
And don’t even get me started on Coach Phil’s daughter.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, dragging my attention from the people in the room to the pale green eyes watching me, waiting. “I have a lot of shit going on.”
“I could imagine.” Khai’s tone is laced with understanding. His shoulders slump forward as he looks over the guys sitting in the circle of chairs around us. “You have a good support network around you who will ensure you recover well. If you push yourself too much, you might do more harm than good. Just take this time to recover properly and we’ll see you back out there in the number seven jersey in no time.”
