Page 31 of King of Pain
After one last beer, I grab a blanket and pillow from the hall closet, tossing them onto the couch. “TV remote is there on the coffee table. There’s some water in the fridge. You already know where the bathroom is. Just make yourself at home.”
“Thanks, Chance,” he says, his voice soft.
“Night, Ant.”
I head to my bedroom with Little G trotting close behind and shut the door. Collapsing onto my bed, I replay the night in my head. There’s something about Ant that keeps pulling me in. Sure, once you get him to open up, he’s easy to talk to, but it’s more than that. He’s guarded, carrying a weight you can almost feel, yet there’s a quiet strength in the way he refuses to let it break him. I recognize it all too well.
What is haunting you, Beautiful?
TRACK FOURTEEN
These Dreams
Anthony
I leave Chance’s apartment just as the sun begins to creep over the horizon, the light streaking pink and gold across the Arizona sky. I close the front door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake him. I have no idea how thin the walls in his apartment might be.
I check my phone for the time. I have practice today and early mornings on the field are non-negotiable. With plenty of time to spare, I decide on a brisk walk to the field instead of calling a car. Extra warming-up of joints and muscles never hurts.
As I hustle down the street, backpack slung over my shoulder, my thoughts shift to last night. I shouldn’t be this comfortable. Not with a man. Letting my guard down has always been a mistake, and I’m not sure why this time feels different. Whyhefeels different.
By the time I reach the field, I’ve managed to shove the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of practice. The team is already spread out across the turf, stretching and running drills under the watchful eye of Coach Baker. The sun is as unforgiving as ever, but I’m used to it by now. It’s part of the grind.
“PacMan!” Butters calls out as he jogs past me, tossing a ball lazily between his hands. “You ready to run some routes or what?”
“Always,” I reply, falling into step with our confident quarterback.
He isn’t cocky, not really. Butters just exudes confidence and ease. With natural athletic ability, good looks, charm, and aperpetually mischievous smile, he’s the kind of guy people tend to follow. It’s no surprise he’s our leader on the field.
We run drills for the better part of two hours, the air thick with shouts and the rhythmic thud of cleats against turf. By the time practice wraps up, my shirt is soaked through, my legs are heavy, and my hands are raw from catching pass after pass. Still, there’s a strange satisfaction in the exhaustion. It’s a reminder of why I love this game.
After practice, the team filters into the locker room, the air electric with post-practice chatter. The sound of showers running, lockers slamming, and teammates talking trash fills the space. I grab my towel and head to my usual spot, tuning out the noise as I peel off my gear.
Showered, dressed, and ready to leave, I’m stuffing my cleats into my locker when Coach Baker’s voice booms across the room. “Pacini! Stop by my office on your way out.”
A chorus of “Oohs” erupts from my teammates, followed by a few playful jabs.
“What’d you do, PacMan? Shit, you never get hauled into Coach’s office.” Butters calls out, grinning.
I force a laugh, but my stomach turns. “Guess I’ll find out.”
As the locker room empties, I linger, dragging my feet. I’m not nervous about Coach’s critique. I know I’ve been putting in the work. It’s just… being alone in a room with men in authority unsettles me. Ever sincethem. Ever since I learned the hard way how easily power can be abused. Age, size, and gender never seem to matter when someone decides to wield it against you.
Holding in a breath, I knock on the doorframe. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”
Coach Baker looks up from his desk, his maroon ASU ball cap tilted slightly, a few strands of gray hair poking out from underneath. His leather-tanned face, a testament to years spent coaching under the relentless desert sun, creases into a warmsmile. He’s got the build of a former athlete who no longer needs to watch his diet but still commands respect.
“Come on in, Pacini,” he says, waving me inside. “Close the door.”
My pulse quickens as I take a seat across from him, my hands gripping the straps of my duffle bag like a lifeline. Logically, I know I could overpower Coach Baker in an instant if I needed to. But logic doesn’t seem to matter to my brain. Not in moments like this.
“Relax,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not in trouble.”
I nod, forcing myself to breathe. “Yes, sir.”
He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes softened by the lines of age and experience. “You’re looking good out there, Pacini. Real sharp.”
“Thank you, sir.”
