Page 44 of King of Pain
Jen nods, her expression serious.
“He’s all I think about,” I admit. “I just want to be careful about pulling someone along if they’re not ready. I’m going slow and cautious because I think that’s the pace he needs.”
Lexi leans over, exchanges a glance with Jen, then they turn to me and say, “Awwww.”
“Alright. Fuck off, the both of ya,” I say with a laugh.
Jen studies me for a moment, then nods. “You’re a good one, Chance Sullivan. Just don’t let fear stop you from going after what you want. Don’t let him hide inside himself forever either.”
“I won’t.”
Before Jen can say anything else, the crowd erupts around us, drawing our attention back to the field. Their quarterback, Ryan Buterbaugh—who Ant refers to as “Butters”—steps back in the pocket, scanning for an opening.
“There he is,” Jen says, nudging me as she points.
Ant breaks away from his defender, sprinting toward the sideline. Butters locks onto him and throws a perfect spiral. The ball arcs high against the backdrop of the stadium lights, and it feels like the entire crowd holds its breath.
Ant leaps, his body fully extended as his fingertips brush the ball, pulling it down with precision. He lands smoothly, barely breaking stride as he pivots past a charging defender.
He’s off, weaving through players with an almost effortless grace. His legs pump, his cleats digging into the turf as he dodges one tackle after another. The crowd roars louder with every step he takes. By the time he crosses into the end zone, untouched, the stadium explodes into cheers.
“Holy shit. He’s fucking good,” I shout, unable to take my eyes off him.
Jen whistles, leaning closer to me. “If you weren’t hot for him before…”
I don’t respond. My heart is pounding too hard to speak, and I can’t stop watching as Ant celebrates with his team, his face lit up with pure joy.
As the game goes on, I can’t help but watch Ant more closely. I notice the little things—the intensity in his focus, the unrelenting determination in every play, and the way he connects with his teammates, offering encouragement and commanding respect without even trying.
By the time the final whistle blows, securing a 14-7 victory for Ant and his team, one thing is painfully clear… I’m completely and undeniably fucked.
TRACK TWENTY
Let’s Dance
Anthony
The locker room buzzes with the usual post-game energy—laughter, claps on the back, and the occasional whoop of celebration. We played hard tonight, and it paid off. I toss my pads onto the bench, wiping the sweat off my face with a towel as Butters plops down on the bench across from me.
“PacMan!” he calls out. “That touchdown in the second quarter? Thing of beauty, bro.”
I shrug, trying to downplay it. “Just doing my part.”
“Just doing your part?” Butters repeats, throwing on an exaggerated tone of mock seriousness. “My dude, you weaved through half their defense and scored like it was nothing. Own that shit.”
I snicker, but take the compliment in stride. Butters always knows how to turn up the charm, and it’s hard to stay stoic around him.
“Alright, serious question,” he continues. “You coming to the Halloween Bash at Devil House tonight?”
I groan inwardly, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know, man. I’m not really feeling it.”
“You’re never feeling it,” he protests, throwing his arms up dramatically. “But it’s Halloween, PacMan. Costumes, music, drinks. Live a little, Brocini. You’re not going to let me down again, are you?”
“Brocini, really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s good, right? My bro, Pacini,” Ryan clarifies, smirking. “Think about it. No pressure. But also, yes pressure.”
“You’re relentless. Fine, I’ll think about it,” I say, which seems to satisfy him for now.
