Page 31 of Chokehold
Fucking asshole.
A shoulder hits into me, and I nearly deck it.
“Pay attention, Carter.”
I grit my teeth and glare at Samson, not giving a fuck that he’s my friend. I’m in no mood for bullshit today. And to make this glorious fucking afternoon better, Blaise stands at the side, impatiently bouncing on his heels while he waits for the second day of tryouts to begin.
Formyteam.
My stepdad is kind of best friends with the coach, so it’s inevitable he’s going to get onto the team. He probably doesn’t even know how to play with college guys. The privileges of being a good boy, I guess.
“You think he’ll replace Samson?” Jackson asks beside me, tightening the clips of his helmet. “From what I heard of the tryouts yesterday, he’s a good linebacker.”
“Coach won’t replace Samson, he’s too good.”
“Hopefully Keith. He’s been slacking.”
I snort. “Says the one who comes to practice late and still drunk.”
He shrugs and runs off to his position, and I try not to look at Blaise while I finish my game, my throat sore from yelling every two seconds.
Sweating, I wipe my face with my shirt, my eyes clashing with Blaise, whose gaze lowers to my abs. He averts his stare as soon as he sees he’s been caught, and follows the coach’s assistant to start his tryouts.
I keep looking over at him, though. He moves with fluidity, and seems to know what he’s doing, which irritates me. Twice, he gets tackled, and I fight the urge to get involved when another student gets in his face.
Not my fucking problem.
“Fuck, Carter!”
I stare down at Samson, his eyes wide. Did I tackle him?
“I think you broke my ribs.”
“Stop being dramatic,” I retort, helping him up. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Because the walking thumb is giving Blaise shit? I thought you hated him.”
“I do,” I reply, shaking myself off as we fall back into position. “His dad thinks he’s a kid still and everything bad that happens to him is my fault.”
“That explains the glare you’re sending the thumb’s way.”
Sure. Let’s say that’s why. I just don’t like the way he’s scowling at Blaise as if he wants to devour him then snap his bones. He’s a big fucker; I’d get five minutes of fight time before I was a goner, but if I need to, I’ll fight him.
Blaise is soaked in sweat half an hour in, and he keeps brushing his hand through his unruly dark hair, the white shorts covered in dirt from tackles, and his muscles are bulging in his legs.
He has huge thighs to match the powerful back.
Shit. I think if we had a one-on-one fight, the fucker might be able to scrub the floor with me.
Our eyes clash again, and neither of us looks away, both trying to catch our breaths. Someone grabs my shoulder, a voice in my ear, but it doesn’t matter. The plan is already concocting in my head.
He threatened me.
No one threatens Cole Carter without getting fucked up.
Once I’m done, I head to the showers, checking my phone and seeing a text from Allie, asking me to come over tonight.
I decline. I’m not in the mood for her company. As soon as Blaise vanished from the kitchen the other morning, she tried to fucking mount me, but I shrugged her off and pretended I was late for class.
