Page 17 of Bitter Truths

Griffin: I dreamed about you last night

Hals: Sounds like a nightmare to me

My lips curl in a smile because her tart words may be designed to throw me off, but that she’s responding at all gives me hope.

I need that hope. I’m dangling by a thread as it is.

Griffin: Nope, I woke with a smile and a hard-on

Hals: Too bad. Guess you’ll have to dream of me while you take care of it because that’s the only way you’re ever going to have me again

“Yo, Griff.”

Closing out my phone, I nod lazily at my teammate, Brock Jones. He’s a defensive end, good at what he does. I respect his work ethic because he plans to go pro, and our mutual goal sets us apart from some others on the team.

“Hey, man,” I say, dipping my chin, but my mind is on Halsey’s harsh words.

“Some sweet pussy around here,” he chuckles, and I smirk, although the motion feels wrong on my face.

“Hm.” I haven’t even bothered to look, but there’s always a bevy of chicks waiting to score.

Arrogant, yes, but true.

“Coach was on the rag this morning. Man, I thought he was gonna rip Macklemore a new one.”

Just the mention of his name creates a blaze that claws to be free, and I clench my hand to quell the rage. I have to play the game, but it leaves me ice-fucking-cold.

Brock doesn’t know the shit show that’s orbiting around us, and it will stay that way as long as I have something to say about it.

It takes a supreme force of will, but I pull my lips into a smirk and raise a brow. “True, that. I thought he was gonna have an aneurysm.”

He chuckles, grinning at a chick across the room. She smiles wide and arches her back in case he missed her tits overflowing her tiny top.

Brock’s a beast with thick shoulders, huge thighs, and a wild head of blond hair. The ladies love him, and he loves the ladies. Probably his baby blues, which brings to mind Halsey, and I mentally sigh. Get a fucking grip.

“Did you see him last night? Macklemore? He was fucked up,” Brock says.

Images of him attacking Halsey assail my brain, an almost daily occurrence, and I suck in a deep breath to keep from grabbing Brock by the throat and demanding he tell me what the fuck he’s talking about.

Instead, I shake my head. “No, what do you mean?”

Brock turns back to me, the smile for the blonde across the way fading. “Yeah, man, he was totally fucked up. Coach catches on, and he’s fucked.”

My pulse jumps, but I smile absently at a chick heading in my direction. I think I fucked her last year. Her eyes light up, but I turn away, asking, “Fucked up, how?”

“You know, man, got his hands on the good stuff,” Brock says, his brows dipping into a V.

Standing from the wall, I growl, “What do you mean?”

His eyes widen, and with another deep breath, I exhale.Calm the fuck down, Hathaway.

“Nothing, man. I’m sure he’ll be fine for practice,” he says with a lame smile.

Everyone on the team knows how important football is to me, which is why I mentally scoff. I don’t fucking care about practice, but I do care about what Jason is getting up to.

Over the summer, when I wasn’t obsessing about getting Halsey to talk to me, I was putting out feelers, cashing in on favors, and exploring all options. Jason is a dead man walking.

“You sure, man?” I ask with my jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my fucking temple.

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