Page 41 of Obsessed Kings

My Prince Charmings were woven in the womb of darkness.

ELEVEN

COLT

Football practices come to a close with a bang.

It couldn’t happen sooner.

I stomp off the field, sweat pouring down my face.

Anger wells up inside of me.

My heart is blacker than coal that’s burned in a fire pit for ten million years.

Obsidian cloaked in the shawl of the night isn’t as dark.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years since she was taken.

Snatching my helmet in my right hand, I march off the field. The scent of fresh grass seeps into my nostrils, reinvigorating me. Practice was a bitch today, but it was nothing that I couldn’t handle.

Now that the season is in full swing, the Sinners are working harder than ever. Coach busts our asses day and night, urging us to keep our minds sharp and our bodies in shape. If he catches us drinking soda or eating a hamburger, he’ll go apeshit on our fucking asses.

Last year, rumors went around that Coach beat a graduating senior with a football cleat. The senior didn’t show up to practice for five days and when he finally did, he wore an eyepatch. A black bruise spread across his face, and we all gave him shit that his girlfriend was punching him, but we knew it was Coach.

When it comes to winning, Coach doesn’t fuck around. That’s why he’s so successful. Pro teams won’t scout us if he’s not hard on us. It’s the way he shows us he’s passionate about leading us to victory, of kicking ass and taking names. The first names he takes are always ours. If he’s not tough on us, we won’t be tough on our competitors.

Rumor has it that Coach is the roughest in the league. A former NAVY Seal, he instills discipline lessons in us that he picked up from his time in the service. He took out terrorists all around the world and led countless missions into war-torn regions. We’ve all heard the story of how he ripped the head off a child-killing terrorist with his bare hands. Blood spurted everywhere, dousing his head in crimson as he murdered the monster. Coach is a badass through and through, although he’d likely be cancelled on Twitter these days for calling us pussies and bitches. You can be a savage war hero who stops at nothing to defend the innocent. Insult a bitch’s pussy, you’re done.

Today, I’m not thinking about Coach or his past. I’m not even thinking about the senior he beat up last year that was swept under the rug by Saintswood.

Only one thing occupies my mind.

Rook jabs my ribs. "You look like shit."

"Give me some fucking space."

Ten. Fucking. Years.

I remember the day it happened like it was yesterday.

I come home from school after practice. The house is empty, so I thrust my backpack on the center island and pour myself a glass of chocolate milk. That’s my favorite drink after I’ve busted my ass with my boys on the field. Some people prefer Gatorade, but it doesn’t do it for me. Not at this age. Later, I’d only drink Gatorade because chocolate milk reminded me of this fateful day too much. In life, traumatic memories are accompanied by the weather, scents, and foods you ate while you experienced them. One glass of chocolate milk would be enough to drag me back.

I search around the house for my little sister. "Chelsie?"

Silence.

That’s strange. Chelsie’s usually home from school by now, creating a ruckus on the piano. Dad bought her a pink baby grand that she loves to hammer out Taylor Swift songs on, singing about heartbreak she’s too young to experience. Her voice annoys me, even though I get a kick out of it when Mom hollers at her to shut up. I like that Chelsie does her own thing and refuses to let Mom dim her joy.

I wasn’t thrilled when Mom first announced I was getting a baby sister. I wanted my parents’ attention all to myself, which was selfish. I thought some dumbass little sister would bug me all the time, ask to hang out with my friends, and drive me to the brink of insanity. I was lucky to be wrong. Chelsie is super chill, even with all her pink shit and girly interests. Brock and Rook don't mind hanging out with her, even when she asks them to include her when they’re tossing the football around. She could be a football star with the way she throws. It’s a shame there’s not a girls’ football team at school, because Chelsie would be the quarterback. She’d take after me. Her big brother.

I tiptoe around the house. "If you’re playing a prank on me, you can stop."

Chelsie is a big lover of prank channels online. I tell her that they’re all staged, but she refuses to believe me. She’s always popping out from behind corners to attempt to scare me. It never works because I’m way too badass to let my sister freak me out, although I must admit, one or two times I’ve been startled. I always yell at her to grow up, but secretly, I don't mind. Her laughter is contagious, and it doesn’t take long before I’m chuckling along with her. She shows me videos of my face when she "scares" me, and I bet most stepbrothers would tell their sisters to fuck off, but not me. I like spending time with her. She’s hilarious.

I search Chelsie’s bedroom. Her unicorn stuffies, oversized purple pillows, and pink tiara sit on her bed, the way I assume she left it before leaving for school this morning. I check her closet, but she’s not hiding in there.

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