Broken Prince
Page 8
The little guy’s eyes widen in alarm.
Bettman shoulders his way over. “Lucky hit. Next time it’ll be your ass on the turf.”
I bare my teeth. “Bring it.”
If I get enough hits in, maybe I’ll be able to push Ella out of my mind for more than five seconds.
Wade slaps my helmet. “Nice tackle, Royal.” He cheers when East comes off the field. “Going to let the offense on the field, Easton?”
“Why? We can do it all tonight. Besides, heard you might’ve pulled a groin with a cheerleader from North High.”
Wade grins. “She’s a gymnast, not a cheerleader. But yeah, if you wanna score a few more times, it’s good with me.”
Over his shoulder I see Liam Hunter giving us the death glare. He wants as much time in the game as possible. It’s his senior year and he needs the film.
Ordinarily I’ve got no problem with Hunter, but the way he’s staring at me right now makes me want to take a swing at his square jaw. Damn. I need a fight.
I slam my helmet into my hand. On the field, Bettman keeps jawing, his mouth working when his blocks don’t. I get into his face after one play, but East drags me away.
“Save it for after,” he warns.
By halftime, we’re up by four touchdowns—one more by the defense and the other two by the offense. Hunter got a couple of highlights for his college recruiting reel after pancaking a few D-line men. We’re all supposed to be in good spirits.
Coach doesn’t even give us a motivational speech. He walks around, delivers a few pats on the head, and then hides himself in his office to tinker with his fantasy lineup, smoke, or jack off.
As the guys start chattering about the post-game party and whose pussy they’re going to destroy, I pull out my phone.
Fight 2nite? I text.
I glance up at East and mouth you in?
He nods emphatically. I toss the phone between my hands and wait for a response.
Fight 11. Dock 10. E in?
E’s in.
Coach comes out of his office and signals that halftime is over. After the offense scores again, we’re told that this will be the last set of downs for the starting squad. Which means I have to sit for the rest of the third quarter and all of the fourth. This sucks balls.
By the time I line up across from Bettman, the trigger on my temper is about a centimeter long. I dig my hand into the artificial turf and test the bounce in my legs.
“Hear your new sister is so loose it takes two of you Royals to fill her.”
I snap. Red washes over my eyes and I’m on that jackass before he can pull his hand off the ground. I rip his helmet off and swing with my right fist. The cartilage and bone on his nose gives way. Bettman cries out. I punch him again. A mob of hands hauls me away before I can land another hit.
The ref blows a whistle in my face and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re out,” he yells, face redder than a boiled lobster.
Coach screams from the sidelines. “Where’s your head, Royal? Where’s your fucking head!”
My head is securely on my shoulders. No one talks about Ella that way.
Back in the empty locker room, I strip down to my jock and sit my bare ass down on a towel in front of my locker. I realize my mistake within seconds. Without the action of the game to distract me, all I can do is obsess over Ella again.
I try to push thoughts of her aside by concentrating on the faint whistles and cheers from the field, but eventually images of her creep in until they flash in front of my eyes like a movie trailer.
Her arrival at the house looking sexier than any girl had a right to be.
Her coming down for Jordan’s party wearing the good-girl outfit that made me want to tear all her clothes off and bend her over the banister.
Her dancing. Damn, her dancing.
I shoot to my feet and find my way to the showers. Angry, with lust pumping through my body, I wrench the cold water knob on and duck my head under the freezing stream.
But that does nothing.
The need is relentless. And hell, what’s the point of fighting it?
I take myself in hand and close my eyes so I can pretend I’m back in Jordan Carrington’s house watching Ella move. Her body is sinful. Long legs, tiny waist, and perfect rack. The tinny music from the television transforms into a sultry track when told through the sway of her hips and the grace in her arms.
I grip my dick tighter. The image switches from the Carrington house to her room. I remember the taste of her on my tongue. How sweet she was. How her mouth formed this perfect, fuckable O when she came for the first time.
I don’t last long after that. The tension tingles at the base of my spine and I imagine her below me, her shiny, sun-colored hair against my skin, her eyes staring up at me with greedy desire.
When my body quiets, the self-loathing returns in full force. I stare at my hand wrapped around myself in the middle of the locker room. If I could sink much deeper, I’d be halfway to China.
The release leaves me hollowed out. I turn on the hot water and wash up, but I don’t feel clean.
I hope the guy I fight tonight is the biggest, meanest asshole in three states and that he lays the hurt on me—the one that Ella should deliver but isn’t here to get it done.
5
East and I skip the post-game party and head home to kill an hour before the fight. I’ll regain some control and perspective when I’m smashing some dude’s face in with my fists down at the docks.
“Need to call Claire,” East mutters when we walk inside. “Wanna see if she’ll come over later.”
“Claire?” I wrinkle my forehead. “I didn’t know you were tapping that again.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were screwing Brooke. Guess we’re even.”
He lifts his phone to his ear, dismissing me.
His actions sting. East has been icing me out ever since Ella took off.
When I get upstairs, my bedroom door is ajar, and a sick sense of déjà vu washes over me. Suddenly I’m transported back to Monday night, when I found Brooke in my bed.
I swear to God, if that bitch is playing games with me again, I’m gonna lose my shit.
But it’s Gideon I find in my room. He’s sprawled on my bed, tapping on his phone. When I enter, he greets me with cloudy eyes.
“Didn’t think you were coming home this weekend,” I say carefully. I texted him on Tuesday to let him know Ella was gone, but every time he tried calling me this week, I pressed the ignore button. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gid’s guilt trips.
Bettman shoulders his way over. “Lucky hit. Next time it’ll be your ass on the turf.”
I bare my teeth. “Bring it.”
If I get enough hits in, maybe I’ll be able to push Ella out of my mind for more than five seconds.
Wade slaps my helmet. “Nice tackle, Royal.” He cheers when East comes off the field. “Going to let the offense on the field, Easton?”
“Why? We can do it all tonight. Besides, heard you might’ve pulled a groin with a cheerleader from North High.”
Wade grins. “She’s a gymnast, not a cheerleader. But yeah, if you wanna score a few more times, it’s good with me.”
Over his shoulder I see Liam Hunter giving us the death glare. He wants as much time in the game as possible. It’s his senior year and he needs the film.
Ordinarily I’ve got no problem with Hunter, but the way he’s staring at me right now makes me want to take a swing at his square jaw. Damn. I need a fight.
I slam my helmet into my hand. On the field, Bettman keeps jawing, his mouth working when his blocks don’t. I get into his face after one play, but East drags me away.
“Save it for after,” he warns.
By halftime, we’re up by four touchdowns—one more by the defense and the other two by the offense. Hunter got a couple of highlights for his college recruiting reel after pancaking a few D-line men. We’re all supposed to be in good spirits.
Coach doesn’t even give us a motivational speech. He walks around, delivers a few pats on the head, and then hides himself in his office to tinker with his fantasy lineup, smoke, or jack off.
As the guys start chattering about the post-game party and whose pussy they’re going to destroy, I pull out my phone.
Fight 2nite? I text.
I glance up at East and mouth you in?
He nods emphatically. I toss the phone between my hands and wait for a response.
Fight 11. Dock 10. E in?
E’s in.
Coach comes out of his office and signals that halftime is over. After the offense scores again, we’re told that this will be the last set of downs for the starting squad. Which means I have to sit for the rest of the third quarter and all of the fourth. This sucks balls.
By the time I line up across from Bettman, the trigger on my temper is about a centimeter long. I dig my hand into the artificial turf and test the bounce in my legs.
“Hear your new sister is so loose it takes two of you Royals to fill her.”
I snap. Red washes over my eyes and I’m on that jackass before he can pull his hand off the ground. I rip his helmet off and swing with my right fist. The cartilage and bone on his nose gives way. Bettman cries out. I punch him again. A mob of hands hauls me away before I can land another hit.
The ref blows a whistle in my face and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re out,” he yells, face redder than a boiled lobster.
Coach screams from the sidelines. “Where’s your head, Royal? Where’s your fucking head!”
My head is securely on my shoulders. No one talks about Ella that way.
Back in the empty locker room, I strip down to my jock and sit my bare ass down on a towel in front of my locker. I realize my mistake within seconds. Without the action of the game to distract me, all I can do is obsess over Ella again.
I try to push thoughts of her aside by concentrating on the faint whistles and cheers from the field, but eventually images of her creep in until they flash in front of my eyes like a movie trailer.
Her arrival at the house looking sexier than any girl had a right to be.
Her coming down for Jordan’s party wearing the good-girl outfit that made me want to tear all her clothes off and bend her over the banister.
Her dancing. Damn, her dancing.
I shoot to my feet and find my way to the showers. Angry, with lust pumping through my body, I wrench the cold water knob on and duck my head under the freezing stream.
But that does nothing.
The need is relentless. And hell, what’s the point of fighting it?
I take myself in hand and close my eyes so I can pretend I’m back in Jordan Carrington’s house watching Ella move. Her body is sinful. Long legs, tiny waist, and perfect rack. The tinny music from the television transforms into a sultry track when told through the sway of her hips and the grace in her arms.
I grip my dick tighter. The image switches from the Carrington house to her room. I remember the taste of her on my tongue. How sweet she was. How her mouth formed this perfect, fuckable O when she came for the first time.
I don’t last long after that. The tension tingles at the base of my spine and I imagine her below me, her shiny, sun-colored hair against my skin, her eyes staring up at me with greedy desire.
When my body quiets, the self-loathing returns in full force. I stare at my hand wrapped around myself in the middle of the locker room. If I could sink much deeper, I’d be halfway to China.
The release leaves me hollowed out. I turn on the hot water and wash up, but I don’t feel clean.
I hope the guy I fight tonight is the biggest, meanest asshole in three states and that he lays the hurt on me—the one that Ella should deliver but isn’t here to get it done.
5
East and I skip the post-game party and head home to kill an hour before the fight. I’ll regain some control and perspective when I’m smashing some dude’s face in with my fists down at the docks.
“Need to call Claire,” East mutters when we walk inside. “Wanna see if she’ll come over later.”
“Claire?” I wrinkle my forehead. “I didn’t know you were tapping that again.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were screwing Brooke. Guess we’re even.”
He lifts his phone to his ear, dismissing me.
His actions sting. East has been icing me out ever since Ella took off.
When I get upstairs, my bedroom door is ajar, and a sick sense of déjà vu washes over me. Suddenly I’m transported back to Monday night, when I found Brooke in my bed.
I swear to God, if that bitch is playing games with me again, I’m gonna lose my shit.
But it’s Gideon I find in my room. He’s sprawled on my bed, tapping on his phone. When I enter, he greets me with cloudy eyes.
“Didn’t think you were coming home this weekend,” I say carefully. I texted him on Tuesday to let him know Ella was gone, but every time he tried calling me this week, I pressed the ignore button. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gid’s guilt trips.
