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I stand there for a while, brooding. Skin hot with anger. So that's it? After everything I do for the team, he thinks he can threaten to drop me that easy?
“Well, that was ugly.”
The last person on this planet I want to hear slithers on over from the shadows. Bastian. Had he just feigned going to the showers? Decided instead to stick around and listen to Coach chew my ass out?
I scoop up my stick from where I threw it down and stomp over to him. “Not a very nice way to talk about yourself, but at least you’re self-aware.” I sneer down my nose at him. It’s only an inch or two height difference between us, but I know it irks him. An inch or two is enough to give any man with an ego that fragile a Napoleon complex.
“Looks won’t matter when I’m starring again and the only league that’ll let you within a hundred feet of ‘em plays in fuckin’ Siberia.” His smirk deepens.
I could just punch him in that ugly ass, crooked ass mouth.
“Big talk for someone who can’t even perform for two minutes without fucking it all up. Bet that’s just normal for you though, huh?”
His smirk slides off his face like egg off a greased plate. It’s satisfying—but not enough to paper over the simmering anger that Coach’s words left me with.
“A fluke,” he grumbles. “A mistake Coach is obviously willing to take a thousand times over if it means getting rid of you. No one likes you in here, Dalton. And out there, you’re one dumb choice away from prison.”
I roll my eyes. I’m done with Bastian, and I’m done with this conversation. I sidestep him, but before I go, I turn to deliver one final blow.
“You’re never getting the mantel back. Fans want winners. Owners want winners. Coach, for all his big talk, wants winners—and he knows that’s exactly what I am. You, on the other hand…” I rub my chin, putting on my best thinking face. “I’d say the only reason you’re still around is pure pity. Coach has a soft spot for nurturing whiny little bitches and you fit the bill. You've been crying crocodile tears since I told the press just how useless you really are. And the hilarious thing? They and everyone who watches us agreed.”
Yeah, that’ll do it.
Triumphant, I start toward the locker room. I tense when Bastian’s hand comes down on one of my shoulders, forcing me to turn back around.
“It’s all fuckin’ funny to you, ain’t it?” he snarls. “You fuck up my name and you fuck up my job? Fine. Laugh. But you watch your fucking back, Dalton, or I swear I’ll?—”
I don’t let him finish that sentence. I grab his collar and ram him up against the concrete wall of the tunnel. He’s goddamn lucky I didn’t go for his throat instead. I could strangle the fuck outta him right now for daring to threaten me.
“Do it, since you wanna be such a big man,” I snarl in his face. “But I promise you one thing: you’ll fuckin’ regret it.”
My hold tightens on him. He grips my wrists but I don’t let go. His face goes from pale to pink to purple.
Look at your face, boy. All them colors, you’d think you were a goddamn box of crayons.
That snarling voice in my head is not my own. Like I was shocked by electricity, I let go of Bastian’s throat and stumble backwards, suddenly nauseous.
I shove him again, but it’s half-hearted. The voice in my head… fuck that voice. Fuck the man it belongs to.
I’m panting, half-angry at Bastian for pushing me to this point and half-angry at myself for letting it be so easy to do.
“Fuck off, Bastian,” I mutter.
He clears his throat and spits on the ground at my feet. “You won’t last the season, Dalton,” he sneers. “You mark my goddamn words.”
I watch him slink off, a rat with his tail between his legs.
But there’s a tingling in my palms that won’t go away. This time, I don’t feel good about putting Bastian in his place.
Not with that voice still echoing in my head.
Again.
And again.
And again.
14
