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Did I feel betrayed?
Of course.
Did that mean I wanted her back?
Hell fucking no.
Because I couldn’t handle liars, and that’s what she was.
I also didn’t cope well with mind games, which was exactly what she was trying to do to me.
Breaking up with me, going off with my teammate, and then turning right around and flooding my inbox and telling me she wanted me back was a prime example of the games this girl liked to play with me.
What she failed to understand was that it didn’t matter how many games she tried to play or how many times she promised to suck me off.
There was no going back there.
Not for me.
Maybe I was dead on the inside like Bella had suggested in the million text messages she’d sent me after I turned her offers of working things out down.
I didn’t think so.
I had feelings. I cared about things.
Just not liars.
“I have a confession to make,” Gibsie announced during training on Wednesday.
We were on our twenty-ninth out of thirty ordered laps of the pitch and he was starting to wilt.
Actually, I was on my twenty-ninth lap.
The rest of the team were on their fourteenth.
Gibsie was on his eighth, and the wilting began at lap four. Now, he resembled a lad falling out of a nightclub at three in the morning with a belly full of Jager bombs. He, along with the rest of them, needed to get it together, because we had the School Boy Shield to play for next week and I had no intention of running myself into the ground if the rest of the team weren’t committed to the cause.
These gobshites had ten days to get their shite together.
“Are you listening?” Gibsie growled in a breathless tone, grabbing onto my shoulder in the hopes that I would pull his lazy ass around. “Because this is serious.”
“I’m listening,” I told him, dragging in a gulp of air and expelling it slowly. “Confess away.”
“I have an insane urge to kick you in the balls—” Gibsie puffed out a ragged breath before he finished with, “And break what’s left down there.”
“The fuck?” Shaking his beefy hand off my shoulder for the hundredth time, I switched positions, jogging backwards so I could glare at the bastard. “Why?”
“Because you are a freak of nature, Kav,” he panted, dragging himself along after me. “There is no goddamn way any fella in your position”—he pointed a finger at me and then sagged forward, pressing his hands to the back of his head—“with a broken dick should be able to run for this long without dropping dead.” Groaning he added, “My cock’s in perfect working order and it’s fucking crying from exertion, Johnny! Crying! And my balls have hibernated back to their prepuberty position.”
“My dick’s not broken, asshole,” I growled, looking around to see if anyone heard us.
Thankfully, the rest of the team is at the other side of the pitch.
“I want a picture of it,” he wheezed. “So I can show Coach and pretend it’s mine. He’ll never make me run again.”
“Keep talking about it and you won’t need a picture to show Coach,” I bit out. “I’ll cut your cock off and you can hand it to him instead.”
Gibsie grimaced. “Still too soon to make jokes?”
