He smirks. “What’s it like living with a fag?”
I almost choke. “What?”
The others chuckle and shake their heads. Larson hushes them. “Boys, boys, clearly he doesn’t know his stepbrother likes dick. He’s probably panicking about all the times he was exposed in front of the faggot.”
Cade.
He’s talking about Cade.
Calling him a…
My stomach lurches. My pulse pounds.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Larson glances over his shoulder, nodding at the guys before giving me a sympathetic grimace. “I know this’ll be hard to hear… but he came onto me this morning.”
Lies.
Fuckinglies.
My stepbrother would sooner spit on someone like Grant Larson.
The quarterback takes my silence as abject horror and closes the distance, slapping a hand on my padded shoulder. Blood nears boiling in my veins. The protective instinct that made itself known last night rears its head again. Except this time, it has a clear target.
His brows knit with faux sincerity. “Look man?—”
My fist connects with his jaw. The uppercut whips his head back. I lower my shoulders and charge at his chest, knocking him to the ground. Shouts and surprised gasps barely register as I punch. A crunch. He yelps. I’m possessed by blind rage, each growl punctuated by another hit.
“Never. Call. Him. That.Again!”
Grant attempts to fight back. I throw my full weight into him. Hands grapple with my jersey and gear. Distant yelling grows louder.
“Holt! Larson! Break it up!”
Coach’s voice slices through the fog.
I just attacked my team captain. During practice.
Shaking with adrenaline and anger, I let them pull me off.
A fist flies?—
Bright pain flashes through my skull.
“LARSON!” Coach howls.
Red tints my vision— literally. I blink, dabbing my right brow. Yep. That's blood.
Bastard.
Whitley, our defensive end, squats in front of me. “You good?”
No, I want to batter that fucker to a pulp.
“Yeah,” I grunt. He hands me a sweat rag. I press it to my aching forehead. A few feet away, Larson thrashes like a madman; bruises and swelling already disfigure his face. The beast beneath my skin preens at the sight.
Coach blocks my view.
