I don’t take his hand.
I just stand there, my arms crossed, my gaze a cold, hard stare that I hope conveys all the rage, all the disgust, all the pure, undiluted hatred I’m feeling.
O’Shea’s brows furrow, glancing between us. Ross clears his throat awkwardly, dropping his hand back to his side. I don’t miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes.
Good.
“Mud, sorry,” I say, not sorry at all but only to save face in front of Coach O’Shea. He knows that there would have to be more to it than me being a rude, disrespectful teenager, because he knows that isn’t who I am.
Ross nods, shifting uncomfortably. “Right. Well—uh—I just wanted to tell you, you’ve got a great team here.”
“Yeah,” I reply flatly.
The silence stretches, thick with tension. Coach Rourke, bless his oblivious heart, clears his throat, trying to smooth things over. “Molly’s been thriving here. You must be proud.”
“I am,” I say, still staring at Ross.
His smile falters under my gaze. He knows. He fucking knows I know. He must be able to see it in my eyes.
“You two friends?” Ross asks me, his gaze darting to Molly across the field.
“Something like that,” I reply evenly.
Ross’s lips press into a thin line. He shifts his weight, glancing at O’Shea like he’s hoping for rescue.
O’Shea—oblivious to the undercurrent—just claps me on the shoulder. “Alright, Blue, go get hydrated. Second half starts soon.”
I nod, still staring at Ross, my eyes promising a thousand different kinds of pain. “Right. Enjoy the game, lads.”
I turn on my heel, walking away before I do something stupid. Before I lose control and punch that smug, fucking smile right off his face. Because right now, I want to kill him. I wantto wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until the life drains out of his eyes, until he feels even a fraction of the fear, the pain, the helplessness that he put her through.
And I’ve never wanted to kill anybody before.
I’ve been angry. I’ve been in fights. I’ve been drunk and let my hot-headed temper get the best of me.
But I’ve never been so sober and felt so strongly abouthurtingsomeone as I do right now.
Two things stop me.
1). I know it would only make things worse for Molly.
2). No amount of hurt I can bestow on him would ever make things even.
I jog over to the bench, grabbing my water bottle and chugging half of it in one go. Molly’s sitting next to JJ, who’s talking animatedly about something, trying to distract her. She looks up when I approach, her eyes wide and questioning.
“I didn’t say anything,” I assure her quietly, sitting beside her.
She exhales shakily, nodding. “Okay.”
“But he gives me a nasty feeling. Just the way he was looking at me, at you—” I stop myself, shaking my head, not warning to add to her burden or feed her fear. “Nevermind.”
Molly’s fingers twist around the hem of her jersey. “I'm sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”
She leans into me slightly, her shoulder pressing against mine. “What do we do?”
“We win,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “We play our fucking hearts out, and we win. For you.”
