Page 43 of Monstrous Serpent

“Come for the show, Coach?” Trembley grins. “I mean, didn’t you see how he swung at Hunter’s legs like he was trying to hit a grand slam. He threw his hips into it and everything.”

If anyone hit me like that, Doyle wouldn’t be joking about it. He’d be trying to pummel the guy’s skull into the ground. I look up at Kincaid. “You need better friends.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. Then he lets me go, grabs Trembley by the neck, and they head off toward the bus.

Reed cocks his head. “You good?”

I rub my wrists. “Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Kill is going to love this. Another Titan just like me. Mouthy and with a thing for Serpents.”

“I’m nothing like you, traitor.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” He walks off, but stops halfway, turning back to face me. “Oh, and give them shit. Lots of it. Like migraine-level worthy. Not sure what it is about that team, but they really love it.”

“Whatever.” I make my way back inside.

Like I need Reed’s advice. I have absolutely zero fucking interest in those two assholes. They can drop dead for all I care.

Except my cup suddenly feels too tight. Too uncomfortable. “Oh, come on.”

I can’t be hard. Not again. Not because of them.

But I am.

And this time I wasn’t afraid. Wasn’t being chased.

“Goddammit.”

I drag both hands down my face and pull in a breath so deep my ribs ache. It’s always been girls. But am I . . . Am I into guys too?

Fuck.

I turn and look through the glass doors at the bus pulling away from the curb. My abs clench as a hot throb rolls through my groin, my balls drawing tight.

No.

It’s them.

I’m . . . I’m into them.

Fuck my life.

Chapter 13

Hunter

Picking a major assumes I give a shit about later. I don’t. But the advisor kept talking anyway. Could’ve been working on my paper. Studying. Doing something useful. Instead, I sat through forty minutes of useless shit. I roll my neck and shove open the door.

Atlas is on the couch, mid-match, his thumbs hammering the controller. “Flanking left, flanking left, oh, you piece of—” His character dies. “Bullshit.”

I toss the bag of tacos onto the coffee table, grab the second controller off the mini fridge, then drop down next to him. The cushion dips, and his arm brushes mine.

“Oh, fuck yes.” He pauses the game, rips open the bag, pulls out a taco, and takes a bite so big that half the filling lands in his lap. He wipes his hand down the front of his sweatshirt. “Dude, sign on. Hurry up.”

I grunt and pick up my controller. “Better wash that thing.”

He looks down at the streak. “Well, yeah. It’s dirty now.”