Page 99 of Play Dirty

“No shit,” Zack shot back.

“Enough,” Mercer snapped.

Silence followed.

I buried myself in my tablet, not really seeing it. Because across the room, Sebastian stared at the floor. And something about that—

“Flush it,” Mercer growled. “We adjust. We move on.”

His eyes flicked to me.

“Numbers,” he added.

I nodded.

Work. Always work. By the end of the week, the needle had moved. The drills were tighter, the entries cleaner. Communication was sharper than it had ever been.

We were evolving. Without Ares.

The thought of that sat heavy in my chest — especially since I had such a hand in it. I watched those piercing blue eyes track the game from the bench, unable to do anything about it. It brought memories of my senior year. After the injury. I’d been in the same situation. The frustration was real.

Late at night, I found myself back in my room. Warm. Comfortably, perfectly warm, as the radiator hummed softly beside my bed.

It was reliable now. Steady. Fixed.

I stared at it for a long time before looking away, because I knew exactly who’d done that. And I knew exactly what had almost happened, because of it.

Pressing my lips together, I pulled the blankets tighter around myself. Work. Focus. Control. That was the plan. Because the alternative…

The alternative was losing control completely. And I wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

The Reavers were getting better. Stronger. Faster.

And yet somehow—

It felt like everything was about to break.

~ 33 ~

ARES

I hated not playing.

There wasn’t a better way to say it. No cleaner version.

I just fucking hated it.

The gym helped. A little. Steel in my hands. Weight pushing back. Muscles burning, until everything else went silent.

That part I understood.

That part made sense.

Everything else didn’t.

Two games. That’s what they’d given me. Two games for a cracked rib. Rumored to be three.