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“What did you say?” Beckett asked in a low growl.
Really, it was no surprise he took it this hard. He’d hated me since the day he laid his eyes on me and the feeling had been mutual. Beckett Partridge was everything I was not; rich, well connected, spoiled rotten, and the biggest fuckboy on campus. And probably beyond.
He bared his teeth at me like he could intimidate me, but he was running out of tricks.
“You heard me,” I said. “I tried something. It didn’t work.” Guilt stabbed my stomach; I’d cost us a victory. Had I done my part exactly as I had been told…well, it was impossible to say. At the very least, I wouldn’t be the sole target of Beckett’s frustration. We might have lost anyhow, but the responsibility wouldn’t have been mine alone.
The next thing happened so abruptly that it took me another couple of seconds to realize it had been real. Beckett bent his arm and pressed it across my chest; his elbow pads dug into my exposed flesh; the locker behind me jumped forward and slammed against my back — or Beckett pinned me against it; it was hard to say in the moment — and cold metal bit my bare skin.
Beckett was pressing so tightly against me that I sucked a shallow breath of air in fear. Fear…of what? Beckett’s physical strength didn’t intimidate me, but his proximity did something that made my stomach lurch. The heat of his body on mine and the piercing glare directed only at me made my skin prickle.
He held me like that for another beat. Two.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have let go of me had Coach Murry not entered the locker room. “What the hell is going on?” Coach yelled. “Partridge!”
Beckett pulled back, but he spared me another murderous glare before the contact broke. “This amateur cost us the game, Coach.”
“And you never cost your team a game?” Coach Murry asked, narrowing his eyes at Beckett.
Our captain snarled.
Dammit, Coach, you’re making it worse, I thought to myself.
“He never listens,” Beckett growled.
Coach waved his hand dismissively. “Michaels, be alert,” he snapped over his shoulder at the co-captain. “You’ll be captaining next week’s game.” He turned back to Beckett and me, his glare steely. “You two, hash it out or you’ll sit out the rest of the season. This isn’t the sort of behavior I want in my locker room. I don’t give a rat’s ass how you do it, but I’ll take no less than best friends for fucking life next time you intend to play. I’d hate to lose two of my best players, but I’d hate it even more to let you two hotheads demoralize the entire team.”
“That’s not fair!” Beckett flared.
“No,” I huffed out in disbelief.
“Tell it to your mama and let her bake you your favorite cookies, Partridge,” Coach snapped, his raspy voice metallic with anger. “Discussion over.”
“Coach, you can’t…” Beckett stepped forward, but halted as soon as Coach directed his full attention to him.
I scooted to the side to avoid being the collateral should this turn into a battlefield of strong wills and stubbornness.
“Finish that sentence, Partridge, I dare you,” Coach said, his voice like a shovel dragged over gravel.
Beckett pulled back an inch, but that was as good as waving a white flag.
I knew better than to protest. But I also knew I was double-fucked. There was no way in the universe I would play friends with Beckett Fucking Partridge today or any other time. He’d given me enough hell these last two years as it was.
Coach Murry stormed out of the locker room. His word had been final and his decision would be enforced. Low chatter filled the space as Beckett and I stood frozen and the reality sank in.
Coach couldn’t have meant it, could he? But I dismissed that thought immediately. Of course he’d meant it. Two excellent players versus the entire above average team? I wouldn’t have a hard time making my choice. Sure, Beckett and I mostly pulled the above average end of the entire team, but we weren’t alone. And, as today showed, I wasn’t without fault. But Beckett seemed to think that he could do no wrong, which pushed my buttons hard. That, sharing the spot with pickled cauliflower, was the thing I hated the most in this world. A guy so spoiled he thought he could be no less than perfect.
Beckett turned around, eyes devoid of emotion, and seemed to notice me for the first time ever. He frowned like I’d grown a tail and his gaze dropped from my eyes to my torso.
I remembered then, that I was still half-undressed, torso bare and chest heaving as I tried to breathe without shuddering at the prospect of spending time with Beckett.
“This is bullshit,” Beckett muttered.
And for once, even if it tasted like eating mud, I had to agree with Beckett Partridge.
2
BECKETT
