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PRESCOTT
“Somebody’s cutting it close,” Scotty says in the way of a greeting as I enter the buzzing locker room. I bypass my teammates, most of which are already in full gear, and go straight to my spot, dropping my duffle bag on the bench and pulling open my locker.
“Dude, where were you?” Nixon hisses.
“I overslept,” I mutter, pulling the shirt over my head. All thanks to a certain brunette that shall not be named, I only woke up when my third alarm went off—with a raging boner no less since she spent the whole night snuggled against me—and then she had to be difficult on top of everything.
Freaking girls and their stubbornness.
But I can’t say any of that out loud if I want to keep my dick intact. Not that there is any reason for it to be in danger either way. Nothing happened. I just did a good deed. That’s all. A freaking good deed, and that’s how she reacted?
Not sure Nixon will see it that way if he finds out his little sister spent the night in your bed, good intentions or not.
“Seriously? You overslept?” I can see why he’d be skeptical about it.
Ever since I’d been cleared to play this past week, I’ve been one of the first players to come to practice. I was eager to be back on the field, eager to play, and show the world there is more to the Wentworth name than a washed-out player retiring from the game because of an injury.
“The old man’s been warming the bench for so long he forgot what it means to put in the work.”
My back stiffens as the words echo in the room. All the clamor dies at once, leaving the room deadly quiet, and I can feel everyone’s eyes watching me.
I clench my jaw, my fingers tightening around the jersey in my hand as I slowly look over my shoulder to glare at the guy in question.
Sullivan.
There’s a smirk on the sophomore’s face as he looks at me, all fake bravado.
“Forgot how to put in the work?” I ask softly, almost too softly. The guys lean in, exchanging silent looks as the tension sizzles in the room between us, so strong I can almost feel it crackle. “You thinkIforgot how to put in the work?”
“Wentworth…” Nixon starts, his fingers wrapping around my forearm. I tug my wrist out of his reach, not in the mood to be placated.
“Oh no, let’s hear what Sullivan has to say since he’s the only one putting in all the work, apparently.”
The smirk falls off his face, color rising on his cheeks. “That’s not…”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t that what you said?” I jab my finger into his chest, feeling the anger brewing inside me. “I’ve been busting my ass the last few months in rehab so I could play again. Yet, you have the audacity to talk to me about hard work? You, a guy who, after months, still doesn’t know how to read plays and differentiate left from right?”
Somebody curses quietly in the background, and Sullivan’s cheeks turn beet red in embarrassment.
I raise my brows, waiting for him to say something else, but just as he opens his mouth, Coach enters the locker room.
“Gentleman.” He takes in the room, his eyes stopping on Sullivan and me. “Do we have a problem here?”
There is a beat of silence as I stare at Sullivan, waiting to see if he’ll bitch to Coach, but he just presses his lips together tighter.
Of course, he won’t say anything in front of him. He wouldn’t risk stepping on his toes.
“No,” he clips. “No problem.”
Coach turns to me, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Wentworth?”
“No,” I shake my head and take a step back, but there is no hiding the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “It’s all good.”
Coach’s eyes narrow slightly. “Then why are you all standing around chatting like a bunch of ladies gathering for an afternoon tea?” He shakes his head. “Get your asses out on the field. We’ve got work to do. Week zero is just around the corner, and you know what that means.”
It’s like he said the magical words because the next moment, people start scurrying off either out to the field or to finish dressing, and I’m no different.
