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My fingers ball into fists by my sides. “She let me go.”
“So that makes it fucking okay?” He grabs my jersey, pulling me to him and getting all up in my face.
I don’t bother fighting him because I know he has every right to be pissed at me. I’m surprised it took him so long to come for me. I was expecting him to come find me that same day and beat the ever-loving crap out of me. I wouldn’t have even tried to stop it. I’d relish it, really. Only the knock on my door never came, and a part of me hated him for it, not nearly as much as I hated myself for walking away, though.
Maybe if he had done it, I wouldn’t feel this guilty now.
As if that’s even possible.
“Say something, dammit.” Nixon shakes me, his eyes, that same blue shade of the stormy sky as his sister’s, blazing at me. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you right this moment for breaking her heart.”
I have cancer.
I press my lips in a tight line, not uttering a word.
There isn’t one. There is no sense pretending there is.
The vein in Nixon’s forehead starts to tick, his eyes darkening the longer he glares at me.
I have cancer.
“C’mon, Cole. Do it,” I taunt him.Punch me. Punish me for walking away. For breaking Jade’s heart. “We both know you want to.”
Nixon shakes his head. “You’re one sick son of a bitch.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “One sick son of a bitch that screwed your littl—”
I don’t get to finish because Nixon’s fist connects with my face. My head snaps back, a coppery taste filling my mouth. I can hear ringing in my ears. My tongue slides over my lower lip. It feels tender to the touch, blood seeping from the split.
Slowly turning around, I find Nixon watching me. He’s panting, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides as he tries to rein in his rage.
I let out a small chuckle, “That’s the best you’ve got?”
If I weren’t living in my own personal hell, I’d have gone there for this.
My words finally make my best friend snap, and he goes at me with full force. His fist connects to my gut, making me double over as Nixon keeps punching me.
I don’t bother stopping him or defending myself.
There’s commotion in the locker room. I can hear our teammates cursing and see shadows fall over us as guys try to pull Nixon back, but he’s like a wild bull.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Coach bellows just as two linebackers haul Nixon away from me. Blinking a few times, I look up at Coach, who’s scanning the locker room, waiting for somebody to explain, but all heads are ducked. His gaze falls on me before it shifts to still panting Nixon. “Cole! Wentworth! My office.” His voice drops dangerously low. “Now. The rest of you get your asses to the field.”
Without waiting for us, Coach turns on the balls of his feet and stalks out of the locker room.
Groaning, I push to my feet, gripping the metal door for support. My stomach is sore, my head is throbbing at full force, and I can feel my eye starting to swell shut.
The guys let go of Nixon. His hands are still clenched, his knuckles bloodied and bruised. We must make a pretty pair.
The locker room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Some of our teammates look at us warily as if they’re waiting for us to pounce at each other all over again.
With the back of my hand, I wipe my mouth. “You heard the old man. Get your asses out on the field.”
With that, I push from the locker and go toward the door. Nixon follows after me, neither of us saying a word as we make our way to the coach’s office.
His head snaps up the moment he hears us, eyes narrowing into tiny slits.
“What the fuck was that? Why are my two-star players—the captain and co-captain of my team—at each other’s throats, throwing punches like they’re in some bar brawl?” he asks, his voice rising with every word until he’s yelling, his whole face beet red from exertion.
