:: Chapter (03) :: Where he sees a ghost It's decided. After football practice, I'm going to sock Lance Campa's fucking eyeballs. Forget the fact that it isn't even a formal practice, the tool of a linebacker always finds himself somewhere up in my personal space. I'm not an idiot; he's purposely jostling my frame harder than necessary. Checking me at every possible opportunity like a little bitch. Anytime I catch the ball, he doesn't miss a beat, sending me taunts and glares at every turn. For a brief second, I debate pausing our game to repeatedly plow the football in his thick, meat head. Given...I did fvck his girlfriend and her best friend in a one-night-stand a couple of months back. She'd given me no signs of being in a committed relationship and I was just fresh out of one of my many "fall-outs" with Rose. I was single, looking for a good lay, and she'd displayed herself as an overeager candidate for the position. Who was I to reject her – especially since I didn't know her dammed boyfriend was on the team. Lance Campa has held a personal vendetta against me since that day. His girlfriend dumped his ass shortly after, and now he's just a miserable prick. A miserable prick who, admittedly, is trying to make my life just as miserable. I'm open and waiting for a catch, but instead of throwing it at me like a normal person, he aims it at me like a, well, fucking prick. Again, the football thumps against my thigh and nearly falls out of my grip. That isn't accidental. Now I'm just mad. Since the season isn't officially started, this isn't a real practice. A couple of guys on the team are just throwing around the ball on the newly renovated turf for a few before freshman tryouts begin later next week. None of us have geared up so I really don't know what the fuck is up Lance's hole. This time I kick the football aside. "You got a problem with me, man?" Two hundred and thirty pounds of male flesh stands before me. Lance's face breaks out into a smug grin when he realizes that he's successfully pushed my buttons. The look on his face only serves to piss me off some more. "Next time, don't aim like a fucker if you want me to catch," I spit drily, taking a couple of more steps his way. I'm taller than him but he's a lot bulkier. "Just makes you look like an idiot." "At least I can catch. My performance isn't lacking. I'm not the reason why we almost lost the championship last year," he goads, giving me an obnoxious laugh. I grit my teeth. Coach Harvey will probably shit a ton of bricks if he sees that Lance and I are seconds away from going at it again. So I mentally count to five. It's a technique my third grade teacher taught us - in order to stop temperamental tantrums- and damn me if it doesn't work like a fucking charm. Look at that, the need to murder Lance Campa is already lessening with every second. Over the span of last season, Lance and I have gotten into many fights and landed our asses with more injuries than I can count on both my hands. I've previously landed suspension from two games and Coach has been quick to inform us that if we don't clean up our acts, we'll be off the team. And I'll lose my scholarship. Meaning that I'm not about to let some shit get under my nerves. Lance wants a fight, because for whatever reason, he can't get over the fact that his girlfriend had favoured my dick over his. Some of the guys from the team start to approach us when they feel that things between Lance and I are heating up. I pop my neck to the side and clench my fists. The beauty of the whole ordeal is that Coach isn't here. So if I'm to punch the daylights out of this guy, he'll never know. "Lacking performance, eh? That's not what your ex-girlfriend said to me when I fucked her tight pussy." Lance's face flashes red and something like a battle cry escapes his mouth. Now I've pushed his buttons. He runs towards me but I'm already prepared. When he shoots the first punch, I dodge and retaliate. My upper-cut strikes his jaw, causing his head to whip to the side. Wyatt and Calvin – two other players – decide to quickly interject. They pull us apart, cursing. Lance's arms are flailing at his sides as he tries to strike me again, but Wyatt – who has a good twenty pounds on him – manages to keep him in a lock, despite his struggles. Calvin's arms are branded around my waist, holding me back. If I want to, I can easily escape his hold. Except a couple more failed punches tell me that it's not worth it. Not worth more. Lance Campa isn't worth risking my scholarship. As Wyatt hollers more directions, I notice how a vein throbs in Lance's temple. His features are screwed into a painful grimace and he resembles a tomato with all that red rushing to his face. "Don't let him get to you, Trent," Calvin, another wide receiver for our team, mumbles close to my ear. "Not fucking worth it, man." With strenuous effort on their part, they finally release us and Lance gasps for air, before spitting a stream of saliva on the turf. As if he's imagining the green grass is my face. Just to piss him off, I jut my chin and smirk a little at him. He makes an angry roaring-like sound before stalking away to the bleachers to gather his equipment. "Well that escalated quickly." I hear Calvin say. Then he pats my arm again, as if congratulating me for not going completely berserk on Lance. "Maybe we should call it a wrap." "You good man?" Wyatt asks as he nears. He rubs his dark skin with his hands. "Fine." I glance around at the guys who shift awkwardly and try not to meet my gaze. Obviously everyone is fed up of the shit between Lance and I. "I'm done, man. I'll catch you later." "Wait!" Calvin calls out. When I give him my attention, he seems to grow awkward. "So you fucked his girlfriend when he was with her or after..." Wyatt snickers beside him. "This, I gotta hear." I try to fight the smile from breaking out on my face. "I didn't know she was his girlfriend. She didn't even so much as breathe the word 'boyfriend' when she was with me. Only found out afterwards. For the record, she told me he has a crooked d!ck." Wyatt howls with laughter and Calvin looks like he stuck between being amused or stunned. I leave them and walk towards the bleachers to gather my equipment. My best friend, Jared Roy, sits on the top, his head fully immersed in a psychology course pack. He only raises his head slightly when I near. "You okay?" I shrug and pull off my sweaty shirt, stuffing it in my gym bag as I trade it for a clean one. Pulling it over my head, I say, "What exactly are you reading?" He waves his course pack like a white flag as he runs a hand through his buzzed hair. "Child psychology. It's a class I got to take this semester. Professor emailed us the readings ahead of time. Now I'm stuck reading thirty fucking pages before next week." I smirk and take a swig of my water. "Bummer." My phone beeps with a text and I dig it out of my pocket. "Who is it?" Jared asks absentmindedly as he flips to another page. I scroll through my sister's text. "Natalie." He tries to hide his reaction but fails miserably. I notice how his posture goes rigid. Tension coils deep in his broad shoulders. The corners of his mouth turn down and he grips his book a little harder than necessary. "Ah, I see." His tone is anything but nonchalant. After Jared and Natalie broke up, they rarely spoke. Actually, never spoke. Things were strained between me and Jared for the first couple of weeks after it ended between them, because dammit, he'd hurt my sister. But then I learned it had been a mutual breakup and they'd parted ways semi-amicably.