Page 25 of Wicked Spite
I glance up at the stands again and look right at her. Without missing a beat, she mouths the words, slow and deliberate: “So are you gonna win or are you gonna choke?”
We line up at the scrimmage. The smell of damp grass and sweat mingles with the metallic tang of adrenaline in the air. The defenders eye me like wolves scenting blood, but they’re not who I’m thinking about.
“Four-four-four! Your move!” My quarterback, my brother yells before time slows to one singular moment.
The snap echoes in my ears, and it sounds like a gunshot. The ball’s in play, and I’m off like a goddamn rocket. My legs pump, muscles scream, breath tearing through my lungs. Everything fades—the roar of the crowd, the pounding heartbeats. It’s just me, the field, and that bitch ass pigskin.
“Penn! Fucking fly you bastard!” Linc’s voice rips through the chaos.
I grunt, eyes locked on the target. I bolt downfield, dodging defenders like they’re standing still.
A blur of brown spirals toward me. Time slows. I leap, fingers stretching, catching the ball with a satisfying thud. Touchdown. The stadium erupts, but all I hear is my own ragged breathing and the pounding in my chest.
“Fuck yeah!” I scream, spiking the ball into the end zone. Victory tastes sweet.
But then I look up, and she’s gone.
Reagan’s seat in the stands is empty, a gaping hole in thesea of cheering faces. My mood drops faster than my cleats hitting the turf. The tension coils tighter inside me, a snake ready to strike.
She wants to play games. Okay bitch, well, I’m about to become fucking Jigsaw.
I shove past teammates who slap my back and shout congratulations.
“Yo, Penn! Party at the football house tonight, you in?” someone yells.
“Maybe later,” I snap, already moving toward the locker room.
Inside, the air’s thick with sweat and adrenaline. Guys are laughing, spraying each other with water bottles. Not me. Not today. I take a scalding fucking shower, washing away the grime, but not the frustration.
I dress in record time, jeans rough against my still-damp skin, t-shirt sticking to wet patches. Hair wild, hat backward. Perfect. Just how she likes it—or would like it if she ever admitted it.
“Hey asshole, you good?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the haze as I yank my locker open, grabbing my phone.
“Peachy,” I grunt, shoving past him. I got fucking plans and I need to get the damn ball rolling on them. They all slotted together in my head while out on the gridiron.
“Catch you later, ball sac besties,” I call out, not waiting up for them. Outside, the winter air bites at my skin. I pull up the rideshare app, thumb hovering over the ‘confirm’ button.
The car pulls up, and I slide into the backseat, tapping my fingers against my thigh. The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, probably wondering why a college football player is in such a fucking hurry.
“Drive fast,” I snap, eyes locked on the passing scenery. Trees blur together, a mess of orange and brown.
“Everything okay back there?” the driver asks, voice tinged with concern.
“Just drive,” I growl. The hour-long drive feels like only minutes after I disassociated for most of it.
We screech to a halt outside of campus, and I get out of the car, tapping the top before the driver books it the fuck away from me.
“Hey Penn! Great game, man!” one guy shouts, slapping me on the back. I flash him a grin, tipping my cap.
“Thanks, bro. Just doing what I do best.” My voice drips with confidence, a playful smirk curling my lips.
“Penn, you were fantastic!” A girl squeals, her eyes wide with awe. I wink at her, enjoying the flush that spreads across her cheeks.
“Glad you enjoyed the show.” I keep walking, each step bringing me closer to the Dean’s office, my mind already several steps ahead in this game of chess I’m playing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen. Ramsey. I open the text.
Lil Penn
