Page 48 of Wicked Spite
I scan the field. My eyes catch Reagan’s for a split second, her smirk still there, taunting me. She sticks out her tongue and rubs her middle finger across it. She’s taunting me and one day I’m going to cum all over the bright pink piece of flesh and gag her with my seed.
My wife is such a fucking smartass.
I’m ready to finish this and claim my victory prize. The game isn’t over yet, but with every play, every hard-won yard, we’re getting closer.
I shake off the distractions to keep my head in the rest of the game. Graham, Reagan, all of it can wait. Right now, it’s just me, the ball, and the end zone.
Lincoln calls the final play, and I run like the fuckingdevil himself is chasing me for my slippers. It’s only when I feel the ball slide into my hands, and I cross that chalk line that everything comes crashing into me.
“And that’s game.” The final whistle pierces the air, and the stadium explodes into chaos. Screams, cheers, bodies pressing against me as my team swarms around me.
“Fuck yeah, Spartans!” someone hollers nearby.
“Penn!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise, dragging me back to reality. He’s got that no-nonsense look, the kind that means something serious is going down, and he used my fucking name.
“Get your brothers,” he says, his tone clipped.
“What’s up, Coach?” I ask, but he’s already turning away, heading toward the sidelines where Lincoln and Jeremiah are laughing, their girlfriends hanging off them like trophies.
“Lincoln! Jeremiah! Over here, now!” I yell, my voice rough with urgency.
“What’s the deal?” Lincoln’s still grinning, but it fades fast when he sees Coach’s face.
“Something happened,” Jeremiah murmurs, ever the intuitive one.
“Yeah, no shit,” I snap, pushing through the crowd until we’re all standing in front of Coach.
“Listen up.” Coach’s voice drops, gravelly and heavy. “Graham’s been in an accident. He’s at the hospital.”
The world tilts, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum. Graham. In an accident. The words hang in the air, suffocating, choking.
“How bad?” Lincoln asks, his voice breaking.
“Don’t know yet,” Coach replies, looking us dead in the eye. “But it sounds serious.”
“Shit,” Jeremiah whispers, running a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
“Fuck!” The word bursts out of me, raw and angry. I want to hit something, break something. Anything to make this not real.
“Get dressed,” Coach says, softer now. “I’ll drive you boys to the hospital.”
“Right,” I mutter, turning on my heel. My mind’s a storm, thoughts colliding like lightning strikes. Graham. Always the quiet one, the steady one. And now…what the fuck happened to my goddamn Grammy? Someone’s going to fucking die. My fingers itch for my lighter. Desperation clinging to me to flick the flame on and light something up. I need the control, the power. I’m spiraling and I need to fixate on something.
I head to the locker room, each step heavier than the last. I’ve got no time for games anymore.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist into the locker, the metallic clang reverberating through the room. My hands shake as I fumble with my gear, ripping it off like it’s suffocating me. The victory, the cheers—it all fades into nothing. Goddamn it.
“Penn, calm down,” Jeremiah says, but his voice is distant.
“Calm down? Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, throwing my helmet across the room. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor with a dull thud. “Grahams in the hospital, Jeremiah. How the hell am I supposed to calm down?”
“He’s tough,” Lincoln adds, trying to sound reassuring, but there’s a crack in his voice that betrays his own fear. “He’ll pull through.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” I growl, yanking off my jersey. The locker room smells of sweat and desperation. “We don’t even know what happened.”
“Let’s just get there and see for ourselves,” Jeremiah tries again, more insistent this time.
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my stuff. My mind races. Images of Graham lying broken, bleeding, flood my vision. I can’t shake them. Can’t breathe.
