Page 31 of Deafened By Silence
I catch sight of the twenty-four-second shot clock bleeding down to the last five seconds. No time to set up, no time to think.My teeth are grinding together, aching from my jaw up to my ears. Since when did I give this much of a shit about anything?
Not having a choice, I shoot the second my foot kisses the arc line, my wrist snapping clean. The entire stadium seems to stall to watch the ball slide through the net, the rope swaying silently in its wake. Beautiful. I would clap for myself if half of the arena wasn’t doing it for me.
Undeterred, Armitage’s star player bounces the ball a few times on the spot, shoulders loose like he’s got all night to watch us stumble and shuffle into place. The formation of our team is wrong, scattered like they’ve just about given up. Trash, the lot of them.
I spot an opening straight down the middle the same second the Giant does. Watching his feet, noting the slight roll of his ankle and the lazy confidence in his stance, I brace myself. He catches my eye, igniting a one-on-one challenge between just us two. On an exhale, I sharpen my focus until the edges of my vision blur, my entire body tuned to his rhythm. He turns his left foot in for some unnecessary spin, pure show-off bullshit. The second the ball hits the floor and bounces back up, I’m there. Snatching it clean, I drive it back the way it came, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
A shout breaks behind me and my grin widens. The court opens ahead as if everyone here knows it’s mine by birthright. I leap, slam the ball through the hoop, and hang on the rim for a few seconds, letting gravity pull at me before I drop. The buzz in my veins spikes, and that’s the moment I see her.
Widened doe eyes, slightly upturned nose, liquid chocolate hair pooling around delicate shoulders. Front row and center where she should be, gaze locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room. My chest tightens. Desire flares through me at the same instant the beeper cuts in to announce another Armitage score. Dammit, focus. By the end of the night, she’ll be at mymercy, but right now I need to keep my head and my cock in check.
I hold my hand up for Joey to pass the ball, as I always do. If I want that ball, it has less then three seconds to land in my grasp. This time, however, a flicker of panic flares in his eyes, chased by a look of regret just before the ball leaves his hand and lands in Chase’s instead. My mouth drops open before I can catch myself. Catching myself, I glare daggers at Joey, watching him swallow hard and jog away. He knows he’ll pay for that.
Chase dribbles with the grace of a drowning duck, his sneakers slapping like he’s never ran a day in his life, then lobs it to Justin, who manages to miss yet another shot. What are these useless fucks doing?! They never play this badly in practice.
Other than one more basket from yours truly, the rest of the first half is a slow bleed. We’re getting slaughtered out here. Gutted and dragged through the dirt while the cheer squad keeps screaming Waversea chants like a stuck record. The next time I’m near, I turn on them with a low growl that makes them jump back and, thankfully, shut the hell up.
The claxon finally sounds for halftime, our team trudging toward the locker rooms with their heads down, sweat dripping like they’ve been beaten into the floor. I’m equally drained and exhausted, since I’m carrying us all, but my pulse remains sharp and restless. Pure stubbornness will pull me through, although a little sugar wouldn’t hurt too. Passing Klara’s sulky face without a glance, I lean against the railing in front of Harper, smirk back in place.
“It’s hard work carrying the team here, Babygirl. You’d best grab me a coffee on your way over tonight. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the energy I can get.” Her eyes track my mouth. No receivers today, got it. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, all slow and sensual just to see if she’ll react. She does not.
“If it’s such hard work, maybe you should let Clay cover you for a while.”
I rear back as if I’ve been slapped. Maybe I misheard her, but the serious set of her delicate features leaves no room for confusion. Then, I burst out laughing. It echoes loudly and is quickly mimicked by everyone nearby, even though they don’t know what I’m laughing at. In the center of it all, Harper remains still as a statue, oblivious to it all. Eventually, I sober too.
“Let’s pretend I’ve lost my mind and I do let Clay on the court. What’s it going to earn me?”
“Other than a win?” Harper raises a brow. I stare at her as if she’s lost her mind but let the cogs in her brain work. Finally, she sighs. “What do you want?” The smile that grows across my face stretches almost painfully, and just like that, I’m back on top.
“Coffee.” Harper’s green eyes narrow, her hip popping out as she waits for the catch. Boosted by self-assurance, I lean over the railing and stop just short of entering Harper’s personal space. Even though she can’t hear me currently, I lower my voice for her only. “I want you waiting for me outside with a coffee that tastes just like you. Wet, warm, slightly bitter with the sweetest aftertaste.”
I seriously hope Harper got all of that before I lunge forward and lick her cheek with the flat of my tongue. She shoves me away and I drop onto the court in time with the players returning. Clayton attempts to sink onto the bench, his eyes just as sunken, until I grab the back of his shirt and drag him back upright.
“You’re in, Joey’s out.” Pushing Clayton’s sorry ass away, I catch Joey’s eye and draw a singular line across my throat with my finger. I haven’t forgotten how he refused me a pass earlier, and he won’t anytime soon either. Coach appears relieved at the change of events, giving me a cheesy thumbs up. I roll myeyes and get into stance beside an Armitage player I’m going to call Weasel Features. I stand uncomfortably close, gearing up to become his worst nightmare for the next twenty minutes.
Just before the ball is thrown into play, with Clayton up front and fully absorbed, I brave one more look to Harper, and regret it instantly. A smug, satisfied smile lifts on her full lips. What was previously a bored, flat glaze to her green eyes has now ignited with interest. They flick my way for less than a second before returning to Clayton, effectively baiting and dismissing me in one move.
Murderous intent swells within my veins. If there ever was a day I was going to kill Clayton for real, this would be it. Instead, for some unexplainable reason, I give Clayton yet another free pass and turn my attention to Weasel Features instead. Since it’s not on me to carry the game anymore, I choose to ignore the scoreboard and create a game of my own. Simultaneously drive Weasel Features to the brink of madness and the ledge of suicide.
Gluing myself to his side, I refuse to give him an inch of breathing space. When he pivots, I match him step for step. When he goes for a shot, I am already in his face, my hand waving inches from his eyes, my laugh dragging across his ear until frustration radiates from him in waves. Each step is a taunt, my sneakers squeaking over the ball bouncing on by. I pay it no attention, planting myself in front of my chosen foe with a smirk I’m sure he wants to rip off my face. However, it seems like I’m not the only one who’s changing tactics.
“Seems like your girl has eyes for someone else,” he grunts with a heavy dose of halitosis. His bleak gaze slides to Harper beyond my head and that riles me more than his attempt at a taunt. He’s about to lose those eyes into the back of his skull.
“She’s not my girl,” I grind out in a weak attempt to divert attention away from Harper. It doesn’t work. Weasel Featuressmiles wide, the yellow stain of his teeth matching the scent of his breath.
“Oh, good to know. I’ll make sure to introduce myself on the way out. Give her my winning jersey. There’s nothing I love more than a hot babe wearing absolutely nothing except my jer?—”
My fist connects with his cheekbone before my brain even finishes processing that sentence. The impact sends a jolt up my arm, satisfying the darkened parts of me in a way that only real violence delivers. The whistle screams overhead, ref’s voice booming “Ejection!” but I couldn’t give less of shit. My fists are singing with pent-up rage, landing again and again in Weasel’s pinched, pointy features until I don’t know where his blood stops and mine starts. All I know is there’s a burning itch where my the skin across my knuckles has split and if it leaves a scar in my ink, I’m going to hunt this fucker down and finish the job.
Hands clamp onto me, trying to drag me back, but I twist, my chest heaving, every muscle coiled for another strike. Weasel gets in two swings of his own, one splitting my lip. His smile is consistent despite the crimson smeared across his face, and I catch a glimpse of what riles Clayton up so much. Smiling in the face of a beating really is annoying.
The team manages to haul me toward the locker room like a rabid animal needing a fix. The second the door closes, effectively shutting me off from the stadium, a red haze devours my restraint. My fists slam into metal locker doors, one after the other, the hollow clang echoing off the tiles until blood streaks across the silver. It’s been too long since I’ve lost control like this, letting the mask slip and the shadows slip free. I’m no longer seeing the room around me but the face of the man I loathe. My father appears behind every blink, mocking me for revealing my weakness. Hell, for having weakness at all. The thought brings me up short, cutting through my fury, but it doesn’t erase it.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the whistle shrills again, and I am done. Jacket on, I push through the back door, gulping in air that is mercifully free of sweat and failure. I can’t believe I let some asshole stranger pull me in so easily. I can’t believe my trigger point is that easy to reach. My hand clenches again, ready to leave a dent in the Armitage minibus, when a lithe figure peels herself from the side of the building.
I glare at Harper before catching myself, and don’t pay any attention to the way my anger melts a fraction at the sight of her brown hair spilling over one shoulder. Her bare neck catches the low light from the lamppost, a lickable column stretching from collar bone to ear. Her leather jacket is zipped halfway to reveal the edge of a black lace camisole. The rest of her outfit is a blur because my eyes keep dragging back to the soft bow of her lips. She extends a hand, offering me a steaming takeaway cup, the scent of cheap coffee curling between us.
“Thank you,” she breathes and offers me a genuine smile. My thoughts stall, not entirely sure how I have earned her gratitude, but I’ll take it every day of the week. Then she speaks again. “For giving Clay a chance.”
