Page 125 of Racking Up Penalties
Now, it all makes sense.
“Come on, Delaney. You gonna do something about it?” he taunts, mistaking my silence for weakness.
“Did you touch my Tessa without her permission? Did you put your slimy hands on her? Because if she wanted you, she would have outright told me.” My voice is dangerous and anyone with half a brain cell would know to back away slowly.
The world narrows to just Tyler and me, my pulse pounding a furious rhythm in my ears. Heat flushes through my body, igniting every nerve ending with the need to protect, to defend. Thoughts of Tessa, her laughter, her quiet strength—they fuel the fire that’s been simmering since Tyler first opened his mouth.
“I don’t know about that. She seemed into it to me.”
“Tristan, don’t,” someone mutters, a distant voice trying to break through the red haze.
But it’s too late. My hand acts of its own accord, fingers curled into a tight fist. It surges forward with all the pent-up rage of dealing with Tyler.
Crack!
My knuckles collide with Tyler’s jaw, a satisfying jolt shooting up my arm. The sound echoes off the lockers, resonating like a starting pistol at the beginning of a race. For a heartbeat, there’s silence—a stunned vacuum where time freezes.
Then the locker room erupts.
“Whoa!”
“Damn!”
Shouts bounce around us, a cacophony of shock and excitement. Some guys are on their feet, cheering like I’ve scored the winning touchdown instead of throwing a punch. Others are less enthused, rushing over with outstretched hands, trying to pry us apart.
“Back off, Tyler!” one of them yells, but I can barely hear him over the rush in my head.
“Let them go, let them go!” another chants, egging on the fight.
I’m not a violent guy, never have been. But as I stand there, chest heaving, staring down at Tyler who’s clutching his jaw in disbelief, I can’t find it in me to regret my actions—not when it comes to Tessa. Not when every instinct screams that something is wrong.
“Enough!” I shout, louder than I intend. My voice rings out, commanding attention despite the turmoil. “This isn’t what we’re here for.”
They pause, looking between Tyler and me, the tension thick enough to choke on. I can see it in their eyes—confusion, understanding, even respect. They know me as the level-headed guy, the strategist on the field.
“Game’s not gonna win itself,” I say, my tone firm, trying to redirect the energy and refocus on why we’re really here. It’s an attempt to reclaim normalcy, to shove aside the incident and put our heads back in the game.
The door to the locker room slams open with a force that ricochets off the walls, snapping every head in its direction. Coach’s face is an alarming shade of red, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s before the charge. My heart thuds against my ribs, each beat a drumroll sealing my fate.
“Delaney! What the hell was that?” His voice booms across the room, so loud it nearly drowns out the buzzing in my ears.
I stand there, amidst scattered pads and half-tied cleats, feeling the weight of his glare. A dozen scenarios play in my mind, none of them ending well. I’m not just bracing for a blow; I’m waiting for the guillotine.
“Coach, it wasn’t Tristan’s fault,” Brian interjects, stepping forward. He’s got this earnest look in his eyes.
“Yeah, Tyler crossed a line and he’s been provoking Tristan all season,” Brett adds, his hands gesturing broadly as if he’s trying to physically shove the blame away from me.
“Crossed a line?” Coach’s eyebrow arches, skeptical. “I don’t care what he said—”
“Tyler was bragging about forcing himself on Tristan’s girlfriend,” Marcus cuts in, his tone firm, brooking no argument. “Tristan was just standing up for her.”
Around me, nods ripple through the team like a wave of solidarity. I was new this season and yet here they are, my band of brothers, ready to defend me.
“Coach, you’ve seen how Tristan is with us,” Jack speaks up, his voice steady as a metronome. “He doesn’t start fights. But Tessa… she’s different. We all know that.”
Coach’s gaze sweeps over the sea of determined faces before him, then lands back on me. His features soften, just a fraction, but it’s enough to tell me he’s listening. Really listening.
“Alright,” he starts, and the word hangs between us, heavy with unspoken possibilities. “Let’s take it from the top. And I want the truth—the whole damn truth.”
