Page 88 of Racking Up Penalties
“Hey, Tessa, you made it!” A player whose name I remember as Jack, from the last time we went out, offers me a high-five, which I return with more gusto than I thought I had. The connection sends a jolt of belonging through me. They all chant Tristan’s name, and my voice joins theirs, feeling oddly right.
“Couldn’t miss seeing you guys celebrate your big win,” I say, trying to match their volume without shouting. It earns me a round of appreciative grins and nods.
“Tristan tells us you’re a fashion student,” another player, Rico, leans in, his words barely distinguishable above the music. I nod enthusiastically, happy to share a piece of my world with them.
“Yeah! I’m working on a big project now,” I explain.
Their interest seems genuine, or maybe they’re just good at feigning it for Tristan’s sake. Either way, the sense of friendship is undeniable.
“Sounds awesome,” Matt shouts back, giving me a thumbs-up before he’s swallowed by the crowd again.
“Looks like you’re fitting right in,” Tristan observes, his affectionate gaze adding layers to his simple statement. I can’t deny the truth in his words—I do feel like I belong.
“Thanks to you,” I say, nudging him back. “I’m going to run to the bathroom. Be right back.”
“No problem, Tess.”
My hand is on the door handle when I sense it. The air shifts, charged with an unsolicited presence. I turn to leave, but some guy blocks my path, his frame filling the narrow hallway.
“Hey, Tessa,” he says, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes plastered across his face. “Celebrating without me?”
“Do I know you?”
“My name is Tyler,” he says with a slimy smile.
My gut drops.
“Tyler,” I reply, my voice carefully neutral, even as my instincts scream at me to get away. “I was just heading back.”
“Come on, don’t rush.” He steps closer, and the corridor suddenly feels claustrophobic, the festive noise from the bar now muffled and distant. His hand finds the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in.
“What are you doing?” My voice trembles despite my effort to sound firm. This isn’t playful or flirtatious; it’s something altogether different, something dark.
“I heard Tristan likes to share you.” His other hand brushes my arm, grip tightening like a vice.
Panic surges through me, raw and visceral. “Let me go, Tyler.” I try to shove him away, but he’s like a pillar of stone, unyielding.
“Come on, you like lots of dick and I have one.” His breath fans hot against my cheek, and I recoil, every nerve ending screaming in revolt.
“Stop!” Adrenaline lends strength to my voice, and I shove hard against his chest. “I’m not interested!”
His grasp is relentless, but so is my resolve.
“Get off me!” I cry out, shoving again with renewed desperation. My hands are pushing, clawing, anything to break free from the terror that has me in its grip.
“Feisty little thing, aren’t you?” Tyler sneers, amused by my struggle.
“Tyler, stop it!” It’s a shout now, a demand to be heard, for autonomy. My heart races, pounding against my rib cage, urging me to fight harder.
“Nobody would have to know—” His words cut off as Ethan’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and alarmed.
His form barrels into view.
“Get your hands off her!” The words are roared from Ethan’s chest, his presence commanding immediate attention.
Without hesitation, his fist arcs through the air, a streak of retribution aimed squarely at Tyler’s jaw. The impact reverberates down the corridor, echoing the shock registering on Tyler’s face as he stumbles back, releasing me in the process.
“Stay away from Tessa,” Ethan growls, his tone a dangerous rumble of protectiveness. His body is rigid, every muscle coiled and ready to spring again if needed. I’ve never seen him this furious, yet beneath that anger, there’s a fierce determination to shield me from harm.
