I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl, I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.
“You got something to say, motherfucker?”
Darren is wiggling like a worm, punching at my arms, his face darkening and sweaty under my grip. “Get the fuck off me.”
I don’t think so. No even when hard hands are jerking me back. Not when all the guys are shouting at me to take it easy. Fuck easy. I give Darren another slam before letting him drop. He stumbles but rights himself and takes a step toward me, murder in his eye. Good. Bring it.
“Dexter!” At my head coach’s shout, everyone goes still.
I give Darren one last glare as I turn around. No one will look at me.
Coach’s expression is tight. “In my office.”
I don’t say a word as I follow coach. There isn’t any needed. I’d do the same thing again, and everyone in the room knows it.
Getting called in to Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors can give you the willies.
Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”
“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.
He temples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.
Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”
Great. So my rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well. But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.
“This media circus will die down soon enough. In the meantime, take this as the opportunity it is. Channel that rage, Dex.” His expression goes brutal and dead serious. “But keep it on the fucking field.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” Because what else can I say?
I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long fucking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars it approval.
It feels good. All of it so fucking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into Fi.
I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this. This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken free. No more holding back. No more fear.
But my logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How fucked up is that?
At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.
I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.
I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the defense knows what’s happening.
It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the fuck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids, whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”
Red fogs my vision. “The fuck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.
His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the fuck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”
From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties…”
My teeth gnash. But my guys are surrounding me.
“Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will fuck them up.”
Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick look, but he’s calling the next play.
Breathe. Focus. Get it together.
I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.
“Shit.”
Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”
I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.
Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.
Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.
And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.