“No, I’m pretty sure I hate you,” I say over my shoulder.
“No, but if you keep letting that asshole make you feel like settling for some prissy life is what you want, then yes, you will hate me, because I’m going to prove that it isn’t what you want.”
“What is it you think I want, huh, Breaker? Please enlighten the crowd with your knowledge.” I hold my arms out wide, making a mockery of this showdown.
Like a rocket, he vaults up the cement wall and hurdles the railing. I take a half-step for each of his wide ones, giving him the advantage. Once he reaches me, his arm wraps around my waist and tugs me close.
“You want me.” My eyes widen as his tongue glides over the ring in his lip.
“It’s too late for us. There’s too many ghosts.”
“Since when are you too afraid to fight what haunts you, Delaney?” His fingers grasp the hair at the back of my head and bring me to him. There’s nothing I can do to stop him as I watch his mouth descend to mine. I don’t want to stop him.
He’s kissing me. This tattooed, pretty-boy asshole knows damn well I won’t be able to push him away. Where it started out harsh and tight, everything in his body mellows, relaxing us both.
When Breaker slips away, the corners of his mouth twist into a sweet smile.
“Why’d you do that?” I whisper, dragging the pad of my thumb over my bottom lip, feeling the warmth of his lips.
“Kissing you is my favorite thing to do.” Breaker shrugs, spins on his feet, and jumps down from the bleacher and onto the field. “Consider it for good luck.”
I watch as he jogs to join his team. Right beyond them, Tripp sways, his feet planted, fury written over his face in bold letters.
“Shit!” I whisper-yell.
“Trouble in paradise, sweet cheeks?” Palmer says.
Marek and Palmer cuddle under a blanket. Dixon sits directly behind them, completely oblivious to what has happened.
“Fuck off, love birds.” I reach behind me and grip their blanket, yanking it off them.
I wrap it around my body and slump down. Palmer rests her arms on my shoulders, bringing her face directly next to mine.
“You okay?” she asks.
“My life isn’t some romance novel. I didn’t sign up to be in a love triangle.” I grab her forearm and hug her tighter.
“A love triangle might be fun,” Palmer says.
“I heard that. Over my dead, cold corpse, Palmer, will we ever have a fucked-up love triangle situation,” Marek growls, making Palmer and me laugh. My thoughts scatter as my amusement melts away.
Those two boys couldn’t be more different if they tried.
One is perfect in every way. Crisp clothes, shiny smile, and a set-in-stone future. Somehow, I am drawn to the imperfection of the other. Tattooed covered skin, pain masked in humor, and a smile that can shave away every bad thing I’ve ever seen.
My heart is telling me one thing, and my mind is running in the opposite direction.
Chapter Three
Breaker
Lacrosse is the one thing I have where anger is encouraged. My coach expects me to walk out on the field with blood thirst. That will be no problem today.
Across the turf, Tripp DuPont and his teammates form a line, mirroring ours, as we listen to the National Anthem. Our bodies sway as one, preparing for a war. I’m an attackman. I’ve played this power position since freshman year and learned what lacrosse is. Most people look at me and assume I don’t have an athletic bone in my body. They see the piercings and the tattoos and immediately think I’m a musician and an artist. If bloodshed on grass is art, then sure, call me one.
Sports have always been an outlet for me. When I was younger, my mom thought it was a positive way to keep me busy, and she made sure I was present by driving me to and from practice. As I got older, being out on a field was the only means of escape. In the world of the rich and privileged, an escape is the way to survive. Some focus their energy on drugs, others on sex, and then a select few put our shit in one basket.
Marek and I have that in common. It’s one of the reasons why we got on so easily freshman year. Common goals and relatable expectations have a way of bonding people.
As the National Anthem fades, Tripp’s gaze locks on me, even though his team forms a circle around him. He lifts two fingers, pointing them at his eyes then at me, grinning like a fucking lunatic. I flash him my middle finger and glance away, not caring to give him another ounce of my attention.
“You’re distracted, Davenport, and I can’t have you running around with your head up your ass!” Coach Roberts yells as I leave the line. The last thing I need is a pep talk. Anger is racing through my veins, and I have one target in mind.
“I got it, Coach.” I roll my eyes, bending down to tighten my cleats.
In the middle of the field, I stretch my neck and legs, thirsty for a battle. Our faceoff man, a junior with killer upper body strength, is sure to shuffle the ball right into my stick.
As the whistle blows, Hollow Hills’ faceoff man lunges forward, fighting for the ball. Glass Heart gains the upper hand, and the ball flies in my direction. I catch it with ease and run down the field. Tripp is on me like a hawk stalking its prey, gliding in and out of my men, making it hard to clear a path to their net.
With no other choice, I barrel forward and deliver a clean strike to Tripp’s shoulder on my way to the goal. I lunge, thrashing the ball and earning the point.
In celebration, my team picks me up, making
