Page 85 of Trick Play
A few half hearted cheers go up from the other guys, probably more just in reaction to hearing the frat name than any real understanding of what’s going on.
Kilpatrick leans in close. “Hey, I got a buddy who’s a member here, though. You guys know him? His name’s Brent Hughes.”
A guy with dark hair and a scruffy shadow along his jaw steps forward. He’s tall and lean, similar to Kilpatrick, but not quite as filled out. Maybe an inch or two taller than me, but I’ve got a lot more muscle over him.
I clench everywhere as he approaches Kilpatrick and gives him a nod, confusion on his face. “I’m Brent.” He looks Kilpatrick up and down. “Don’t think I know you, though.”
Almost without thinking, I edge my way through my teammates, getting closer to the front where Kilpatrick is facing off with this jackass. No one else knows the significance here, but I sure as hell do, and I’m not about to stand on the sidelines and let Kilpatrick get revenge on his own. If he’s going to deliver a beatdown, then I am in.
A harsh edge to his voice, Kilpatrick draws up to his full height, looking down at this asshole. “You’re right. You don’t know me. Word is you know my sister, though.”
A loud, “Ooohh,” goes up from the guys around him, some of them covering their mouths with their hands.
Kilpatrick ignores them, even when Brent sticks out his tongue and accepts fives from the guys around him. He jerks his chin at Kilpatrick. “Oh yeah? I probably know lots of guys’ sisters. Which one’s yours?”
I’m amazed by Kilpatrick’s restraint, because I’m about to punch this douche in the face right now. If he were in my face talking about Ellie like that, I would’ve.
But Kilpatrick leans in close, a savage smile on his face, and says, “Piper Kilpatrick.”
Brent’s brow creases in confusion as he flips through what’s apparently a mental contact list.
Then one of his buddies slaps him on the chest and says, “C’mon, man, you remember her. She was that bitch that freaked out and stole a bunch of shit after you fucked her last semester.” He turns to Kilpatrick. “She got kicked out of school or something, right? You here to steal more stuff or something?”
From my spot behind him I can see Kilpatrick’s jaw clenching and the muscles in his arms popping as he flexes his fist. The only thing standing between these assholes and a throat punch is Kilpatrick’s masterful self control. Hell, mine too. Because rage flows down my spine like scalding lava.
It’s only the fact that Kilpatrick has a greater right to avenge Piper than I do that I’m staying back. She’s his sister. And she’s my … ex, I guess. I haven’t been able to bring myself to say the word yet, partly because I never even called her my girlfriend. Can you be someone’s ex if you were never officially dating?
But this asshole is definitely Piper’s ex, and as shitty as my behavior may have been, his was definitely worse. And I blame him for the fact that she now won’t talk to me. I might’ve been able to apologize and earn her trust again if he hadn’t shattered it so badly first.
Now she’s not even willing to give me a second chance. And who can blame her with these kinds of douchebags running around, free from the consequences of their actions? I deserve consequences, and I’m getting them.
This jackass deserves consequences, too. And I’m just waiting for someone else to throw the first punch so I can deliver them.
Kilpatrick leans in close, his teeth bared, and I’m afraid he’s just going to, I dunno, grab the guy’s face and slam it into his knee or something. But he doesn’t. Instead, he speaks quietly into the guy’s ear so that no one else can hear him.
Whatever he says pisses off the guy, and he shoves Kilpatrick. Triumph lights up Kilpatrick’s face, and I realize that this was his plan, to get the other guy to lay hands on him first. And with someone like that, it seems reasonable to think he wouldn’t be too difficult to provoke.
Quicker than anyone can react, Kilpatrick grabs the guy’s shoulder and delivers a sharp jab to his gut.
With a roar, the guy doubles over, then charges Kilpatrick, head down. At that point, all hell breaks loose. I grab the guy’s shirt and yank him off Kilpatrick, turning him so I can punch him in the face. It’s a glancing blow off his cheek that seems like it pisses him off more than it hurts, but he should at least have a bruise tomorrow, and that’s satisfying.
One of his buddies grabs me, and I swat him away in time to see Kilpatrick grappling with Brent, neatly shoving his foot into the spot behind the guy’s knee, driving him to the ground.
Simon’s voice eventually makes it through the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears with the rush of adrenaline and the desire to fight.
He blocks me from getting involved further, his hands on my shoulders shoving me back toward my teammates, then he inserts himself between Kilpatrick and Brent, shrugging off the attempts to attack him like they’re little more than annoying gnats. He pulls Kilpatrick close and growls in his face before shoving him in my direction, then he turns to face the frat guys, his hands held up almost like he’s surrendering but I also know that he’s ready to grab these guys and toss them aside if necessary. That’s his defensive grappling posture. I’ve seen it enough times on the field to recognize it.
But before any of that becomes necessary, we’re approached by two guys in tight T-shirts as packed with muscle as Simon, one of them maybe even bigger. Obviously bouncers from a nearby bar.
“Hey!” the bigger one barks, his bald head shining in the lights from the bars and restaurants surrounding us. “Break it up and move it along before we call the cops.”
A couple of the frat guys start to protest, but quickly fall silent in the face of the bouncer’s flat stare. “I don’t give a fuck,” he says in a no-nonsense voice. “Get out of here.”
Simon takes a few steps back, keeping his eyes on the frat guys, but they turn and start meandering back the other direction under the weight of the bouncer’s glare.
Even the most vocal about staying out later are silent when Simon directs us back toward the hotel. But before we get there, we’re met with Coach Reese’s thunderous glare.
He’s sweeping down the street, coming for us like a man on a mission to punish. “You got into a fight?” he shouts when we’re close enough for it to have the desired impact.
