What else can I say? That Emma left me a fake dragon and it’s screwing with me? Yeah, I refuse to accept the game day pamphlet as a real dragon.
She can fucking consider her message heard, loud and clear.
I’m a player. Emma is a cheerleader. She doesn’t think I’m worth the risk. The cheerleaders are sitting on the sidelines—because we haven’t given them anything to get up and cheer about. I keep throwing glances her way, but she’s always looking straight ahead. She isn’t watching the game. She isn’t tracking any other player.
She never looks at me.
I’m losing my fucking mind over this girl. “My sister.” I didn’t even know she has a sister. How can meeting her sister tell me all I need to know about Emma?What would meeting Squid tell Emma about me?No. Squid is special circumstances. I refuse to believe Emma is trying to rescue her sister from a drunk parent who killed our good parent in a car accident.
“Think you can catch the next one?” Bodhi hisses as I get back into position behind the play. “Or am I gonna have to hand the fucker to you.”
“A little support would be nice,” I mutter back but even a clock is right twice a day, and I can’t fault Bodhi’s attitude.
Why won’t she fucking look at me?Looking back at Emma instead of at the play, the anger and frustration build. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since that night. The one where she disappeared, ghosted me, and left me questioning everything.
It’s impossible to think straight, on or off the field. The rest of the single guys on the team are doing their thing, fucking around, living their lives. They’re emptying their balls into every available woman in sight. They don’t care. They’re living from one conquest to the next.
But my cock? It only wants one woman. Emma. I heard about men who became pussy-whipped with a single woman that they couldn’t bring themselves to bed anyone else. I laughed my ass off when it happened to Cooper and Dawson. Not in a million years did I think it’d happen to me. Well, who’s laughing now—because my cock and brain want the one woman who’s not interested in me. The woman who left me a pamphlet instead of a second cute black dragon.
Why? If we’ve been able to keep our conversations secret by hiding the origami in plain sight, why can’t we do the same with dating? Or does she see me as nothing more than a joke?
I’ve been falling for the woman one note at a time, and she can’t even fucking look at me while I’m in the middle of the field having a professional meltdown.
I’m not in high school anymore, so pulling her hair is out of the question. How else can I get her attention? The age-old answer is football, fight or fuck. Since fucking is out of the question, I do what comes easy on the football field when there are two teams with more ego and testosterone than common sense. I start a fight.
I’m not the biggest guy on the team. Not by a long shot. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight—it’s the size of the fight in the dog. And right now, I’ve got a hell of a lot of fight.
I wait for the next bomb, eyeing up the defense who are supposed to wait until my feet are on the ground before tackling me. It’s all about protecting the player. They come in too early. Iaccidentallyraise an elbow and grin when it connects with nose cartilage. The ref calls a foul—on me. I can’t believe it—myfoul? They infringed first. It should be our penalty. But then I look up to where Emma is looking anywhere other than me and I don’t give a shit. If I’ve already given away the foul, I might as well make it worth the effort.
It’s not even about the game anymore. I need to feel something—anything—other than weeks of enough frustration to make my balls explode.
The player who nailed me is mouthing off at me and my team. I don’t care that Mortimer’s twice my size. I walk past and shoulder bump his teammate who predictably pushes me into Mortimer. The douche reacts quickly, grabbing my jersey around the neck and shoves me out of the way, but while he’s got a grip I swing and connect with his cheekbone. Then, it’s on. I’m still swinging at his face when my team yank me back by the scruff of my torn jersey, and then our forwards take onthe motherfucker who’s twice my size. Players from both teams come from everywhere. The smaller backs try to pull players apart, while those who are looking for a boxing or MMA career after football go punch for punch.
The referees struggle to get control as Cooper yells at our team to stand down. When we stop throwing down, the brawl quickly dies down, leaving bloodied faces and jerseys. I haven’t had so much fun since … that night with Emma.
Both captains are called over and given a dressing down. I’d already given away a penalty, so it’s no surprise when my name is called and the referee raises two hands, signaling I’m about to spend ten minutes in the bin.
“Sin bin!” I stand, glaring, challenging him to go one step further and send me off for the rest of the game. But to his credit, he calls over douchebags one and two from the other team. One is sin binned for pushing me into his player which incited my response, and Mortimer is also sin binned for the shove that almost asked for my punch.
The crowd cheers me off the field—gotta love an Aussie crowd who’ll forgive any player who is sent off for fighting—but the woman of the moment still refuses to look my way.Fuck and damn.I’m about to sit in the sheds for ten minutes because of her. And for what? I’m losing focus. This crush, or whatever it is, is getting out of control.
The penalty doesn’t sting as much as the thought that Emma doesn’t care. I’m like a schoolboy pulling her pigtails, andshe doesn’t fucking care.
When I finally get back in the game, I’m more reckless than ever. The crowd’s noise fades, and all I can hear is each drop of blood pumping through my veins. I screwed up. I tried to impress the girl and failed. I started a fight and will likely end up with a suspension. I don’t care about the game. I don’t care about the team. I just want to escape this feeling of no control.
Later, when I’m back in the locker room, the guys go out of their way to give me shit.
“Good job, Fleski,” Loki laughs. “You’re just what we need—another loose cannon.”
“Fuck you,” I throw back with attitude. “Didn’t see you protecting me out there. Mortimer hit me before my feet landed, and you let it go?”
“Poor little pretty boy,” Loki sing-songs. “Did little Miss cheerleader lose your number?”
She never had my number. And she never gave me hers.
Luckily, Fleski plays better than he punches. What do the Mavericks have to do to tame their out-of-control fullback?
Graeme Masters, Rugby League World
