“Niko!” Jeremy clutches my arm and tries to shove me down.
That’s when I realize most of the people surrounding us are watching me as if I’m the personification of Lucifer himself. A lot of pearl-clutching happens, too.
I roll my eyes and sit down.
Jeremy, who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone, seems like he wants to apologize to our company or something equally crazy.
Bran doesn’t seem hurt. He recovers in a few seconds and resumes running all over the field.
My eyes track his every movement as I sit with my elbows on my knees and my hands forming a steeple at my chin.
He’s just so elegant.
So fucking beautiful.
The definition of second-best male beauty. The first is me.
“Isn’t that Landon King’s twin brother?” Jeremy asks.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Might want to go back to sleep,” I say, still watching Bran.
“The one you wanted to join the Heathens?”
“It was a good idea.”
“More like the worst. Is there a reason why we’re watching him?”
“Because he’s Landon’s brother. Need to keep an eye on the enemy or some shit.”
“You don’t look at him like he’s an enemy.”
I’m going to hate-fuck him so that’s considered on the list.
“Shush, Jer. You’re like an annoying buzzing bee that won’t go away.”
“Jeez, thanks.”
“Anytime, we’re bros.”
I don’t hear what Jer says, because Bran recovers the ball from the defense, runs to the attack, erasing a few players in his path, and then passes the ball to the one who scores.
“Yes! Get those fucking bitches,” I cheer, laughing and ignoring the lady in front of me, who’s covering her son’s ears.
My smile disappears when Clara jumps and screams, “That’s my man! So proud of you, babe!”
My fingers wrap around the edges of the chair so tightly, I hear a cracking sound.
He’s not your man.
Definitely not your fucking babe.
“Niko.” Jeremy places a hand on my arm. “Whatever you’re currently thinking about, don’t do it.”
“But she’d look so pretty in a fucking casket.”
“The woman just doesn’t agree with your language. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.”
He thinks it’s because of the Karen, when the fact is, I’m considering ways to add Clara’s name to the MIA list.
I try to focus on the rest of the game, but it’s futile. The Elites end up winning, and I don’t feel that sense of triumph I experienced when Bran assisted the goal.
My mood has taken a sharp dive ever since fucking Clara staked a public claim on him.
Why shouldn’t I kill her again?
As soon as it ends, she skips over the people toward the exit and I stand up, then follow her.
I can make out Jeremy asking me not to do ‘anything stupid,’ but I live for stupid.
Clara slips through the small crowd, pausing every now and then to take selfies. This chick needs an urgent intervention.
After a thousand pictures, she finally reaches the Elites’ players’ locker room and walks right in as if she owns the place.
I can’t do the same since I fucking stand out and I obviously don’t look the part of the British kids.
Standing by the opposite corner, I scan my surroundings, contemplating the best way to go inside. The fact that Clara is there, with him, makes my vision turn red and fills my brain with violent solutions.
Like that amazing casket idea.
Just when I’m about to walk in there and risk the commotion, she emerges, or more like she’s dragged out by none other than Bran.
And he’s half naked.
Fuck. Me.
I’ve always thought he had a firm, toned body, with all the feeling up I’ve practiced like a religion whenever he’s within arm’s reach. But I didn’t think I’d be fucking foaming at the mouth just because I’m seeing him wearing only shorts.
He’s lean, but well-fucking-built. A smooth plane of chest muscles and protruding abs that end in a delicious V-line that’s unfortunately half hidden by the shorts.
Not a single blemish or tattoo in sight. He’s all smooth skin and marble-like in his beauty, my lotus flower.
His fingers uncurl from around Clara’s elbow when he gets her to a small corner to the side.
I tiptoe toward them in an epic show of stalkerish tendencies until I’m standing by the corner, close enough to hear and see them in full fucking HD.
“I told you not to come to the changing room, Clara. It’s not a place for a woman.”
She pouts like a fucking child and runs her hands, which will soon be broken, up his chest. “I was just so stoked for your win. I wanted to take a victory pic, babe.”
He is not your fucking babe.
I want to drill that into her head and watch as her skull splinters to pieces.
She takes out her phone and wraps her arm around his waist, and they both fake-smile at the camera.
Once the photo is taken, his smile vanishes and he looks bored out of his fucking mind.
It’s supposed to make me happy, but I can’t stop glaring at her claws all over him.
“You’re so handsome.” She slides her fingers through his hair and gets on her tiptoes to kiss him.
Bran turns his head at the last second and her lips touch his cheek.
I can’t describe the level of satisfaction that rushes through me at the sight.
He doesn’t want her to kiss him.
His so-called girlfriend can’t even kiss him.
She doesn’t seem to be surprised or hurt by the rejection as she smiles and pulls back. “Will help you wind down later, okay, babe?”
He gives a noncommittal nod and she leaves hesitantly, her eyes scanning over him before she finally removes her irritating presence from the situation.
Lotus flower releases an exasperated sound and turns to go back to the locker room.
But before he takes another step, my hand shoots out and I grab him by the throat, slamming him against the wall.
He releases the most delicious startled sound, similar to the one he rewarded my ears with that night he finally lost control. I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t in the mood to punch him in his handsome face.
His eyes widen and a mixture of emotions rush to his features. Confusion, anger, fear, but also lust. Fucking bright and buzzing beneath the wall of his wavering control.
Even his words are careful, unsure, and tense. “What…are you doing here?”
“Came to watch you play, but I got to watch something entirely different just now. I clearly remember that I told you to lose her, didn’t I?”
He tries to push my hand away, but at this point, it’d be much easier to kill me than make me release him. I steal a look at the fingers of his left hand, and all five of them are covered in Band-Aids. He wouldn’t tell me how he hurt them, no matter how many times I asked, but it’s good they’re healing.
“Nikolai…” His tone isn’t as biting as usual. If anything, it’s imploring, begging, frightened. “You need to go. The manager will have a meeting with us in a few and I can’t…”
“You can’t what? You can’t have him see you being crowded into a corner by another guy? Does that scare you, almighty King?”
“Fuck you,” he sneers, the words rolling off my skin like an aphrodisiac.