Page 3 of Bitter When He Begs

My teeth grit together so hard my jaw aches, and he grins like he can taste my frustration.

“Or… you could be smart, play nice, and I’ll put in a good word for you. Give you the kind of boost that only I can.”

I feel the weight of his stare, the suffocating pressure of it and I know—I fucking know—that if I say the wrong thing, this doesn’t end here.

“Fine,” I breathe.

“You gonna run and tell someone?” he asks softly. Almost like he wants me to say yes. Like he wants a reason.

“No,” I whisper. “I won’t say shit.”

Luca’s eyes narrow. His fingers tighten once, just a warning, and then he lets go. But he doesn’t step back.

“Good boy,” he says finally, lightly slapping my cheek. “Because if I find out you opened your mouth to anyone—” he brushes two fingers down my jaw, light and almost mocking “—I’ll make sure you can’t use it again.”

I want to fucking hit him, but I know I can’t. This piece of shit has me wrapped around his finger already.

And then, like it never happened, he steps back completely. Just turns around and walks away, shoulders loose, voice bored when he says over his shoulder, “Get the fuck out of my locker room, Blackwell.”

I don't move until I hear the door shut behind him.

Then I slide down the locker, chest heaving, legs shaking, heart pounding like it wants out of my ribs. My fingers tremble as I press them to my throat where his hand was.

He didn’t hurt me, but he could’ve.

And holy shit, I think I liked it.

… I need a fucking peppermint.

Luca

21 Years Old

Thegymlockerroomis too fucking bright after a workout with the guys. The humming of the fluorescent lights feels like they’re drilling straight into my skull, making the pounding in my head ten times worse.

My body feels like it’s tearing itself apart from the inside out. My skin feels too tight, my nerves are raw, and everything in me is screaming for just one pill. Just one to take the edge off, to stop the ache in my muscles, to drown out the nausea curling in my stomach.

But I already know how this works. One pill turns into five, and suddenly I wake up three days later wondering how I let myself get buried in that shit again.

It’s the fifth time this semester I’m trying to go cold turkey. Fifth time I’m telling myself I can do it. Fifth time wanting to claw my fucking skin off just to make it stop.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to quit. Of how many times I’ve spent nights shaking, my muscles aching like Ijust got blindsided on the field, my jaw so tight I swear I can hear my teeth grinding.

The first day is always the worst—nausea, cold sweats, and the way my hands tremble like I’m some frail fucking thing who can’t keep his shit together. But I know if I can make it past that, I’ll be okay. I just have to get there.

I sit on the bench, elbows resting on my knees, willing my hands to stay steady. Nobody can tell. I’ve perfected the art of faking it.

The sound of lockers slamming makes my eye twitch and I force myself to take slow, even breaths. Across the room, my teammates Eli Matthews and Julian West are already running their mouths about some party at Sigma Rho Alpha tonight, their voices cutting through the white noise in my skull.

“Gonna be fucking wild,” Eli is saying, grinning as he pulls his shirt over his head. “Pre-game at the house, then straight to the frat. You know they’re pulling out the good shit tonight.”

Julian snorts as he shoves his shit into his duffel. “Sigma Rho Alpha always pulls out the good shit. Half the guys in there are sitting on trust funds bigger than most people’s futures. They’re not like us who come from new money, so you know they don’t drink bottom-shelf.”

Roman Bishop doesn’t even look up from his phone as he leans against his designated locker. “Pass.”

Eli rolls his eyes. “You say that now, but as soon as Damon says yes, you’ll slap on your collar and let him walk you to the frat like a fucking dog.”

Roman flips him off without looking up. “Fuck you.”