Page 7

“Ladies,” I say in a wounded voice, drifting closer. “Am I nothing but a piece of meat to you?”

Their gabbled answers fade into shocked gasps as I stretch my arms over my head, letting the shirt pull away from my waistband and angle my hips to the side so the fabric of my shorts—already slim fitting—pulls tighter. When I casually reach down to adjust myself, I slide my fingers along the entire relaxed length, knowing the material will continue to cling once I let go.

“Holy shit,” a curly-headed brunette says, biting her lip and raising her eyes to mine in a shy gesture.

I love the shy ones. Once they’re behind closed doors, they fuck like demons.

This game-day analysis of my dick has been a highlight ever since joining the squad, but right now, I’m not feeling it. When the tall blonde nearest me raises her eyebrows, I shake my head. “Believe me, girls, you don’t want to get too close. I’m all sweaty.”

To their vocal dismay, I return to the team benches. Maybe when we win, I’ll change my mind.

“Have you seen the selector?” Aidan asks.

The boy is a recent addition to our starting lineup. My cousin Ezra pushed for his inclusion, a reason to dislike him on sight, but he’s actually good.

“If our opposition stops churning out penalties,” he continues, “we might get a shot to impress him.”

“For real?” I raise my eyebrows, and he nods, with another few players backing up his assessment.

“Halfway down the field.” He points at a small group in front of the stands. “Nice suit. Hasn’t missed a single play.”

I glance across the pitch, taking note of the man. Mid-thirties, snazzy dresser. Although his attire is completely at odds with the muddy field, he shows no sign of discomfort.

A selector maybe, but not anyone local. Any self-respecting New Zealand sporting scout would turn up in a tracksuit or shorts, wearing old sneakers or gumboots instead of what look like hand-stitched Italian loafers on their feet.

“Coach is heading across to talk to him now,” my friend Jared comments, and I check on my cousin, unsurprised to see him locked on the target.

Ezra wants to turn professional so badly he can taste it. And he’s in with a good shot; he’s an excellent player, second best on the team behind me. Coach points my way and the selector nods. My cousin catches the gesture and grimaces while I smile.

Game on, motherfucker.

The ref blows his warning whistle, and we run back onto the pitch, taking our positions with a lot of glances towards the man on the sidelines. A few of the team are openly grinning as we stretch and shake out our limbs, readying ourselves to go in hard on the second half.

My eyes scan the stands again, this time looking for a cute little redhead who often watches the mid-week games. There’s a subtle movement in the shadows that could be her.

No surprise if she wants to stay hidden.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned her in passing, and something—my tone, my voice, my posture—communicated more than I meant it to. Last week, Ezra sent me a video of him cramming his substandard cock in her mouth.

Ruining her the same way that, as kids, he used to spit in my food.

The girl could be the most boring person alive. Someone who’d waffle on about social equality and dwindling Maui dolphin numbers, or be vegan, ready to pull a face if I turn up to a date with bloodstains on my cuffs.

I don’t know because we’ve never exchanged a word, and that’s not the point. Her hair is the first bright thing to spark real joy in me for years now, and Ezra couldn’t help himself.

In retaliation, I forwarded a copy of the video to his girlfriend Alice before the game, hoping for fireworks.

But so far, nothing.

The ref raises his hand, and I crouch, cleats hard in the mud, tensing my thigh muscles ready for action. The moment the shrill bite of his whistle sounds, we launch into play, my hands being first to claim the ball.

For the forty minutes remaining, I show off every talent I possess, running down the field like I’m powered by a jet engine, tackling challengers to the ground, elbowing the opposition out of the way so our team maintains possession for two-thirds of the match.

The team works together like a slickly oiled machine and best of all, Ezra is completely missing from the action.

His face soon grows red with frustration and, on the one occasion he gets his chance to show his skill, he flubs the pass, leaving the props fighting to regain what he lost.

“Great work, King,” Jared says, clapping me on the shoulder before he’s lifted off the ground by Ferdinand, our largest prop.