Page 16 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

These Dreams

Anthony

I leave Chance’s apartment just as the sun begins to creep over the horizon, the light streaking pink and gold across the Arizona sky. I close the front door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake him. I have no idea how thin the walls in his apartment might be.

I check my phone for the time. I have practice today and early mornings on the field are non-negotiable. With plenty of time to spare, I decide on a brisk walk to the field instead of calling a car. Extra warming-up of joints and muscles never hurts.

As I hustle down the street, backpack slung over my shoulder, my thoughts shift to last night. I shouldn’t be this comfortable. Not with a man. Letting my guard down has always been a mistake, and I’m not sure why this time feels different. Why he feels different.

By the time I reach the field, I’ve managed to shove the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of practice.

The team is already spread out across the turf, stretching and running drills under the watchful eye of Coach Baker.

The sun is as unforgiving as ever, but I’m used to it by now. It’s part of the grind.

“PacMan!” Butters calls out as he jogs past me, tossing a ball lazily between his hands. “You ready to run some routes or what?”

“Always,” I reply, falling into step with our confident quarterback.

He isn’t cocky, not really. Butters just exudes confidence and ease. With natural athletic ability, good looks, charm, and a perpetually mischievous smile, he’s the kind of guy people tend to follow. It’s no surprise he’s our leader on the field.

We run drills for the better part of two hours, the air thick with shouts and the rhythmic thud of cleats against turf.

By the time practice wraps up, my shirt is soaked through, my legs are heavy, and my hands are raw from catching pass after pass.

Still, there’s a strange satisfaction in the exhaustion.

It’s a reminder of why I love this game.

After practice, the team filters into the locker room, the air electric with post-practice chatter. The sound of showers running, lockers slamming, and teammates talking trash fills the space. I grab my towel and head to my usual spot, tuning out the noise as I peel off my gear.

Showered, dressed, and ready to leave, I’m stuffing my cleats into my locker when Coach Baker’s voice booms across the room. “Pacini! Stop by my office on your way out.”

A chorus of “Oohs” erupts from my teammates, followed by a few playful jabs.

“What’d you do, PacMan? Shit, you never get hauled into Coach’s office.” Butters calls out, grinning.

I force a laugh, but my stomach turns. “Guess I’ll find out.”

As the locker room empties, I linger, dragging my feet.

I’m not nervous about Coach’s critique. I know I’ve been putting in the work.

It’s just… being alone in a room with men in authority unsettles me.

Ever since them . Ever since I learned the hard way how easily power can be abused.

Age, size, and gender never seem to matter when someone decides to wield it against you.

Holding in a breath, I knock on the doorframe. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Coach Baker looks up from his desk, his maroon ASU ball cap tilted slightly, a few strands of gray hair poking out from underneath.

His leather-tanned face, a testament to years spent coaching under the relentless desert sun, creases into a warm smile.

He’s got the build of a former athlete who no longer needs to watch his diet but still commands respect.

“Come on in, Pacini,” he says, waving me inside. “Close the door.”

My pulse quickens as I take a seat across from him, my hands gripping the straps of my duffle bag like a lifeline. Logically, I know I could overpower Coach Baker in an instant if I needed to. But logic doesn’t seem to matter to my brain. Not in moments like this.

“Relax,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not in trouble.”

I nod, forcing myself to breathe. “Yes, sir.”

He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes softened by the lines of age and experience. “You’re looking good out there, Pacini. Real sharp.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I know the pro league isn’t your path,” he says, not unkindly. “But I can tell you’re giving it your all. That’s what matters. The team needs players like you for a successful season.”

“I appreciate that, Coach,” I say, my shoulders easing slightly.

He nods, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “So, tell me. What’s the plan after graduation? Still thinking sports talent management?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice steadier. “My goal is to eventually start my own agency. I want to represent athletes who are serious about giving back to their communities.”

Coach’s eyes brighten with approval. “That’s a hell of a goal, son. You’ve got the right mindset for it. Still need to lock down an internship, though, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I admit, my stomach twisting slightly.

“Alright,” he says, nodding. “Stay focused. I’ve got a few contacts at local agencies. I’ll put some feelers out, see what comes back.”

I blink, caught off guard. “You’d do that for me?”

“Damn right I would,” he says, his grin wide and genuine. “You’re a good kid, Pacini. You’re always welcome on my field, whether as a player or as an agent.”

The words hit me square in the chest. “Thank you, Coach. Really.”

“Go on,” he says, waving me off with a chuckle. “Don’t keep the books waiting.”

I leave his office with a little extra spring in my step. The future doesn’t feel quite as uncertain now, and for the first time in a while, I let myself feel good about where I’m heading.

As I near my dorm, my thoughts drift back to Chance. The way he’d looked last night, relaxed and laughing. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone in, and I’m still not sure if I’m ready. But something about him feels safe, even when it shouldn’t.

Back in my dorm, the exhaustion from practice hits me all at once.

I toss my bag onto the chair by the desk and flop down onto the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief against my overheated skin.

I set my alarm for later in the afternoon, knowing I’ll need to wake up for weight training with some of the guys.

Sleep claims me quickly, pulling me into its depths, where the nightmares I can’t escape are waiting for me.

At first, it’s just darkness, calm and still.

Then it shifts. The darkness fractures into a grid of black and white squares, each one glowing faintly.

I’m surrounded by them, trapped in a maze that stretches endlessly.

A voice cuts through the silence, high-pitched and mocking.

“Little Tony… Little Tony…”

The words echo, bouncing off the squares, growing louder and louder until they’re all I can hear. My heart races, my breaths coming faster. The squares seem to close in, the light flickering erratically, and the voice continues, taunting me.

“Little Tony…”

I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs, the sheets tangled around my legs. Sweat clings to my skin, cold and sticky. I just sit there, breathing hard, trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare.

“Fuck!” I shout into the stale air of my dorm room.

Will I ever be free of this?I wonder, running a hand through my damp hair. The familiar weight of it settles in my chest, but I push it down, grateful that I don’t have a roommate to witness this. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me out of my thoughts. It’s a text from Butters.

Butters: Still on for the gym?

I let out a breath, relieved for the distraction.

Me: Yeah, be there in 15.

The remnants of my nightmare creep back in, starting with the smell of incense.

Sharp, sweet, and overwhelming, it clings to everything.

Then, the hollow echo of my own footsteps as I creep through the church, avoiding certain hallways, certain doors.

In the attached school, I lock myself in the cold, tiled bathroom stalls, pressing my knees to my chest.

Hiding was second nature to me back then. A reflex, a desperate attempt to make myself invisible. But no matter how far back I tucked myself into the shadows, it was never far enough. I could still feel their eyes, their presence, their power pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t escape.

The whispers. The sidelong glances. The unspoken words that lingered in the air, heavy with the truth everyone knew but wouldn’t say out loud.

I was their favorite.

I toss the sheets aside, walk naked to my dresser, and pull on some underwear, a pair of shorts, and a gray T-shirt.

I grab my gym gear, and head out the door.

The thoughts of the nightmare linger at the edges of my mind, but I push them aside.

There’s work to do, and I can’t let anything hold me back.