Page 20 of Personal Foul (The San Diego Storm #3)

Carson

I was still reeling after our conversation. When he told me about what happened with his agent, I knew we had to discuss my reactions.

Maybe I’d overstepped and inserted my opinions more than I should. The problem was I felt so fucking protective of him even though I’d done nothing but push him away. Something had to give soon.

Me: Are you around?

Colin: Around what?

Me: Around the house?

Colin: Why would I be around the house?

Colin: I would be more likely to be in the house. Not around.

I threw my head back and growled. Fucking Australian.

Me: I mean, are you here at the house?

Colin: Why didn’t ya just say that to begin with?

Me: ARE YOU AT THE HOUSE?

Colin: Geez. Mr. Touchy is back.

I gripped my phone hard enough to break it.

Colin: No. Not home.

I slammed my phone down on the cushion and scrubbed my hands over my face. I was ready to launch my phone into the pool when it buzzed again.

Colin: Why?

Me: I want to talk to you.

Colin: Okay. I’m not home.

Me: I KNOW THAT!

Colin: You don’t have to yell.

Me: I fucking hate you.

Colin: No ya don’t. Ya really don’t.

I got up and went directly to my wine refrigerator for a beer. Popping the cap off, I took a long pull, then set it down. It wasn’t what I wanted, so I poured the contents into the sink.

My phone vibrated again. I could see his name on the screen.

Colin: What do you want to talk about?

Me: I’ll wait until you get home.

Colin: Might be a long wait.

I frowned.

Me: Why? Where are you?

Colin: Stalker-ish much?

Me: Just answer the question.

Colin: Why? Because I’m busy.

Me: Why won’t you tell me where you are?

Colin: It’s a surprise.

Me: For who?

Colin: I believe that is for whom.

Me: You’re an English professor now?

Colin: No. I’m an Oxford grad.

Me: Oxford University?

Was he that fucking smart?

Colin: Fuck no. Oxford Day School in Sydney.

I burst out laughing. He was such an idiot. He had completely derailed me, but still avoided my question.

Me: Come find me when you get home.

Colin: Will you be naked?

God, I wish.

Me: I don’t know. It’s a surprise.

Colin: I love surprises.

Me: Why do you turn every question into mental gymnastics?

Colin: I don’t want to answer them.

Me: Which one?

Colin: All of them. You’re kinda nosy.

Me: It’s not nosy when you care about someone.

Me: And I know something is wrong.

Colin: I gotta go. The man is ready for me.

I slammed my phone down again. I was fucked. So very fucked

The week leading up to our first pre-season game against Houston turned out to be a clusterfuck, starting with our conversation about his agent. He’d avoided my attempts to talk Sunday night, and by Tuesday, we only saw each other on the field.

Monday after practice, he left with Lucas to pick up the car he’d leased. When he came home with the most iconic American car ever made, a convertible Ford Mustang, he no longer needed me for transportation. He had gained his independence, whether I liked it or not.

The clusterfuck of a week continued with added responsibilities I normally would have thrived on. The defensive coordinator asked for my input on players they were going to cut, which meant my normal routine was fucked.

My usual eight-hour day of workouts, meetings, and practice got extended to twelve. And as a result, by Thursday, I was irritable enough for Lennox to be concerned.

“I’m fine,” I told him. “Just more responsibility than usual.”

Lennox put his hands on my shoulders. “If it’s too much, tell Coach you need to back off. You don’t want to neglect your own conditioning and risk an injury.”

Rubbing a towel over my face as I sat at my stall, I tried to look at the bright side. “I know, but it’s only a few more weeks. I can handle it.”

My friend wasn’t buying it. “Everything okay with the Aussie?”

I snorted. “Yeah. It’s fine. Coach was right about him. He got the play down exceptionally fast and can read the offense well. But it’s the little things, like the rules, I worry about.”

Lennox grinned. “Who needs rules?”

“I do. And lots of them.”

What I didn’t share was how our conversation weighed heavily on my mind.

The way his asshole agent had taken advantage of a nineteen-year-old kid infuriated me, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t let it go.

The man’s impropriety bothered me so much that I asked my dad to check into the guy without divulging the intimate details.

Maybe I was overstepping, but I wanted to rip that guy limb from limb.

Things came to a head the day before our first pre-season game. At our team meeting, Coach announced the starting roster for game one.

“Boyd, you’ll be running the offense. Lennox, I want you on the sideline on coms with Coach Riley.”

“Yes, sir,” Lennox replied, then shook Boyd by the shoulders.

“St. James, Kearney, you’ll both be starting. We need to get in as much practice as possible.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”

He finished up with Special Teams, giving Lucas the call for punting duty.

I glanced at Colin, who leaned forward in his seat to congratulate his friend. My irrational jealousy made me see red.

“Okay, offense hit the weight room. Defense on the field. Let’s work on Zone 2 coverage. Houston loves those deep passes.”

Standing, I headed to the locker room to get my helmet. Colin was a few paces behind me, talking to a couple of free agents vying for a spot. He had bitched and moaned about all the equipment so much I was sure he was doing it to get a reaction out of me.

His invitation to them to go out for a beer made me even more irritable. So much so that I snapped at him on the field at the end of practice after he lapsed back into his rugby days and grabbed the receiver by the face mask and took them both to the ground.

I threw my head back, then ripped off my helmet.

I was like a volcano, ready to spew lava everywhere, then lost total control and paced around him, gesturing widely with my hands.

I knew I was overreacting, but I couldn’t stop myself.

It was a release of all the pent-up frustration I’d bottled up all week.

“God damn it, how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t do that? This is not rugby. It’s foot-ball.”

Colin had taken off his helmet while I ranted, then stood with his arms crossed, smirking at me. “You must have skipped that rule. I’m not a tosser.”

I stopped my tirade and got in his face. “I skipped nothing. What the fuck does that mean?”

Colin stepped closer, closing the last bit of distance between us. I could feel his breath on my face, and holy fuck, I recognized that look. My eyes widened as he leaned in. “Idiot.”

No, no, no, no. Before I could stop him, he grabbed my face and kissed me on the nose. And to my horror, everyone went silent, except for the gasps.

He’d made a bigger spectacle than the one at the airport. If anyone caught that on camera, we were fucked.

“Why do you keep doing that in public?” I seethed through gritted teeth. “What’s wrong with you? You’re a tosser. You’re every tosser to ever toss!”

I don’t think that made sense, but it didn’t matter. He understood and found me hilarious, to the point of doubling over with laughter. But I didn’t find it funny. At all.

“I give the fuck up!” I yelled, throwing my hands in the air.

I had to get out of there before I did something we’d both regret.

Grabbing my helmet from the ground, I headed toward the locker room, only to find Lennox and Evan standing outside the tunnel, mouths hanging open from the scene with the asinine Aussie I couldn’t stop wanting.

God, he infuriated me like no one ever had, and I didn’t know what to do with him.

“Hey, buddy,” Lennox said. “How’s it?—”

“Fuck off Lennox.”

Immediately, I regretted popping off at him, but that was what Colin had reduced me to. But my friend understood the stress I was under, so I’d apologize to him later.

“Good talk, buddy. You need to go cool off somewhere. Like Canada.”

Normally, I would have found his quip funny, but at the moment, I needed to get out of everyone’s view. To make things worse, it rattled me that just his lips on the tip of my nose made me hard as a fucking post.

When I made it to my stall, I tossed my helmet inside, then sat down in the chair. Burying my hand in my wet hair, I tried to calm myself down.

The best thing I could do was avoid him until I wouldn’t take his fucking head off. And that was what I did until he pushed me a little closer to the breaking point during the game the next day when he kept taking his fucking helmet off.

Again, I lost my shit on him, but hopefully not as dramatically as practice. But the ref approached me during a TV time-out to find out what was going on.

“Why does he keep doing that? I’m gonna have to throw a flag if he can’t keep his equipment on,” he explained.

I propped my hands on my hips and tried to calm down. “I understand, but he’s a rookie and a rugby player. They don’t wear any protective gear.”

Fortunately, the man was sympathetic to my predicament. “I’ll let it slide this time, but if he does it again, I have no choice. I’m gonna go explain that to your coach.”

I nodded. “Thank you. I’ll handle it, even if I have to duct tape it to his fucking head.”

He snickered and patted me on the shoulder. “Hopefully it won’t take all that.”

I jogged over to where Carson was standing with the rest of the defense and grabbed him by the arm.

“You gotta fucking keep it on, or we’re gonna get a fifteen-yard penalty. That kind of stupid shit can change the outcome of the game. So just do it.”

Carson smirked, then saluted. “Aye, aye, captain.”

The other players laughed as I ground my teeth. I was going to fucking kill him after this game or have a heart attack from the stress.

Luckily for me, he didn’t take it off again until we hit the locker room.

“Carson,” he called, but I stopped him.

Shaking my head, I put my helmet on the shelf above my stall. “We’re not talking about this here.”