Page 16 of Play Dirty (Villalargos University #1)

Chapter Eleven

Nico

T ime flies by when you’re the one breathing…

At first, the campus mourned, spots filled with cards and flowers to honor June, but now —three weeks later — the flowers have decayed. The air got colder, the leaves slowly turned from a dull green to flaming red and muted orange, and people moved on

The familiar scent of freshly cut grass dances with the wind, and the sound of the whistle cuts through the team's chatter. It’s only been weeks since June’s funeral, and everything appears back to normal. As if it never happened…

And I'm expected to play as if I’m back to normal, too.

“The first game of the season is in four days,” Coach Jensen shouts, bringing four fingers into the air. “Get your head in the game.”

Only if I could. It’s definitely something easier said than done.

We are two drills deep into sprint work, my thighs ache, my lungs burn, and my head feels like it’s going to explode from a throbbing headache.

My shirt clings to my skin from the sweat, cooling my body with the help of the fall chill.

I am almost close to achieving the familiar numbness of pushing my body beyond its limit.

Past exhaustion. Turning the pain into bliss.

But it’s not happening. Not today, at least.

My mind just won't shut the fuck up.

“Want a piece of me, lover boy?” I hear Zayden snap at Thiago mid-scrimmage; those two have more sexual tension than the main characters from Twilight.

And I’m not talking about Bella and her two lovers, but the wolf and the glittery vampire.

The idiot grins, exposing the golden gem placed on his canine, as he swipes the ball and sprints down the left side of the field like he’s untouchable.

“Trying to outshine Reyes, what happened? Daddy’s money can’t make you the golden boy again?” Zayden taunts as he shoulder checks Thiago, mid-pivot. The movement is swift and clean enough not to get him flagged, but hard enough to send Thiago staggering and get the ball back in his control.

I smirk at the movement; there's nothing like when you play dirty.

However, the moment is short-lived, as Thiago swings back in retaliation and his head meets another thick fucking skull.

“What the fuck?” Zayden growls, stumbling back as he presses his hand on the side of his temple.

“What happened, Z? I didn’t even touch you.” Thiago snaps, blinking hard, pretending that smashing his skull against hard-headed Zayden was nothing more than a smack on the wrist.

“Man, fuck you.” Zayden spits as he opens his arms, walking towards Thiago, but they are quickly intercepted by Coach Jensen.

“Back down, Orozco.” Zayden’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrow slits, and his face a disgusted scowl as he looks at Thiago.

So much hatred, and the worst part is that it’s not misplaced.

We all have a role at Velarium, different from the ones in Delta Kappa Theta.

Thiago is a handler; his job is to watch us, keep us leashed while we are out of reach.

Like us, he’s another pawn, just on a golden board, and like us, his body pays the price.

Or maybe more so, his morals and his own sexual identity.

They continue to argue over the coach’s shoulder, forcing Ezra, our team captain, to jog over and intervene.

Yet, no one is paying attention. Two hot heads who won’t back down. Testosterone and adrenaline. The kind of feeling that makes us feel alive on and off the field. Dragging my hands down my face, I glance towards the bleachers, and that’s when I spot her.

Shiloh.

Walking past the edge of the field in a hurry, skirt swaying with the wind riding up her legs, hair placed in a perfect ponytail, and accessorized with a red bow. A black cardigan hugs the hourglass shape of her waist and the curves of her breasts, trying hard to blend in and failing miserably.

My eyes track as she moves towards the art buildings, and a small smile spreads through my face as I notice where she’s headed. Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere, no one would go looking for her.

That is, unless you knew about her true passion and hobby, sculpting.

Which I wouldn’t have known if it wasn’t for June or my sick twisted obsession with following her around when no one’s paying attention.

My body begs to move closer, to follow the pretty little siren luring me to her lair when Coach Jensen's voice calls out.

“Reyes.” His voice brings me out of my trance, and I look over my shoulder. “You good?”

My answer should be yes, but instead the lie spills faster than I can process. Shaking my head, “Nah, I don’t know.” I point at my head. “I have a raging migraine.”

He raises a thick brow, “You’re not one to pull out of drills.”

The coach is right. I’m not.

Playing soccer—playing on this field meant I didn’t split myself open for nothing. It’s the only thing I could do to guarantee my success. I shake my head, “I can’t focus.” I shrug. “I’m no good to anyone like this.”

The coach studies me for a while, unsure of what to do. I don’t break eye contact, praying he lets me go. He lets out a breath and waves me off with his hand. “Go,” he finally says. “Clear your head by Saturday. We need your feet fast and your head in the game.”

I nod once before I jog off the field, ignoring Thiago’s puzzling look and Ezra’s soft mutter that I'm going soft. I don’t care.

I’m not. I just have an itch in desperate need of scratching.

Following the tree line path that curves towards the back of the art wing, I should probably take off my cleats, but that’s an issue for another day.

My heart ricochets inside my chest. The closer I get to the building, the more I feel like a trespasser.

The feeling doesn’t stop me.

It only motivates me to move closer.

To pump my legs harder.

What kind of man does that make me?

I just lost my girlfriend, and here I am stalking her best friend.

The glass doors are propped open just enough that I can watch from the safety of the shadows the trees provide, like a true coward.

I hide. Inside the wheels are spinning. The soft sound of clay being molded fills the space like music.

A great view if you ask me, I can see and hear her perfectly, the room otherwise empty, and her smack dab in the middle of it.

Shiloh.

Her hair is loose now, steel eyes swollen and red from crying, sleeves rolled, and hands covered in clay.

She’s deep in thought or focus, working like she’s possessed.

Elbows deep in a slab of clay, but her shape isn’t taking.

I can feel the frustration radiating from her as she continues to mold and shape and form.

I want to go in there and help, but I just watch as she uses the back of her filthy hands to push back her golden locks from her face.

She’s pouring her emotions into the wet clay, but nothing is taking shape because how do we create a physical representation of grief and rage?

And fuck, does she look beautiful in the wreckage of it all.

My stomach knots, and once again, the feeling of guilt covers me like a weighted blanket. Thick and heavy—suffocating me.

She pauses, taking a deep breath in before her hands fall from the wheel, and her body sags. Once again, my angel is crying.

Not a dramatic breakdown. Not the kind of sobs people perform just to be seen. No, this is private. Raw and quiet. Her shoulders shake with each muted cry. She takes a deep breath, then tries to wipe the tears from her face, but instead she leaves a smudge of grey on her skin.

The sight before me hits me harder than anything on the field ever has. Fuck, it even has me feeling like a piece of shit from the clear invasion of privacy. I step back when my heels grind on a twig—thankfully, her phone rings at the same time.

I hold my breath waiting for her to run outside, but instead she wipes her hand on a white cloth and grabs her phone. Shiloh’s face contorts from grief into coldness and numbness as she places the phone to her ear.

“Hello,” her voice shakes a bit, but nothing the ice queen can’t manage.

Her body tense, her thin brows pulling together.

“No, I didn’t say-” she lets out a heavy breath as she listens to whatever is being said to her.

My hands ball into fists beside me. Whatever she’s being told, it's visibly upsetting her.

“Tonight?” her voice rises slightly. “I told you not tonight, I need time.” Another pause, before she bites her lower lip, and her head falls towards her back.

I never wanted to bug someone’s phone as badly as I want to right this moment.

What I would give to be a fly on the wall so I can hear whatever she’s being told.

“Whatever, tonight it is.” She says angrily, ending the call before slamming her phone onto the ground.

And just my luck, my burner phone decides to ring at the most inconvenient time ever, and quickly I rush to pull it out of my pocket.

My eyes are on Shiloh as she freezes, eyes wide as she scans the room.

“Fuck.” I mutter under my breath as she searches, her frigid glare landing on the door–narrowing as if she knows someone is here. Slowly, she rises, but by the time she makes it to the door, I’m already gone.

Running in the opposite direction and away from her, I bolt through the hedges, cutting through the trees back towards the dorms. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I wish I could say it’s from the run. From the fear or the weight of it all, but it’s the shame.

I should never have been there, but I can’t stop watching.

Not back then.

Not now.

Not when everything in my life feels dead.

And she’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.