Page 9 of Play Dirty (Villalargos University #1)

Chapter Six

Nico

“Look how beautiful she is,” he coos in my ear. “Just focus on her while I take what’s mine.” That word.

Mine.

I’ve heard it so many times I’ve become a believer. What’s worse is the reaction looking into her eyes evokes from me. My dick painfully presses against the glass. “Shh.. It’s okay, there’s no judgment in a place like this.” He groans as warmth fills me—

I shake away the thought. Taking in fresh, deep, full breaths of air as I step out of class.

I couldn’t take it. Sitting in front of her.

My lungs felt like they were drying from the inside out — trying to draw in a breath but filling with her instead.

It’s always too much to be around her; this is why I avoid Shiloh Johnson.

She sets me off in more than one way. My fingers stick together from the clay.

I should have washed my hands, but I didn’t bother, not when the flowery scent of perfume clings to my lungs like a second skin.

Her voice replays in my head – so full of fire, scraping against the cage I’ve built inside my skull.

I didn’t plan for this.

For us to partner for an entire year.

How can I manage to sit in front of those blue eyes and not feel my world cave in each time ?

I already tried to switch classes the moment I knew Villalargo’s ice queen was placed in the same class.

Again, for the second year in a fucking row.

I know it’s dumb to think she would just stop showing up, but when she didn’t, I couldn’t help doing the same, even if I stayed behind her. Because I’m sick.

Despite the urge to claw out my skin every time I look into those beautiful orbs, I couldn’t stay away, not long enough at least.

But there were rules that kept me sane and my addiction under control. If you can’t get a fix, might as well stay away. No temptation. No relapse. Out of sight and out of mind.

The rules are simple.

One. Never look her way.

Two. If in the same place, leave. Or keep it short.

Three. Stay behind her.

Always behind her…

Never where I can see the blue. My body rejects the color….

“Yo, Nico.” I hear Thiago call from somewhere behind me.

Clutching the book in my hand, I turn to find him wrapped in some girl's arms, and instantly my jaw tightens. While most of the guys on the team have become hypersexual, for me, it’s been the opposite.

I envied that… I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t find pleasure in my body or in that of somebody else.

Most of the guys drown themselves in pussy to forget.

While I can’t even touch my own cock anymore.

Appetite, gone. Desire? Dead.

My body doesn’t listen. My mind only shuts up when I'm on the field.

Running the ball, shifting it between my feet.

I keep trying with June, but I just can't. The most I can do is force myself to make her feel good, but I know she wants more.

I see it on her face the moment the post-orgasm clarity hits.

Shame. Maybe disgust, as she covers herself, like I just failed her again.

I try to make her come, make her feel something– anything, because I can’t.

My heart heats from the blood rushing through me, boiling underneath my skin.

I can see Thiago tapping the girl's arm, slipping away from her embrace, and focusing on me. It’s happening again — my lungs fail to expand, my mind is locked in that room, and my body feels like it is collapsing. .. my body is in fight mode.

“You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Another panic attack?”

“No, just thinking.”

He dips his chin, looking at my features carefully. We grew close, Thiago and I.

I guess that's what happens when you play, live, and bleed together. We wear the same collar and offer different roles, but it’s all the same once we are masked and naked.

His golden skin glows beneath the sun, hazel eyes look like golden orbs, and brown pieces of hair fall on his forehead.

By the smell of him, he never went to his first class. “You smell like pussy and whiskey.”

Thiago looks into the horizon, and the movement shows off the bruises around his neck. My fists curl at my sides.

I want to ask him who.

But we promised long ago not to ask unless we want to bleed. And neither of us ever does. The silence between us speaks more than any words could. For years, we have been nothing but puppets; we play on the field, we win, and are forced to obey. Nothing more.

“There’s a party tonight.” He says with a devilish grin as he stares at the group of girls walking past us.

“Deltas?”

He nods.

“Nothing like a back-to-school party. But I can’t.” I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my tone.

“You can’t?” He asks, genuinely confused. There isn’t an event happening at the club, but I was called for a special dinner. One that always ends with me tied up and being split open. Shaking the memory of his weight, I begin to walk.

“I can try to get my dad.” Thiago starts with his nonsense again.

“Back off.” I snap, harsher than I intended to be, but his help is useless. It does nothing but piss them off. He knows that. I know that.

Fuck, the team knows that.

We walk in silence, because that is where we find comfort. We don’t need to have a heart-to-heart— bleeding into the grass.

We play.

We train.

Being on the field is our therapy session.

One I look forward to. Not a day goes by that I don’t enjoy being in that patch of grass, pumping my legs as I run a ball between my feet, scanning for my brothers as they flank me.

The sound of a ball ricocheting off the pavement cuts my spiraling thoughts.

One of the other Sirens, Elijah, jogs towards us.

As usual, no shirt, exposing his sculpted and toned body dripping with perspiration, hair buzzed on the side, and curls drenched in sweat.

A newbie, and one day, he will surpass us all.

He runs a hand down the dagger inked in the middle of his chest, just before he kicks the ball towards us. “Thought you fuckers retired.” He grins, flicking his chin at us. “Or you're just allergic to sunlight now?”

I don’t answer, but when the ball rolls to my feet, my body responds beautifully.

Tap.

Flick. Turn.

My thoughts disappear with a simple movement, and the chains feel less heavy. My body is no longer theirs, but mine. I control it with precision.

“Oh shit, he’s awake. You’re fucked now, fresh meat,” Thiago taunts. Elijah tenses for a second, and I kick the ball towards him before turning towards Thiago and offering him a scowl.

“Watch your mouth.”

But before he can answer, the ball comes flying towards him. Jumping in the air, we watch as he intercepts it with his head, sending the ball flying my direction. The book falls from my hand as I dribble the ball back and kick it towards Elijah. Thiago starts to chase when another player joins in.

Our captain.

Ezra Roberts.

For a few minutes, we are just boys. Just bodies moving, no eyes watching, no collars, no robes, no masks.

No red doors. Only the green grass and the blue open sky.

But the moment dies, the moment Rowan— the university nurse—steps into view.

Tight black scrubs hug her thick curves, her brown hair twisted up with her pen.

She has her usual calm face on, but it’s the way her hips sway as she walks.

The way she doesn’t scan the field like she usually would tells me she’s going somewhere specific.

Behind her, Ezra follows. Casual. Loose shirt and dark aviator glasses.

So nonchalant, as if being with him couldn’t ruin her life.

As if he’s some random rich kid and not the Siren team captain or the son of one of the major donors.

Like the nurse he’s sneaking off with isn’t ten years older than him and someone’s mother.

I shake my head, not from disapproval, but I know what can happen when you don’t follow the rules.

They can fuck who they want. And Ezra is just putting her in harm's way. That’s a fact .

“This shit isn’t going to end well,” Thiago mutters, jogging beside me.

I track Ezra’s hand ghosting her lower back as they disappear behind the east hall doors. “Mind your business, T,” I say quietly, flicking the ball up with my knee and catching it under my foot. I look down at my watch and find it weird that I haven’t heard from June since last night.

She left to go home in tears because once again, we tried, and it didn’t work.

Eating her pussy only resulted in her bursting into tears and dumping me like the loser that I am.

At least it was over, and I no longer needed to pretend.

It still fucking sucks to know she’s hurting, to have seen it written all over her face as she told me about myself and left my dorm in a hurry.

My eyes scan the grounds as I walk towards my next class, Thiago trailing behind me. “Have you seen June?”

He shakes his head. “I saw her leaving last night, then you left.”

Something drops in my stomach, he noticed. I thought I left without the boys noticing. Zayden and Wyatt were out of the dorm while I was busy trying to fuck the girl I’ve been dating for almost a year.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of lectures and hallway smiles that don’t reach my eyes.

I sit through economics, chew the corner of my nails during studio theory, and dodge Shiloh anytime I get a hint of her on campus.

I try not to think of June, or the fact that she hasn’t texted me…

Now that I think of it, I haven't seen her around at all.

Maybe she’s just avoiding the awkwardness between us, and just avoiding me.

But something tells me she's not.

This small voice in my head screams at me to find her.

Something is wrong. By the time the day is done, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the courtyard as I make it back to my dorm.

Still no word from June. My limbs ache. After our breakup, I ended up going to the fields to run around and kick the ball.

Needing to move.

Needing to forget.

Something feels off about today, I feel it in the tightening of my chest, the itch between my shoulder blades. When I turn the key and open the door, the smell punches me directly in the face.

Sandalwood and smoke.

My stomach turns.

He’s never ventured this close to home.

Sitting on my bed is a square black box tied with a black silk ribbon. A thick white envelope taped to the lid, with my name neatly scrawled across with heavy red ink. My hands shake as I grab the envelope and open it. Inside, I find a note.

That’s all it says. No threats. No instructions.

Just a time. A place. And that same fucking neat handwriting I’ve seen so many times before.

On contracts. On invitations. On the collar I keep in the bottom drawer of my desk, under a pile of socks I never wear, still stained with the blood that ran down my legs that night all those years ago.

So much for looking for June, I let out a shaky breath as I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the box.

Don’t open it.

Don’t set it on fire.

Don’t walk away.

For a moment, I contemplate what to do, but there’s only one answer, and that’s me untying the ribbon.

Opening the lid and seeing the contents inside, this one is more humiliating than the last. On top of the velvet insert, folded nicely is a crisp white linen shirt.

Under it, latex black shorts that open in the back for easy access.

Beneath, a black pair of slacks. Designer.

Tailored to fit, and below that, another blindfold.

Velvet. Of course it is.

I ball the shirt up in my hands, pressing it to my face roughly, inhaling it deeply. It reeks of him. His fucking cologne.

His power. His rot.

I fucking hate it.

My hands tremble— no, my entire fucking body trembles. They dress you before they break you. All under the guise of celebrations, but it’s all a fucking lie. It’s all a way to fuck with you, another layer to show you their ownership.

A fucking uniform I’ve worn too many times before.

I push the box away and collapse onto the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the lines in the plaster to keep myself from screaming. I don’t know how long I’m there for, but the sound of a knock at the door pulls me back. I don’t answer, then I hear the key turn and the door open.

His gaze slowly moves from the box and clothes on the bed to me .

“I’ll be back late,” I reply as I get up and grab the clothes, and head to the shower. I never need to explain where I’m going.

We all just understand. We all know.

Because the only thing worse than going… is what happens if you don’t.