Page 8 of Safe (King’s Heart #1)

Landon

My heart pounds as I walk out onto the practice field.

After going home yesterday, I came back today with a new attitude. I wasn’t going to let these preppy assholes mess up my plans.

I have goals. I have a future that I have to work for.

So I kept my head down at school today. Ignoring all the whispering that was still happening. No one approached me, besides Declan.

I sat with him at lunch again. Mostly because he dragged me to his table, hoping for another showdown, but no one came. Even Grant ignored me—keeping his eyes firmly on the people at his table.

The only person who gave me a shred of attention was Javi, who glared like he wanted to murder me every time Declan laughed at something I said.

“Should I be worried that Javi is going to follow me into the bathroom and strangle me or something?” I had said after a particularly menacing look in my direction.

“Huh?” Declan pulled his attention away from his notebook to look at me, his thick blue winged liner looking electric against his gray eyes.

I tilted my head toward the football table—the one that I was not welcome at.

He shook his head and raised his middle finger in Javi’s direction, making his brow slam down even further. “He can go fuck himself,” he muttered as he put his nose back in his notebook.

I let the conversation drop and went through the rest of my day without any incidents.

When the bell rang for the end of my last period, I rushed to the locker room, hurriedly dressing in my loose athletic shorts and a King’s Heart Academy Football T-shirt.

I wanted to be the first one on the field, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt to avoid all the guys that would be in there soon to dress out.

I hadn’t had any interactions with them yet, but based on the looks they gave me and the lack of introductions, I’m assuming they’re all firmly influenced by Grant’s hatred for me.

When I walk outside, I see the coach sitting on one of the sideline benches, flipping through his clipboard while the waterboy sets up his station.

Once I’m a little bit closer to him, I clear my throat and say, “Coach Davis.”

He turns his head to look at me, then breathes out a little snort. “Oh, I finally get to meet you, Moore.”

He sets his clipboard down and stands, turning and putting his hands on his hips to assess me as he loudly chews his gum. He looks a lot like Simmons. They went to school together, so they’re probably the same age.

“I’m sorry I had to miss yesterday, sir.”

He lets out a little chuckle while adjusting his hat against the blazing sun above us.

“Yeah, ‘had to miss’ is a fancy way to say you slammed a kid’s head into a table and got sent home.

” He lowers his sporty sunglasses, eyeing me more and rubbing his chin.

“Simmons said I should give you hell today. What do you think about that?”

I nod stiffly. “I’m ready, sir. I want to play for your team.”

He smiles, popping his gum a few times. “I like the sound of that, Moore.” Then he gestures behind me, haphazardly pointing toward the locker room. “Here come the rest of the boys. You met Caldwell yet?”

I nod again. “Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. He’s the captain so he’ll lead stretches today, and then you two are going to run some drills. Show me what you got, Moore.” He turns away, picking up his clipboard again to write some notes.

I try to look busy by staring off at the trees in the distance—trying to keep my eyes off the incoming threats behind me.

Today is going to be fine. I’m here to play—I’m going to do my best and then start all over again tomorrow.

“Such a good boy being the first one out here,” a rough, rumbly voice says behind me.

For some reason, that voice shoots through my skin, making me want to crawl right out of it.

I turn to give Grant a quick nod. He’s in the front of the rest of the team. A little dramatic, honestly—acting like they’re all a united front against me.

“Ready to practice,” I say matter-of-factly.

He nods slowly, running his tongue over his teeth before clapping his hands. “Alright, let’s get stretching,” he barks, and everyone immediately dissipates. Grant heads toward the nearest end zone while the rest of the team form neat rows behind him.

I choose a spot toward the back, trying my best to blend in while Grant leads us in stretches.

He faces the goal post and spreads his legs, making the white football pants he wears stretch across his ass. I cast my eyes quickly downward and follow suit, spreading my legs and reaching down for my right ankle. I lean into the stretch, letting the burn in my hamstring take over my mind.

The team counts to ten, then moves to the next leg, repeating the process. We stand up, going to stretch the middle, but before I can bend down, my eyes catch on Grant again, already in mid-stretch.

He’s bent all the way over, showcasing how much more flexible he is than the rest of the team, all of whom can barely hover above the grass.

Grant’s hands are flat on the ground, his cropped T-shirt pooling around his shoulders, showing off more of his abs and chest from this upside-down angle.

It feels indecent for some reason. Completely unnecessary.

Like he’s doing it to get to me again. But…

I mean… why would that even bother me? It doesn’t bother me. I don’t care.

“Moore! Snap out of it! Keep stretching!” Coach yells, pulling me out of my trance to see that I’m the only player still upright.

I immediately bend in half, my face heating while I hear a few quiet snickers around me.

I try to focus on the stretch, but my eyes somehow find their way back to Grant, just in time to see him wink. But not at me. He’s making eyes at the waterboy, who blushes and turns away, filling the water bottles with jittery hands.

We all stand, and Grant doesn’t take his eyes away from him, taking an appreciative perusal of his lithe body and dragging his lip between his teeth.

I look down at myself. So much bulkier and muscled than the waterboy. Taller. Thicker.

My face starts to feel hot again. This time I can’t pinpoint why.

Coach blows his whistle. “Alright, boys! Let’s do one last warm-up with foot fire and drop exercises, then we’ll split up into drills.” He gives another short blast of his whistle and heads back to stand next to the waterboy while we move a few yards down the field.

I lose myself in the warm-up, moving my feet as quickly as I can, throwing my body with precision, keeping myself in this zone where all I can feel is the burn and the pounding of my heart.

I don’t look at anyone else.

Especially not Grant and how he keeps giving the waterboy flirtatious looks that make him shyly smile back.

Coach blows his whistle again, and I gulp down air, barely suppressing the urge to puke from how hard I’m working my body.

“Caldwell! Moore! Over by the goalpost,” Coach orders.

I cringe inside, not looking forward to having one-on-one time with Grant, but I school my features, putting on a blank face for him.

I take my time walking there, hoping that I won’t have to spend much time alone with him while Coach splits up some of the other players. But even with my slow walking, I still end up there, with him standing a few paces away from me.

“When are you going to give up and go home, pet?”

My blood lights up, anger temporarily stunning me, but I swallow the feeling down. “I’m not going anywhere, Grant.”

I startle when I feel his body heat right next to me.

Taking a step back, I face him, cataloging the sweat beading up across his abs.

How his eyes look even more shocking with the sunlight streaming through them and that even though I’ve tried to put more distance between us, I can still smell the fresh scent of his sweat wafting off of him.

He takes a step closer to me, a devilish smirk on his face. “It’ll only get worse, pet. Maybe you should go back home and follow in Mommy’s footsteps. Put that hole to good use.”

A scowl takes over my face as I grind out, “Shut the fuck up, Grant.”

He raises his brow and feigns surprise. “Oh. I like hearing you curse, pet. Reminds me of how you used to think it made you so tough.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I feel so angry inside. I want to punch him in the face. Or strangle him. Or fucking kill him.

I know I can’t. I know I shouldn’t. But still, my skin itches to hurt him.

He leans closer. His voice a quiet whisper. “Something to say, pet?”

“Anticipation drill,” Coach barks as he speedwalks toward us.

I take a step back, noticing a couple other players securing a tarp to the goal post and ground below it.

“I’m sure you boys know how to do this,” Coach says while chewing his gum, barely paying attention to us as he flips through his clipboard.

He looks up at me to explain. “Moore, you’re gonna start on the right side of the end zone there.

Run. Make sure to go behind the tarp. And Caldwell, you’ll anticipate where he’ll end up and throw the pass. Got it?”

We both nod.

“Okay.” He blows another short blast of his whistle. “Let’s go!”

I jog over to the right side and jump a few times, shaking out my limbs before getting into position, waiting for the next whistle.

It sounds, and I take off like a shot, my eyes immediately whipping up to Grant. He lifts the ball, intently looking back at me, and despite how much hate I felt for him a few moments ago, there’s an intense synchronization between us.

I’ve played with a few other QBs in my time, and I’ve never felt so instantly in tune with their movements.

The ball easily finds me. Like he knew exactly where I’d be.

We run it a few more times, and my hands find each pass with ease—even the ones he tries to botch, throwing wildly to trip me up. But it doesn’t work. We have some weird connection.

“Hot damn!” Coach yells, clapping his hands while pacing on the sideline.