Page 9 of Safe (King’s Heart #1)

Some of the other guys have finished their drills and are milling around—watching us. None of them look happy or excited.

Coach points his clipboard at us. “I like what I’m seeing. We just might have the dream team here. Caldwell and Moore gonna take us all the way to the championship! Okay, run it one more time, fellas, then we’ll break for water.”

He blows the whistle again, and I jog back into starting position, looking up to lock eyes on Grant, who has a scowl on his face. He nods the tiniest bit. I don’t know if that was for me or what the hell it’s about.

I don’t have time to dwell on it because the whistle sounds and I’m running. But this time, right as I make it to the tarp, the wind is knocked out of me, and I’m crushed against the goal post.

“Ah, shit,” I hiss against the snarling face of a guy I don’t know as he pushes his body weight into me. Pain lances through my stomach where the bulk of him is driving forward.

He spits at me, a nasty glob of saliva barely missing my face, landing on my neck and rolling down into my T-shirt.

“That’s from Cap. Go back to your whore mom and your trash team.

” He shoves me one last time before scurrying back toward the end line where some of the other players are standing, all out of sight from where Coach is.

A long, shrill blow on the whistle rings through the air as I grab onto my stomach and drop to my knees.

“Goddamn it,” Coach mutters to himself, then yells louder, “Moore?! What the hell are you doing?!” His voice sounds closer with each of his words.

Ripping the tarp back, he startles when he sees me on the ground and lifts his glasses off of his face to rest them on his hat. “Oh damn, Moore. You alright, son?”

My eyes briefly glance to the team members standing ahead of me on the end line, each of them with arms crossed and hardened stares pointed at me.

“It’s nothing, Coach,” I croak out. “Just—” I wince against a stab of pain as I try to stand. “Just a weird stomach cramp. I’m good.”

He shakes his head, marking something down on his clipboard. “Go sit on the bench. Richardson! Step in.”

I trudge over to the bench, annoyed but quiet as the rest of practice goes on without me. My stomach improves as the minutes pass. And when Coach blows the whistle to signal the end of practice, I lag behind and run some sprints, trying to do something to get this rage out of me.

Grant’s such a fucking asshole.

Is he worried about me taking his spotlight or something? He has to be the golden boy on the team?

And also, fuck him for not being brave enough to do any of the dirty work himself. Always sending a minion to execute his childish shit.

The running isn’t working. It might actually be winding me up more. Quieting my brain from mundane stuff only to let more thoughts of Grant sneak their way in.

I slow to a walk and change direction toward the locker room. Enough time has passed that all the guys are probably gone, and I can shower and get dressed alone.

I only have thirty minutes before the bus comes to the stop down the street, so I need to get going.

I jog the rest of the way, swinging the door open and immediately freezing once I’ve entered the small hall leading inside.

I hear something. But not voices. It’s a rhythmic slapping sound.

Something tingles in my stomach, and instead of asking if anyone is in there, I keep quiet, moving forward until the hallway ends, and I’m met with the source of the noise.

The waterboy has his hands pressed against a set of lockers, fingers spread like he’s trying to find purchase as his belt buckle clanks against the floor around his ankles.

My eyes shift and then I see Grant, buck-ass naked, hands wrapped around Waterboy’s pushed out hips while he fucks into him.

“ Fuuuuuck ,” Waterboy squeals. “Yes, Grant. Just like that. Yes. Yes.”

Grant grabs the back of Waterboy’s hair, turning his face and shoving it into the locker so it thuds. “God, just shut the fuck up, Trevor.”

He does—leaving only the sound of harsh breaths and skin slapping to interrupt the silence while Grant continues thrusting his hips, his ass contracting each time he slams into Trevor.

For some reason, I’m still standing there, eyes glued to the scene like it’s a car wreck that I can’t look away from. I want to look away. I do. But I just can’t.

Grant picks up his pace while Trevor reaches for his hard dick that has been swinging with each merciless thrust of Grant’s pelvis.

“ Yes, yes, yes ,” Trevor breathily chants as he sprays cum all over the concrete floor.

Grant grunts angrily, giving two more pumps before pulling out of Trevor, ripping the condom off his dick with a loud crack, and shooting his release onto Trevor’s bare ass.

They both stand still for a moment, breathing through the comedown of their orgasms. Grant has his back to me, and again, I find myself fucking watching his muscles ripple with each of his deep breaths.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Walk away!

“Get dressed. I gotta go,” Grant grumbles.

Trevor immediately begins fumbling for his pants, hastily trying to pull them up, making himself trip. His body turns and leans against the lockers, putting me in his eyesight.

He lifts his eyes and gasps. “Oh my god!” Then stumbles around even more in his quest to cover himself.

Grant turns his head the slightest bit, only enough to put me in his peripheral vision, and a scowl pulls his face down.

He turns the rest of the way and raises his head at me. A silent challenge. In what? I have no idea. But he has absolutely no embarrassment in his lack of clothing. Or in the fact that I just watched him finish fucking the life out of the waterboy.

And I really try not to. I do. But when someone is naked in front of you, isn’t it practically instinctual to look at their junk?

I stare so intently at his face, but then my eyes just move. On their own. Like I have no control, and then they’re on his dick, detailing how it’s long and thick with a prominent vein running down the top of it.

There’s still a string of cum hanging from the tip, and my eyes greedily watch it stretch, becoming long and thin until it separates itself and drops onto the floor with an audible plop because of the surrounding silence.

Inexplicably, I feel something. A fucking stirring, if you will.

And then when I drag my eyes back up to his dick, mine gives a very noticeable twitch, which surprises the fuck out of me.

So much so that my face contorts in confusion, and I literally look down at my own crotch, telepathically asking it what the hell it’s thinking.

Grant moves—walking toward me. Drawing my attention away from my confused dick and back onto him. But this time I stay steadfast to his face, watching his glare come into focus.

He stops, standing close. Too close. Especially with the weird stuff going on with my dick. And his nakedness.

I crane my neck slightly so I can meet his eyes.

His smell drifts off of him, creeping into my nostrils. The musky sweat from practice and sex commingling into something new.

My dick twitches again—a more valiant effort this time, really trying to lift away from my body.

I cringe, and that makes a smile stretch across his face. “Is it fucking disgusting?”

“Huh?” I stupidly choke out.

“Two dudes. Me fucking into his hole and spraying my load on his ass.”

I swallow and shake my head, trying to ignore my dick twitching again at the words his rough voice utters in my face. “What? No. I don’t-I don’t care about you being gay, Grant. Or bi or whatever.”

His smile disappears as his eyes dance across different parts of my face. “Get out of my fucking life.”

That snaps me out of whatever weird moment I was just in.

I scoff. “What are you even talking about, Grant? I didn’t even know you went here.

I’m just here to play ball and graduate.

I don’t give a fuck about you or who you fuck,” I say angrily, flicking my eyes over to where Trevor was standing but finding the space empty.

“I don’t fucking want you here,” he growls.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer me, raising his hand to inspect his fingers, which I now notice are coated with remnants of his release, glimmering across the barbed wire tattoo.

He looks at me, a blank expression on his face as he takes his hand and slowly wipes it across my chest, smearing his cum on my T-shirt in sure, deliberate movements.

My mouth drops open, and I feel that anger surge forward, but also something else. Something unnamed and hot and sticky spreading through my veins.

“Fuck off, Landon.”

And then he picks up a towel, throws it over his shoulder, and heads to the showers, his ass flexing as he walks.

I sprint to my locker, deciding to skip the shower and just do it at home. Grabbing my duffle, I rummage through it to make sure I have everything, before running for the door.

My walk to the bus stop is brisk and full of unwanted thoughts and images. But the biggest one is that he called me Landon, and my brain won’t let me think that wasn’t important for some reason.