I’m fuming with anger.

Fuming isn’t even a strong enough word to describe it.

My hands are shaking, and my pulse is racing, and there’s a rushing sound pounding between my ears. My mouth is dry and all I can see is the road in front of me as I speed toward Jefferson Street.

She was crying, and it was because of him.

I know where that fucker lives.

I had my lawyer send some paperwork to Victoria when she signed on to move in and care for Harper. It was legal shit to cover my bases at his suggestion even though I trust her completely, and her last known address was on the paperwork. I looked it up. A nice two-story home that I’m sure Victoria dreamed of filling with children with that asshole.

Owned by Owen Dickhead Platt.

I’m not sure if Dickhead is his official middle name, but he’s definitely a dickhead.

The rage coursing through me is unreal. My chest is rushing with adrenaline, and I have this strange drive for vengeance. I want to hurt him physically for hurting my girl emotionally.

This is a rage I’ve never felt before, and it’s terrifying.

I snap off the radio as some lighthearted commercial comes on.

I’m not listening.

I have a goal, and it’s to get the damn ball back.

Victoria tried to stop me.

Cory tried to stop me.

Nobody can stop me.

I’m not leaving his house until I get the chance to take back what’s hers. And maybe punch his dickhead face.

The tires on the McLaren squeal as I pull to a stop in front of the house.

The outside lights are off, but there’s a light on inside that gives me the gut feeling that someone is home.

My first instinct is to knock the fucking door down, but I draw in a deep breath before I get out of the car. I’m not going to break and enter and steal. This way will be even better.

I saunter up to the door and ring the bell. The door opens a beat later, and he stands there trying to project some tough guy attitude. It ain’t working. He looks like a little twat.

I shove him out of the way and walk right in.

“You’re breaking and entering,” he hisses at me.

I laugh and get in his face a little. “You opened the door and let me in, fuckwad. Where’s the goddamn ball?”

“I’m not telling you.” He stands there holding onto the door, and there would be no contest here. I could beat the shit out of him with one fist tied behind my back.

I walk into the house and open the single drawer in the table sitting in the entryway. No ball.

I pull the drawer all the way out and let it crash to the ground.

“We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way,” I say. I dig through the little bowl with keys in it sitting on the tabletop, and the keys go flying out of the bowl.

I walk further into the house and find myself in the family room. There are no traces of Victoria here. No woman’s touches to make it a home. It’s hard to believe she ever lived here.

It’s hard to believe she was with this dope, too—that she wasted three years on him.

I pull a drawer out of an end table and flip the contents onto the floor, throwing the drawer down on top of it. I head toward the entertainment center and open the cabinets, sweeping everything out of the inside of it—old DVDs as if we can’t just stream shows these days, blankets, a few board games. I open the board games and toss the contents of those out, too, mostly just so he has a bigger mess to clean up. I think of him throwing all of Victoria’s belongings onto his front lawn and how he gave zero fucks about that, so I’m essentially doing the same thing to him.

He whines a little as I head toward the kitchen, and I start pulling open cabinets and drawers in there. I take a plate and toss it to the ground, and it shatters all over his tile floor. I move to another cabinet, and this one has glass baking dishes in it. I pull one out and let it drop to the floor as well. It shatters, and I step out of the way of the shards before opening a cabinet with coffee cups. I glance over at the ex.

“Should I keep going?”

“You’re not going to find it in here,” he says. He pulls his phone out and takes a photo.

I sigh. “Do you really want me to tear every room in your house apart?”

“Go for it. Ever hear of criminal damage to property ?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you do that to Victoria’s shit when you threw it out the window?”

He twists his lips and rolls his eyes. “That was different.”

“Okay, well, ever heard of stealing something that doesn’t belong to you?” I hit back. Okay, maybe I should tone down the destruction, but fuck this guy grinds my gears.

“It’s not stealing when it was left in my own home,” he says.

I make a face at him. “Uh, yeah it is.” I take a step toward him. “Why won’t you give it back?”

He stands his ground. “None of your business.”

“Actually, it is . It affects Victoria, so it affects me. Why are you holding onto it?”

He just stands there motionless, and I get it. She’s a great catch, and he’s doing it to get her attention. But a ball that means a lot to her and means nothing to this dude isn’t going to get her to come crawling back. It’s been months and it hasn’t happened yet, so I’m not quite sure what delusions he’s holding onto.

“Do you really want to go head-to-head with me?” I ask. “Because you won’t win. That fucking ball isn’t yours, and neither is Victoria.”

“So she’s yours now? Like she’s some prize to be won?” He’s daring me to punch him, and my fingers wrap tightly into a fist where they lie at my side.

“She decides who she wants to be with, and it isn’t you.”

“It won’t be you for long. She’ll get bored with you. Or you’ll get bored with her. She was always a decent lay, but I’m sure you’ve had better.”

Oh fuck this guy.

I haul back my clenched fist, and it connects with his jaw.

“Fuck!” he yells, and his hands fly up to his face.

“Where the fuck is the ball?” I ask calmly as I shake my stinging hand out. Fuck, I hope I didn’t do any damage. That was stupid. I need these damn hands to be in good shape next week when we take the field during OTAs and start running plays with the ball.

“Fuck you,” he spits at me.

I clearly didn’t break his jaw, which is unfortunate, but he’s bleeding a little as if I split his lip, and if we’re lucky maybe he’ll have a black eye at the wedding.

I want to feel bad about it, but after what he said about her…I don’t. Fuck him.

I walk down a hallway and poke my head in a room. It looks like his office.

I get the gut feeling it’s in here, so I start opening drawers. I decide not to actually damage anything else, but he’s got a whole lot of shit in here, so I make a mess of it, dumping out drawers filled with pens and pads of paper, with file folders filled with paperwork and mixing everything up to make it just a little more awful for him to clean.

And that’s when I spot a ball.

It’s in the back of the middle drawer, hidden way in the back so you’d never see it if you just opened the drawer and took a quick look.

I take it out victoriously, and then I head out. My work here is done.

He’s still whimpering in the kitchen from the single punch I delivered, and my knuckles still sting from where I made the contact.

I hold up the ball in victory, raise my brows at him, and walk out the front door, leaving it wide open behind me with the mess in my wake and a douchebag who never deserved my girl.