Bitter (A Dark High School Bully Romance)

I glance over my shoulder at the door out onto the field. We should be out there already. I’ll barely be missed at my spot on the bench, but Heath … the game can’t even start without him.

When I look back at him, I nod over at the wall of lockers behind him.

“You getting into your gear anytime soon?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got it, I’m doing it, I’ve got it.”

I blink as he bustles past me toward his locker. He’s shaking. He’s smiling too wide. He fumbles with the lock as he gets to his locker, yanks on it too hard; his gear and cleats come tumbling out in a jumbled pile, which makes him dissolve into laughter.

“Heath?” I ask uncertainly as a memory of something I’d forgotten resurfaces. “Are you high?”

The purchase I saw him make, and then his admission later … my silence swapped for his. I don’t know what an Adderall high looks like, but I know it’s a stimulant, and he’s definitely acting like he’s stimulated.

His laughter gets even louder, and he slumps down onto the nearest bench. He holds up his hand so his thumb and forefinger are a small bit apart. “Ein wenig,” he says.

A little. I know enough German to understand that.

“Fuck, Heath, you can’t play like this,” I say, grabbing some of his gear and shoving it into his arms.

“Can too!” He leaps up and sheds his towel. I quickly turn away, but not before getting an eyeful. And it is not tiny.

I hear the rustling of clothing behind me as the door to the locker room opens and the coach leans in. From here, I can see him, but Heath can’t and the coach can’t see Heath, either. That’s definitely a good thing.

“Hurry up!” the coach snaps.

“Coming, coach.” I don’t move. I don’t want to leave Heath alone.

“Now, Trevellian!” he yells.

I wince. The coach only uses last names when he’s pissed. “But Heath, sir.”

“Heath’s a big boy! He doesn’t need a chaperone!”

“I am a big boy,” Heath says behind me. I glance over my shoulder; he’s got his pants on and is now tugging on a shirt. That’s a start at least.

“TREVELLIAN!”

“Fine! Okay!” I walk over to the coach, reluctantly leaving Heath alone in the locker room, expecting him to follow.

But he doesn’t.

“Where the hell is Heath?” the coach growls several minutes later. He isn’t asking me directly, but I do catch him glancing my way more than once. I can tell what he’s thinking. What did Alex do?

We’re all assembled on the sidelines, all of us but Heath, of course. My stomach churns. The game has already started, and a second-string guy has already had to go in for Heath.

“Did he come out of the locker room?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“What do you think?” the coach growls. “We wouldn’t be in this position if he did.”

Of course. I fall silent.

I want to go look for him, but I can’t, not without it looking too obvious. On the field, Beck and Jasper are hard at work, running back and forth with their sticks held aloft. I’m only barely following the game. I sit on the bench in all my gear, wringing my hands.

I shouldn’t be worried about Heath after all he’s done to me, but I can’t help but keep glancing over at the door into the locker rooms.

It’s one of these times when I’m looking away that the crowd makes a collective hiss, followed by furious swearing from the coach. When I look back, the midfielder who’s taken Heath’s place is crumpled on the ground, hurt or injured or something.

Immediately, I start to panic.