Bitter (A Dark High School Bully Romance)

The other goalie returns with a sneer in my direction. Vic takes me by the upper arm—gently, nowhere near as hard as Heath or Beck or Jasper would’ve—and guides me to where Adrian was just standing. He talks very quickly and points out some line on the field I’m not allowed to cross.

The coach blows the whistle. Vic runs off. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Don’t cross the line, is all I know, and I repeat it in my head like a mantra.

I try to follow what the other non-line-crossers do. If they run one way, I do, too. If they fall back, so do I. If they rush forward, I try to follow.

But not so hard that I ever actually get close to the ball. It’s just a charade. I just have to look like I’m playing. Even that isn’t easy, though.

I haven’t done this much physical activity in ages. I’m so out of breath.

It isn’t long before Heath gets the ball again and comes rushing down the field, and this time, he’s headed straight for me. I don’t know what to do. I consider diving out of the way, but which way?

Fortunately, one of our guys smacks into him, jostling the ball out of his stick and shoving Heath out of my direct path.

But then the ball sails overhead, and without thinking, I poke my stick up into the air and to everyone’s astonishment—including my own—I catch the damn thing.

And I just stand stock still.

“Over here!” yells one of my teammates. I realize I have no clue how to get the ball from my stick’s pocket and into his. They really shouldn’t have put me in this game.

I rear my stick back …

And am blinded by absolute pain as Heath barrels into me, slamming me off my feet and into the ground hard enough to knock the wind straight out of my lungs. I gasp desperately as I try to crawl away from his crushing weight.

“Oops,” he says with a grin. “Sorry.”

I wheeze, unable to reply. The coach is blowing a whistle, but I don’t know what for. By the time I get my breath back, we’re playing again.

My body feels like it’s breaking a second time. The bruises, once healing, I know will be dark purple again—and joined by new ones. But I can’t complain. I remember what the nurse told me.

I have to fight back.

And here, right now, fighting back means fitting in.

Chapter Twelve

For two weeks I endure it.

I come away from thrice-weekly lacrosse practice with more bruises and scrapes than I can count. I’m able to keep my bandages in the locker room as I change, so no one sees the little lumps of fat that are just identifiable as breasts jiggling on my chest.

No ma

tter how much I try to play fair, the practice always ends in a skirmish. I’m always opposing The Brotherhood. And, without fail, Heath always smacks into me.

If he keeps this up, I’ll get to keep wearing these bandages for the rest of my time here at Bleakwood … not just the rest of the year.

That’s my only consolation. And, for now, it’s enough.

All three of the boys are good at the game. It’s evident that they’re our star players, even better than the upperclassmen. But Heath is the only one who seems to take it seriously.

Jasper and Beck shoulder-check me from time to time, but Heath hunts me down on the field no matter what position they try to smash me into. I can’t get away from him. I don’t know if I’m ever going to fully heal because of him.

It only gets worse every time Olive comes to watch, sitting in the stands among her posse.

And today, she’s back.

She waves at me again from the bleachers, but this time I pretend not to see her.