Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

He gives me a meaningful look, one that suggests he’s aware I was just about to beat down a fellow Devil. He’s never approached me directly like that. Most Devil communication goes through the standard process. The fact that there’s no envelope, and he’s telling me about it plain as day in front of my teammates, means this is not a formal meeting.

Just fucking great.

“I’ve got practice.”

“I don’t care,” he says, turning to walk off. “Be there.”

I watch him go, and then glance back over at the table, catching Sugar looking at me. We hold one another’s gaze for a long beat. My heart pounds in my ears and I wait for her to do something, to show some kind of reaction, but she doesn’t.

She just turns away.

“Is that how you want to do this?” I ask, tearing off my gloves. “Is that really how you want this to go down?” My helmet is next. I throw it across the field. Peter Norton looks around at our teammates, hoping they’ll do something. They won’t, because they’re all a bunch of pussies. I step toward him and shove his chest with both hands. “Are you really going to foul me like that?”

I know I’m overreacting, but it’s like I can’t control it. I need to get out this anger before I blow completely. This isn’t even the first altercation this practice. It’s the third. But lacrosse, being out here on the fie

ld, just isn’t hitting the same way it used to. No matter how hard I run or how many of these motherfuckers I tackle, the wild, burning thing in my chest just isn’t going away.

It doesn’t make any sense. This was supposed to be it. I was supposed to come out here and get lost in the game and leave the field feeling… well, if not better, then at least not fucking worse.

“Hey!” Gus Meyers shouts, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Chill the fuck out, Wilcox.”

I look down at his hand and then slowly raise my gaze to his ugly face. Fear flickers in his eyes at the grin I give him, full of teeth, and he drops his hand, taking a step back. Touching me was a stupid fucking move on his part and he knows it.

“Wilcox!” my name echoes across the field through the bullhorn. “You touch another one of my players and you’re done for the season!”

Pete, Gus, and everyone else on the field waits to see if I believe Coach Pickford. Or maybe they’re waiting to see if I care. I thought I would. I figured once I got this back, even if I’d carved my own heart out by fucking Sugar over so, so well, that I’d be able to immerse in the violence of it.

Now, it all seems pointless and tedious.

“Fuck it,” I say. “Fuck all of this.”

I walk off the field, passing the glares of the coach and the other guys on the bench. I exit the field, yanking my shirt off and wiping off my face. When I look up again, I see Ben standing nearby, hands shoved in his letterman jacket’s pockets.

“The fuck do you want?”

He shrugs. “Just making sure you go meet Emory.”

I scoff, stepping up to him. “Or what? You think you can make me?”

“I think Meyers is right,” Ben replies, not looking intimidated in the least. “You need to chill the fuck out. You’re acting crazier than usual.”

I can take Ben. He knows I can take him. But where’s the fun in that, anyway?

“Whatever. Let’s just get this bullshit over with.”

He escorts me across the field, like some kind of fucking hall monitor. When I get to the tower, he doesn’t come in with me. He stands by the door, jerking his head at the knob in a stupidly persistent gesture.

I take a deep breath and head downstairs, stepping through the low entrance. The first thing I see is the couch where Sugar and I…

I grit my teeth and turn away.

I’d expected a full crew, but the reality is a lot more depressing. It’s just Emory and Reyn, kicked back in a couple chairs, sharing some beers.

I go ahead and help myself to a bottle. “So where are the others? I know Ben’s out there getting practicing for his career as a minimum wage bouncer. Tyson’s too nice for conflict, so I get why he’s out. But what about Carlton?” Bitterly, I guess, “I probably know what he’s doing, considering I saw him hitting on her at lunch. Didn’t take him long, did it? Bet my used condom hasn’t even made it to the landfill yet and he’s already taking a run at her. Motherfucker.”

“Jesus, dude,” Emory says, face screwed up into a glower. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“Nothing.”