Page 110 of Dirty Hit
Dominic
Theenergyfromthefield still pulses under my skin. Game adrenaline doesn’t fade easily, especially when it’s a rival game. Every step I take off the turf buzzes with leftover energy like static clinging to my limbs.
My jaw is tight from the mouthguard, my muscles coiled. The helmet is off, but my head’s too loud. I can still hear the roar of the crowd, the echo of cleats against metal benches, my name shouted more times than I can count. It’s usually the kind of chaos I live for.
But tonight, there was a ghost in the stands.
I saw her in the third quarter. My eyes locked on the familiar shape before I could stop myself—dark red lipstick, expensive coat, and sunglasses, even though it was night under stadium lights. She looked like she walked straight out of a photo I burned years ago. Still beautiful. Still terrifying.
Luciana Volkova. My mother.
Every inch of my body went cold despite the sweat pouring off me. I forgot the play, because I hadn’t seen her in years—didn’t think I ever would again. She doesn’t just show up, she haunts; and once she does, someone usually ends up buried six feet under.
I should’ve known something was coming.
My little sister Kyra was tucked in small at her side and swallowed in a too-big Lakehaven hoodie, dark hair braided, blue eyes wide and hopeful as she stared down at the field.
That alone was enough to put a crack straight through my focus, because Luciana Volkova doesn’t come to watch. She comes to claim, to test, to remind. She comes when she wants to see whether the thing she made still answers to her voice.
That’s when I started playing angry.
Keller saw it before anyone else did. He knows my shoulders, my release, the split-second delay between read and throw when my head isn’t where it should be. He knows exactly how long I hold the ball when I’m trying to force a lane that isn’t there, because I’m furious enough to believe I can break physics.
The problem is, anger usually makes me better. Cleaner, meaner, more dangerous. Tonight, it made me reckless.
And just like that, we lost.
Keller is already moving toward me when I get to the sideline—face thunderous, headset half askew, veins standing out in his neck. He doesn’t wait until we’re in the tunnel. He doesn’t wait until the cameras are at a better angle. He gets right in my face, with the scoreboard still burning over my shoulder, and lets me have it.
“What the fuck was that?” he snaps. “You don’t get to lose us a game because your head’s somewhere else, Volkov!”
I take it, because I always do—because when authority gets loud, something in me goes still. My mother taught me that, too. Let them burn themselves out. Keep your face blank. Give them nothing they can use.
“Yes, Coach,” I say.
He stares at me like he wants to shake me, then thinks better of it because we’re still in public, I’m still his star player, and this is still salvageable if we frame it right on Monday.
“Get in the locker room,” he says finally. “And if I find out there’s some off-field bullshit bleeding into my team, I’ll rip it out by the fucking root.”
I almost laugh at that. He has no idea how literal that lands.
He stares at me for a beat longer, waiting for me to argue. I don’t—I never do. That’s not our dynamic. He yells, I absorb. He vents, I nod. He saves the special shit for me, because that’s how this works. The captain gets the weight, that’s part of the deal. I knew it when I took the position.
When we’re inside he lets me have it, and I take it. I stand there, towel around my neck, helmet dangling from my fingers, sweat drying sticky on my skin, and let him carve strips off me in front of everyone.
My face stays neutral, and my eyes don’t flinch—because this is familiar. Coaches have been screaming at me about football since I could walk; none of them has ever seen what it looks like when I scream back.
“You wanna hold the keys, you take the blame, Volkov!” he roars, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You play like a goddamn freshman with a hero complex, and we lose every time. You know better. You’re smarter than that. You wanna audition for the league? That tape’s not what you want them seeing.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say when he finally pauses long enough to need air.
He stares at me for another beat, then snorts and throws the clipboard at the bench. “Film tomorrow,” he grinds out. “No days off. Anyone who doesn’t like it can transfer to Blackthorne and ride Devereaux’s cock instead.”
Then he storms out, and the tension drains with him—leaving just exhaustion and frustration. The locker room is a blur ofslammed lockers, muttered curses, towels snapping, and the usual post-loss poison. I strip out of my pads on autopilot, every movement efficient because my body’s done it a thousand times.
Teammates avoid looking me in the eye, which is smart. Nobody wants to be the guy to make eye contact with the quarterback who just choked a rivalry game and looks like he might bite.
When I finally dress and head out, the stadium lot is mostly empty. No one tries to stop me when I leave; they know better than to get between me and my car after a loss. The lights overhead cast everything in that weird, too-bright yellow that makes faces look wrong.
