Page 68 of Dirty Hit
Within that heartbeat, it feels like the whole world narrows down to that line between us. His gaze pins me there and holds me before he looks away, and for the first time all day, he smiles.
Not the smirk he gives reporters, or the wolfish grin he tosses at girls on the sidelines when they squeal his name. Not even the mocking twist of his mouth he aims at opponents before he buries them.
Hesmiles.
It rolls over his face slowly, starting in his eyes, softening the edges and pulling the corner of his mouth up. For a second, the Beast drops away, and I see the boy under it. The one who carried me to his kitchen, fed me, watered me, watched my hands shake, and said ‘You did well.’
My chest hurts, expands, and hurts more.
I duck my head, like that will hide the fact that my entire body just lit up. When I look back up, he’s turned away, helmet fully on now, back in motion and barking out the next play.
I sit there through the rest of practice, heart still pounding, cross warm in my fist, cuff snug on my wrist. The drop I kept waiting for never hits. The shame doesn’t swallow me. The only thing I feel guilty about is that when I close my eyes, my prayers don’t come out as neat, memorized lines.
They sound a lot like his voice.
And at the center of it all, my Devil is standing on a field in compression pants and a white tank, smiling up at the stands because I came to watch him.
Dominic
Thestupidthingis,I’m still smiling when the water hits me.
I’m standing under a stream of hot water in the locker room shower stall with maybe half a brain cell turned on. My mouth keeps tipping up, like I’m some lovesick idiot, instead of a man who got flattened by a teammate because he made eye contact with his obsession in the stands.
Water sluices over my shoulders, steaming where it hits skin still humming from practice. My muscles ache in the good way—used, stretched, and worked.
It’s loud in here with the sound of the other guys, someone singing off-key at the far end and someone else arguing about fantasy points; the general roar of bodies decompressing.
I tune most of it out and brace my palms against the wall, letting the heat soak in.
I can still see him midway up the bleachers, knees pulled up, his forearms resting on them, hoodie on and eyes locked on me. He thought he was being subtle, but I’ve been tracking defensiveschemes in crowds since I was a kid—one stubborn little law student in the middle of a bunch of undergrads isn’t hard to find, when I know what I’m looking for.
The moment I saw him up there, everything in me stuttered.
I’d been dialed in, mind running on clean lines: hear the call, adjust at the line, read the safety, throw. Rinse, repeat.
Then, I glance up between snaps, just checking the stands out of habit before shoving my helmet on again, andboom—green eyes right there, pinning me, wide and hungry and way too intent. I stalled for a fraction of a second, and got my shit rocked for it. Deserved.
The guys laughed. I laughed. Keller yelled. On film, it’ll look like a timing misread or a blown protection, depending on how harsh he wants to be.
Nobody will know the real reason my footwork went to shit is that my brain went ‘oh, he came just to see you,’and promptly forgot what a linebacker is.
I rinse the last of the shampoo out of my hair, and roll my head under the spray, eyes closed. The smile’s still there. Persistent fucker.
I’ve had people in the stands for me before. Hookups, jersey-chasers, the occasional guy I’ve fucked in secret, who wanted to see what I look like when I’m throwing something that isn’t them against a wall.
None of them ever did more than stroke my ego. It’s nice to have an audience, sure. Nice to know who I can text later if I want a body and noise to clear my head. But it never lingered. As soon as I hit the showers, they evaporated from my mind.
Brendon doesn’t.
Brendon is not noise.
He’s my Little Sin, and the reason I slept through the night for the first time in years.
That’s the part that really screws with me.I slept. I went to bed without swallowing anything to drag me under. Without replaying kills in my head until I finally crashed from exhaustion. Without waking up drenched in sweat and ready to put my fist through a wall, because my brain decided to send old ghosts at me in high definition.
My body just… let go. No nightmares and no restless tossing. No lying there, waiting for the urge to go out and find someone stupid enough to follow me into a dark corner. Just one long, solid stretch of sleep that felt like falling into deep water and not caring if I came back up.
I woke up to my alarm eight hours later with no lingering nightmares. That is not normal for me.
