Page 67 of Dirty Hit
Below me, a group of girls in Lakehaven hoodies and black leggings is already in full commentary mode.
“Oh my God, look at him,” one breathes. “His back. Jesus.”
“Dom could literally do anything to me,” the other says, half laughing. “Anything. I’d say thank you.”
Jealousy hits so fast I almost choke on it. It’s ridiculous. They’re just talking. They’re allowed to. He’s the star quarterback—this is part of the job description. But possession rears up in me anyway, snarling at the idea of them picturing him like that when I had his hand in my hair last night, his voice in my ear, his cock on my tongue.
I was the one who woke up with a sore throat and his mark still on my wrist. I was the one he fed afterward, the one he drove behind to make sure I got home. I also know none of them saw the look on his face in the kitchen when he realized I was dropping, that none of them have seen the way his brow furrows when he’s trying very hard not to be a monster.
Dominic lines up for the next play: helmet on now, hands under center. The ball snaps, he drops back, scanning the field, feet light on the turf.
He’s poetry in a way my high school English teacher would’ve killed to analyze—all power and precision and timing—arm cocking back as he sends the ball arcing downfield. The receiver catches it clean, and the stands around me erupt in cheers, even though this is just practice.
I track him automatically, watching him jog back to the huddle, tapping one lineman’s helmet and clapping another on the shoulder.
The leadership is effortless; he moves as if he owns the field. Nobody here has any idea he also owns the way my knees hit the floor for him, or the way my throat opens when he tells me to.
Jesus, Lane.
I sit there, small and anonymous in the stands, and feel pride settle in my chest. I have no right to it. He’s not mine, not out here. Out here he belongs to the school, the team, and the millions of people who will eventually scream his name in stadiums I’ve only seen on TV.
But I’ve seen him when the stadium lights are off and the monsters come out. I know what his hands feel like on my throat, what his voice sounds like when it’s not filtered through press conferences and mic’d-up segments. I know he has lectured me about subdrop in a kitchen that smells like bleach and pasta.
That has to count for something.
The girls in front of me keep up a running commentary that makes my teeth itch. They talk about his arms, his jawline, the way he looks when he throws deep. One of them mentions his children's home work, all breathless and impressed.
“He’s so good with kids,” she says, sighing like she’s just read the world’s most manipulative PR blurb.
Yeah, he’s good with kids. He’s also good with knives. I’ve seen both.
“You’re insane,” I mutter under my breath, this time clearly to myself. “You’re watching him practice and getting mad that other people have eyes.”
I’m bratting at myself now. Great. This is healthy.
Then, he suddenly looks up as he’s putting his helmet on. It’s small, just a flick of his head toward the stands while he waits for the next call, but his gaze skims over the crowd, and those blue eyes lock onto mine.
He stalls for half a beat, but it’s enough that the timing of the play stutters. He hesitates on the snap, eyes still on me, but the linebacker coming off the edge doesn’t hesitate at all.
The hit smashes into his blind side; a full-body collision that sends him sprawling. The collective sound from the stands is a sharp inhale, a rush of ‘oh shit’and ‘is he okay,’ and my body reacts before my brain. I bolt halfway to standing, one hand flying to the rail in front of me, the other clamped around my cross so hard it digs into my palm.
He hits the turf hard, rolls, and for one horrifying second he doesn’t get up. The linebacker stands over him, hand extended in apology.
The panic surges up, hot and choking, and then, just as fast, it breaks. I force myself to sit down again, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the bench, my nails digging into the metal. He’s been hit a million times; it was not even that hard compared to what he takes in real games. Rationally, I know this.
But rationality left the building the second he looked at me and got flattened.
He rolls onto his side, tucks the ball in, and pops up as if nothing happened, shoving the linebacker in the helmet. He says something that makes half the offense laugh, and Keller shouts his name.
“Eyes up, Volkov! You lose focus like that on Saturday and you’re done!”
“I’m good, Coach!” Dominic calls back, shaking his shoulders out. “Got distracted by something shiny.”
My face goes hot.That bastard.
One of the linemen claps him on the back, and another smacks his shoulder. He swats them away with a grin, adjusts his tank, cracks his neck, and shakes out his arms like he’s shedding the hit.
Before he shoves his helmet back on, his eyes flick up to the stands again—almost like he can’t help it—and they find me.
