“What’s wrong, four?” he taunts seconds before the whistle blows. “Your whore not putting out?”
“Fuck you,” I hiss. I regret responding immediately as I watch an accomplished smirk pull at his lips.
“I’m good. My girl sucked me dry last night. I’d offer her up, but she doesn’t blow scum.”
My nostrils flare as I suck in a deep, calming breath.
It works for a second. Until the stupid motherfucker opens his mouth again.
“I thought your new American would be right at home on her knees with your tiny coc—” His words are cut off when my fist collides with his mouth.
“You motherfucker,” he barks as I swing another punch.
“If I ever hear you say anything about her again, a broken fucking nose will be the least of your worries,” I growl, getting him to the ground before hands wrap around my upper arms.
“You stupid fuck,” Theo barks in my ear. “Couldn’t have just kept your fucking cool, could you?”
“Not when he mentioned her, no.” I spit down at him, showing him what I really think of him.
“You need to sort your-fucking-self out, Seb,” Theo barks pushing me away from the arsehole and going chest to chest with me. “Either forget about her, or go and fucking get her. You can’t keep this shit up. If you’re not off-your-face drunk then you’re busting up your fists. Get your fucking head on straight.”
His palms slam into my chest as he pushes me back.
“Coach is going to rip you a new one for this, and I’ll be right behind him to do it all over again. You’re a fucking liability.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss. He might be my best friend, but right now he needs to get his fucking opinions out of my face.
“Sebastian,” Coach booms from the side of the pitch. “Get your arse in the dressing room.”
Spinning on my heels, I don’t even register the ref waving what is inevitably my first red card of the season around.
“We’ll be talking about thi—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, leaving Theo behind and storming past Coach and the rest of his training staff and subs who are at the sidelines.
The sound of the door slamming back against the wall echoes through the empty dressing room.
“Motherfucker,” I roar, finishing up the few more punches that fuck deserved on the wall instead.
Pain shoots up my arm with the first hit, but it’s not enough to stop me. My anger and frustration have taken on a life of their own.
I don’t bother hanging around for the arse ripping I’ve been promised. Instead, I drag my bag from the bench, throw it over my shoulder, and storm out of the locker room, still covered in sweat and a blend of mine and that stupid prick’s blood.
My bag flies across my car, hitting the passenger window before crashing to the seat and tumbling into the footwell. I fall down into the driver’s seat and jam my finger into the start button, bringing the engine to life.
My grip on the wheel is so tight it makes blood pool at my busted knuckles, and by the time I pull up outside Theo’s place, it’s running down the backs of my hands.
I don’t remember a second of the drive home. My head was firmly on her, wondering what she’s doing right now. It’s early afternoon where she is. Is she out having fun, or is she wallowing in her bad decisions?
Knowing that I need to be out again before Theo comes storming in, ready to go postal on me for my behaviour, I have the quickest shower of my life, drag on a clean set of clothes, shove some others in a bag and grab my wallet, phone, and most importantly, my passport.
This is fucking ending. Right fucking now.
* * *
It was obviously too much to ask to turn up at Gatwick and walk straight onto a flight to Florida. I knew it wasn’t going to happen; I’d been studying the flight times for a couple of days as I debated booking myself onto one and going to get her.
I’d tried to do the right thing.