I, personally, could care less about most sports. Sports, in general, don’t really interest me—I’m bad at them. I never really understood the excitement, but men’s sports in particular, since it all just seems like one giant dick measuring contest to me, among a bunch of men who have something to prove. This is no different, although I can at least appreciate the violence of rugby. It’s like football’s brutal older cousin, and I can at least get behind that part of it.
Most of the practice doesn’t really mean anything to me. I don’t know how the game is played, and I don’t particularly have any interest in learning. But even I can tell that Cayde is really throwing himself into the practice today, hitting like a freight train, playing like it’s a real game. It makes me grin a little inside because I know why he’s so wound up. It’s because of me, because of what I did this morning, what happened in the shower, what happened in the study afterward.
I’m driving him crazy, and now that I know the stakes, it’s actually kind of fun.
Until he glances over at the sidelines and sees me.
For half a second, the look of utter surprise on his face sends a rush of satisfaction through me. And then I feel like the worst person in the world, because that moment’s distraction means that another player rams into him, his elbow going up and slamming into Cayde’s face.
When Cayde goes to his knees, bowing forward on the field, I know it must be bad.
My reaction surprises me. Without thinking, I leap over the rope separating the sidelines from the field, rushing towards Cayde at full tilt. I don’t know why; nothing about it is calculated or planned. I just sprang into motion, and before I know it, I’m squatting down on the field by him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
“Hey!” One of the other players grabs my elbow, pulling me up to my feet. “Spectators aren’t allowed on the field.”
I give him my coldest, most cutting glare, yanking my arm free. “I’m his roommate,” I snap. “And I give a shit if he’s hurt or not. So fuck off.”
Cayde looks up at me, and I see a smirk on his face, despite the blood trickling out from between his fingers where his hand is clamped over his nose. “I can get back to the locker room,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll get a doc to come to the house and look at it.”
The coach is scurrying across the field towards the gathered knot of players, but Cayde starts walking back towards the lockers, ignoring all of them and me too as I jog to keep up, trying to help him.
“Slow down,” I hiss at him. “You’re hurt.”
“Fuck off,” Cayde growls as I reach to grab his elbow and slow him down, pushing me backward. “I wouldn’t have even gotten hurt if it weren’t for you hanging around and distracting me.”
“I just came to watch you practice.” Fuck, I’m out of shape. I haven’t been to the gym in weeks, haven’t done any of my usual weights or boxing, and I can feel it as I puff along next to him, following him into the locker room before he can slam the door in my face.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Cayde snaps. “This is the men’s locker room.”
“Well, you’re the only man in here, and you’ve already seen all there is to see,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Sit down and let me take a look at your nose.”
“Like you know anything about fixing broken noses.” Cayde glares at me. “You wouldn’t know a punch if it knocked you flat on your ass.”
“You sure about that?” I challenge, my eyes narrowed. “Maybe we should duke it out in the gym sometime, find out if that’s true. After your nose heals, that is, it looks pretty bad.”
Cayde is seething, I’ve gotten used to telling when his rage is at the boiling point, but I’m not playing his stupid games today. He’s actually hurt, and somewhere deep down, I realize I actually give a shit.
Why, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it’s the fact that he did fight back for me this morning. Maybe it’s just that I’m fucked up too, and that crazed passion that I see in his eyes when he’s around me calls to something deep and dark inside of me. Maybe it’s that I like the fight, our back and forth, no matter how unhealthy it is.
There’s always the possibility that maybe I’m not the good girl, trapped in the manor with my captors.
Maybe I’m bad, just like them.
Maybe I just needed them to bring it out of me.
“Let me help you,” I insist, reaching for his hand to move it away from his face so that I can see the injury.
Before I can even see it coming, Cayde lunges towards me, a snarl on his face as he grabs my upper arms and swings me around, shoving me back against the lockers hard. I can feel the warm, sticky blood on his fingers smearing over my skin. Something about it excites me, a warm thrill mixed with adrenaline and fear rushing over me as Cayde pins me against the locker, looming over me with that familiar dark look in his sea-green eyes.
“You’re going to regret toying with me, little Saint.”