Free Game On by Michelle Smith Page B

take a swing at family.
    But suddenly Matt’s mouth is beside my ear, his voice whispering, “I don’t think you want her, man. She doesn’t put out much. And when she does, it’s nothin’ to brag about.”
    He shoves my chest. I stumble back.
    Oh, no. Oh, hell, no.
    â€œThen again,” he adds, backing away, “I’d say she’s
mildly
impressive. So y’all actually have something in common.”
    He starts toward his truck, but my heart’s raced into my throat and all I see is red. Red, red, red rage.
    Fuck the headlines.
    â€œDon’t—” Kellen begins right as I say, “Hey, Harris.”
    Matt turns. My right hook slams into his nose. Pain screams through my arm, but adrenaline surges and the ache disappears. He rams into me with a grunt, taking me down, my head smacking the pavement. My vision blurs, barely making out the fist barreling toward my face. But I feel it. And again. And again.
    And he’s gone. My eye’s swelling already, but the world comes back into focus just in time for someone to yank me to my feet.
    Blue lights flashing, blindingly clashing against the darkness. Walkie-talkies squawking and cuffs scraping my wrists. Being led to a police car, which I stupidly, stupidly never even noticed before taking a swing at a teammate, of all people.
    I. Am. Screwed.

Chapter Six
    Eric
    Jail cells are a pain in the ass. Literally.
    The holding cell is the same as it was a year ago: cold and small as a closet. Not only that, but I was tossed in here with the guy whose face I had every intention of breaking tonight. Officers in this town have a really twisted sense of humor.
    Matt claimed the metal bench when we got here an hour ago, so I’ve been stuck on the floor across the cell—there’s no way in hell I’m sharing that tiny bench with him. The tissue the officer gave him for his nose lies bloody in the middle of the floor, like some gross boundary line.
    The steady
tick-tock
of the clock across the station echoes throughout the room. Old Officer Concord sits at his desk beneath the fluorescent lights with his feet kicked up as he flips through his hunting magazine for what’s got to be the tenth time.
    The door to the station creaks open and slams closed. Coach Taylor yanks off his cap and moves through the room, quick and smooth as a fox. He doesn’t even look in our direction; he heads straight to the officer, who begins whispering. And whispers some more, and more. Which can’t be a good thing.
    Finally, Coach looks up. Walks toward our cell, with the officer at his side. I shove to my feet, same as Matt, and hurry to the metal bars. The officer called both our dads, asking if they’d rather have Coach Taylor come down to “clear up this little mess.” At first, I was relieved. But now, Coach’s gaze locks on me alone. And that gaze is full of more fire and brimstone than Hell itself.
    Shit.
    The lock on the cell clicks, and the door screeches as it opens. Matt and I slip out, though Coach and the officer block us from hightailing it out of here.
    Coach clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips. “Officer Concord,” he says, not breaking my gaze. “Can I get a few minutes alone with these two?”
    Double shit.
    Seconds later, the door to the station slams again. Coach’s voice is hard as stone as he says, “I’m gonna need to know what happened here.”
    I jerk my thumb toward Matt. “He started it,” he and I say at the same time.
    Coach rubs his face. “I asked for that,” he mutters. “Whatever
did
happen, the town got wind of a good ol’ blowout between two teammates.” He claps, loud and slow. “Congratulations, boys. You’re the talk of Lewis Creek.”
    I can’t breathe. I cannot breathe. These people already don’t trust me—the last thing I need is more fuel for the flames.
    Coach continues, “And