Page 41 of Hating On Riot

But that’s giving a girl a shit ton of control over my headspace and the space in my heart. What happened with Arie when we were seventeen gutted me. I never wanted to feel that lost again. Not having her in my life screwed me over and messed with my game. My heart and my head were in shambles. The joy of the game, the drive to do my best, weren’t there anymore.

Then my brothers stepped in and taught me a valuable lesson.

Never give a woman all of my heart. Always keep a piece of it to myself. Because once given, I will never get the pieces back.

16

Arie

I run along the sidelines, keeping my teammates hydrated and anticipating their next moves as they pummel the Monty boys, as Riot likes to call the guys who attend Montgomery University.

When I get a breather —which isn’t much with how fast the game is played and how attentive I have to be—my fingers go to my lips.

Riot’s kiss was amazing. Out of this world. Public.

The rugby guys didn’t say a word when he pulled the wagon the rest of the way. The head coach had given me a stern look. I’d shielded my face with my hand, fully understanding we were in deep shit. Riot knew it. I knew it. The entire team knew it. It was mortifying, but I wouldn’t change a thing. As Riot would say, no takebacks, no refunds.

I concentrated on the game and being a vital part of the hydration team. If this is my last game, if the head coach lets me go for a public lip-lock on the field with one of his star players, then I’ll make my time and effort count.

Twice a day, Riot pesters me into doing evasive maneuvers. We’ve moved from the rugby house, park, and back parking lot to where our opponents live and work. Between class, my few-and-far-between shifts at Lee’s Bookstore, keeping the guys hydrated at practice, and video calls with my brothers—they’re almost done flipping the house—Riot and I wrestle. Well, I call it wrestling. He calls it self-defense. Toe-mae-toe, toe-ma-toe.

He’s helping me become stronger. Faster. Able to dodge bullets from his blaster. He doesn’t think I suspect, but I know that me pulling the heavy wagon, the evasive maneuvers, and the wrestling is him getting me in shape for Nerf War. It’s working. I’m not out of breath running along the sidelines. I can juggle a million squirt bottles and towels piled high in my arms without breaking a sweat.

I avoid Riot during the game. We keep what we have professional. I’m on his turf now, and I want him, them, my new teammates, guys who I am beginning to think of as friends, to win.

The crowd burst into whoops and hollers. The noise is loud, yanking me out of my thoughts. I blink. Crap! I zoned out. My gaze darts around the sideline. The others from the hydration team are doing their job. My job. I quickly spring into action.

My job. My team.

I smile.

My job. My team.

The words replay in my head.

My smile widens.

I stare at the crowd. My attention hangs onto the tall, muscular guy with hair shaved close to his scalp on the sides and tousled on top. Through the noise, through the players and the coaching staff standing in front of me, Riot finds me.

Our gazes meet.

His green eyes shine.

He’s happy I’m here.

I’m happy to be here.

I don’t want to be anywhere other than with him. Where he is.

Always.

Apparently, the universe has different plans.

17

Riot

“Can we call it a day?”