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“Okay,” Tine said, closing his tablet and getting to his feet. “Line up for handoffs.”

The offensive line took our spots as the defense faced off against us. The first handoff was to Mark and as the center snapped me the ball I turned and slid the ball into Mark’s hand, staring down and not immediately registering what I was seeing.

Mark’s knuckles were scuffed up, scabbed and red, looking almost chapped, but it wasn’t cold enough yet to cause that kind of damage.

“What happened to your hand?” I asked, staring down at the shredded skin.

“It was an accident,” he said, wrenching the ball away from me.

But the way he refused to meet my gaze told me everything I needed to know.

“You sonofabitch,” I hissed, launching myself at him and knocking him to the ground. “You fucking asshole.” I brought my fist down into his face, smashing against his cheekbone. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Mark brought his knee up and crushed my balls, sending me rolling to my side in agony.

“What’s your fucking problem, man? I was just giving him what he wanted.” Mark kicked out at me but I dodged him, forcing myself to my feet as I swung at him again.

“He doesn’t fucking want it from you!” I screamed, punching him in the gut. “You stay the fuck away from him.”

I tried to swing again, but I was tackled from behind, knocked to the ground by one of my teammates.

“That’s enough!” roared Coach Tine. “Practice is over. Hix. Tafta. With me. Now!”

“He—”

“Hix, if you want to keep your place on this team, you’ll keep your mouth shut,” Tine warned me. “Monsignor’s office. Go!”

I waited until Mark started walking first, not trusting him to be at my back. Not after what he’d done to Andy.

How the fuck could he have done that? What was his fucking problem with Andy? Who could have a problem with Andy? I mean…now.

Shit. Was I any better? Granted, I’d never sent him to the hospital, but I’d hurt him plenty. In addition to the wounds he’d received from Mark, he was still sporting a set of my teeth marks in his shoulder.

I didn’t care how much he said he liked it, seeing that wound set against everything that had happened to him…made it seem so much worse than it had before.

Tine marched us across the grounds, through hallways and straight to Monsignor O’Shea’s door, where he knocked once then pushed it open without waiting for a response.

“I’m in the middle of something,” O’Shea said coldly.

“I’m sorry, sir, this can’t wait,” Tine said before turning to us. “Inside.”

I followed Mark inside and gasped when I saw Andy sitting in one of the chairs across from O’Shea’s desk.

“My goodness,” O’Shea said. “It’s an epidemic.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

~Andy~

I’d ended up getting seven stitches in my face, twelve between both hands, and a concussion diagnosis. The doctor on duty had prescribed pain killers, antibiotics and suggested I file a police report.

Caitlyn had kept her word and hadn’t asked me again about what had happened, then she sat at my bedside all night, waking me up every hour to check on me and change out my bandages.

She’d been pissed when I’d insisted on going to my afternoon class, but sitting around the apartment wasn’t doing me any good. I knew I looked like shit, but I wasn’t going to let Mark fuck up my grades like he’d fucked up my face. Besides, it was an hour and a half and she was driving me mental with her mother hen routine.

I kept my face down as I walked through the halls and took a seat toward the back of the class, hoping that no one would even notice that I’d clearly gotten the shit kicked out of me.

And I’d really thought it had worked, too. Until I was leaving class and Monsignor O’Shea fell into step beside me.