Ryker stands there for a moment, shakes his head, and walks off.
I finish my workout, pissed I didn’t say the right things. I never know what to say, not when it really matters. Give me a room full of fans and I’m the wittiest dude there, but put my future on the line and I hesitate.
Why do I do that?
Because deep down, no matter how hard I fight, part of me thinks I’m not worth it, that I’m not good enough to make it.
Later, Archer is in the locker room with two of the younger defensive players when I come in for a shower.
He eyeballs me. “Hey, wide receiver, maybe that scout wants to hire you to be Ryker’s water boy in New York.”
I roll my neck. “He clearly didn’t notice you.”
He stands from the bench he was sitting on, and his buddies follow. “You trying to piss me off, pretty boy?”
I turn to him, and he puts his face directly in front of mine, almost nose to nose. I take him in, assessing his height and muscle tone against mine. My hands curl. I can take him. We’ve been picking at each other for months now, and I can only take so much before I blow up. Normally, I’m not a hothead; I keep myself on a tight leash, keeping my goals front and center, but I’m sick of him. Schoolyard fights flash in my head, messy brawls I got tangled up in, usually over a comment about my parents and how they killed the mayor’s daughter. I learned how to use my fists then, how to stick up for myself.
He slaps his bare chest, where he has a tattoo of five huge stars, his high school recruiting ranking. “Don’t you know who I am? ESPN’s been talking about me since I was a sophomore in high school. Five, boy!” I was barely a three-star high school player.
I bark out a laugh. “It doesn’t matter what people thought when you were young. They’re looking at what you’ve done lately, and when it comes to you, I’d say not fucking much.” I give him a grin, but inside, my body is ready, coiled and tense.
He pushes my chest, but I immediately square back up and shove him until he stumbles over the bench behind him.
“Hold him!” he yells out to his posse as he scrambles to stand.
Hands grab each of my arms.
“Fuck that,” I say as I struggle to get out of their grip. I manage to shake one of his minions off and grab the other by the shirt just before Archer punches me in the stomach.
All the air surges out of my body, and I bend over to catch my breath.
He’s not stopping and comes right back at me. I duck under his next punch, which was intended for my face.
“Too slow,” I mutter.
He swings wide over my head, and I counter with an uppercut directly under his jaw. His head snaps back, his eyes pure evil when he focuses back on me. His leg kicks out at me and hits my shin.
Pain ricochets through me, and my teeth grit.
“You trying to injure me where it counts, huh? Asshole,” I call out, rushing him and landing my fist in his stomach like he did to me.
He gasps and clutches his waist.
Feeling someone behind me, I swirl around and face his buddies, but they step off.
“Whoa, whoa, we’re done,” they say, hands up, eyes wide. “Don’t want any trouble.”
“You better be. That shit isn’t fair,” I bite out.
Archer has straightened and wipes blood off of his lip.
“This is over,” I snap, pushing past him. “Let it go.”
“Not for me.” He grabs my shoulder and slams me into a locker.
I rub the arm that took the brunt of the impact, and every logical thought in my head, the ones telling me I need to end this, click off. I wrap my hand around the thick gold chain around his neck and yank on it, forcing him to get back up in my face.
“You want to get me riled up, Archer? You’ve got no clue what I can do to you. It’s a conscious choice every single day to not slam my fist into your face.”
“What the hell?” shouts Coach Sanders as he bursts into the locker room. He scans the place in a heartbeat. “Are you two crazy?”
Archer puffs out his chest and shoves my hands off him. “He started it, Coach.”