In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,50

I feel like I’ve been marked somehow, branded to the entire stadium as his mate.

“I’ve got a few minutes. Let’s get you cleaned up,” he growls, and then he picks me up and carries me over to the bench. The field medic examines me, and decides that it’d be best if I go get checked out at the hospital afterward, just in case. Dad is there, trying to hover over me, Jennifer, too. I wave them both off and manage to talk all the adults involved into letting me sit there with ice on my face, so I can finish watching the game.

The other boys come down to stand beside me, and Windsor, unsurprisingly, is the one who takes over, pulling me into his lap. He doesn’t say a thing, none of them do, but I can tell they’re all quietly fuming.

Just as we’re nearing the end of the game, I see Zack give Corb a look.

Jalen readies himself to throw a forward pass, the sun shining off the black surface of his helmet.

He pulls his arm back, and Corb goes right for him. Since he’s the defensive lineman for Grenadine Heights, that makes sense. That’s his job. He tackles Jalen hard, and all I hear as he goes down near me is this awful crunching sound.

The ref calls a timeout as Jalen screams, and I see all this blood. Like way, way too much blood. I bend down next to him since I’m the nearest person there, and find a shard of glass in his leg.

“What the …”

I’m pushed aside for the field medic, but not before I palm the glass in my hand and take it with me, stumbling back and slipping it into a cup of water. I pretend to take a drink to calm my nerves, and then chuck it in the trash.

Zack looks at me from across the field, and our eyes meet.

Jalen is taken away with a severed artery and a broken femur. His chances of playing for a college team next year … virtually none. And his dad is some super famous NFL player, too. It’s all he ever talks about.

When I get back to my room, I’ll cross his name off my list.

The game finishes up shortly thereafter, with the victory going to Burberry Prep. It’s a nice change of pace from second year when I fucked-up Zack’s chances at glory.

I don’t get a chance to talk to him though because we go straight to the hospital after (my nose isn’t broken, thankfully), only to learn I have a possible concussion. Charlie stays up all night with me playing board games in one of the visitor’s cabins, and I spend every moment soaking up my time with him.

Once he leaves, I can confront Zack.

He broke one of my rules, and I am not happy about it.

I storm up to Zack in The Mess and grab one of his big, muscular arms, dragging him away from the other boys and out into the hallway.

It’s Monday now, and Charlie’s just left. We have about two weeks until Halloween, and no idea what to do for costumes. No idea what we’re doing to celebrate either. As the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep, we have to throw a party to hold our title. Period. That’s how things work, but where? Windsor’s mom—who, if you think about it, is a freaking princess, right?—is staying at the house we used last year. Tristan’s been disowned, the Cabots and the Kaisers don’t have a place close enough, and Zack’s mother is having their vacation home renovated.

We’re going to have to think up something creative.

“You’ve been ignoring my texts all weekend,” I whisper, but Zack shakes his head, holding up his palms.

“Never, Marnye. Never. You don’t understand: my grandfather and my dad were here this weekend.” I raise my brows; I’ve never met Zack’s dad, but I hear he’s a prick. He frowns hard and looks away from me briefly. “It didn’t go well.”

“They’re mad about the game?” I ask, and Zack shakes his head, looking back at me with his mouth in a tight, flat line. He exhales, closing his eyes and reaching up to ruffle his short, dark hair with his fingers.

“Not exactly.”

I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. I decide to address my issue first then.

“I said no violence, Zack,” I whisper, because I don’t want to win this thing by resorting to their tactics.

He looks back at me, and at least I can tell that his