1 Week Before Eastern League Challenger Cup
I hate Arin Mahony, especially when he is smiling at me and winking like he knows what's going on inside my mind. I avert my gaze as the coach blows the whistle, and Arin barrels toward me like a red-haired demon who has never learned the meaning of mercy.
We were scrimmaging, it was supposed to be routine, and yet Arin managed to get under my skin.
"Set!" he yells, voice bright, annoyingly enthusiastic.
I brace for a simple ruck drill, expecting him to come straight. Of course, he doesn't.
Arin dips left at the last second, shoulder slamming under my arm, hooking and twisting exactly where my balance is weakest. The bastard pops me off the ball clean, clean enough that Coach shouts his praise from the sideline, and I hit the turf with a grunt that's half pain, half humiliation.
"Come on, Rafe!" Arin laughs, jogging backward with that stupid sunshine grin. "Very predictable."
I swear I see stars. And not the romantic kind. The enraged, I-want-to-choke-him kind.
I push myself up, breath fogging. "You cut in before the call."
"That's literally the point of a feint," he says, spinning the ball once in his palm. "Stay low, watch my hips. You know this."
He's right. I do know this. But knowledge doesn't matter when Arin is the one taunting me.
He plants himself again. "One more."
"One more" means he's about to humiliate me again. And I'll let him. Because I always do.
We lock eyes. His crinkled with mirth, full of playfulness, and mine, I am pretty sure, with annoyance. I want to hit him and kiss him in the same second. Which is pretty much my permanent state when it comes to Arin and he is painfully oblivious to the second fact.
Coach whistles. Arin charges.
This time he doesn't go for a feint. No—he barrels straight into me, head tucked, arms wrapping for a perfect tackle, and I'm forced to dig my studs deep into the mud to stay upright. He pushes. I push back. The world narrows into heat and muscle and his damn breath brushing the side of my neck when he leans in too close.
"Atta boy," he whispers into my ears, his breath heated, his voice sinfully strained, the sound travels straight to my cock. It reacts before my brain does, traitor that it is, stiffening under my jockstrap.
"Rafe!" Coach snaps. "Where's your drive? He's outmuscling you!"
No shit. Arin would outmuscle a brick wall if he thought it'd be fun.
He gives one final shove, knocking me back enough to pop the ball loose, and I stumble, breathless, humiliation burning deep beneath my ribs.
Arin grins. "That's three for me."
I don't answer. If I open my mouth, I might say something that ruins ten years of friendship.
He trots back to the line, bouncing with every step. He loves this. Loves pushing me. Loves needling me. Loves getting under my skin.
Problem is...He's been under my skin for years.
By the time practice ends, I'm half hard, half furious, and praying no one notices either.
***
The locker room smells like sweat and hot water and detergent that never quite does its job. I rip my jersey off, toss it toward my locker, and sit heavily on the bench, trying to convince my pulse to calm down before my hands shake.
Arin saunters in, towel around his neck, hair wet, smile wide.
"Man," he chuckles, "you were a disaster today."
I freeze.
He doesn't mean anything by it, I know he doesn't, but something in me snaps anyway.
"Yeah," I mutter, voice clipped, "thanks for the commentary."
He frowns slightly, like a dog confused by a sudden slap of rain. "Rafe... I'm messing with you. You okay?"
"No," I say sharper than I intend. "I'm tired of you turning every drill into some damn personal circus."
For a moment Arin just watches me, eyes softening. Then he walks over, slow, careful and sits beside me, thigh brushing mine, heat seeping through my skin like a balm I never asked for.
A hand lands on my back. I try not to shiver. It's not uncommon for players to touch each other, we are rugby players for god sake, but this...his in this intimate setting. Him being my friend...I am so aware of the heat of his palm that I try not to think of anything but his hands, hands that are expert at passing the ball perfectly.
"Hey," he murmurs, thumb rubbing once between my shoulder blades. "You know I'm joking. I don't mean anything by it."
And just like that, my anger dissolves, slipping through my fingers before I can hold on to it.
Arin is the only man who can do this to me, turn my fury to ash with a single touch, a single look. I have always had issues with controlling my anger. Even as a kid, I have gotten suspended on multiple occasions for getting into fights. I was rugby team captain so they always overlooked my shortcomings. Here though, Coaches shout; opponents curse; my temper boils hot and fast. No wonder sponsors avoid me like a curse.
But Arin? Arin just... reaches for me, and the storm inside me quiets like it was only waiting for his hand.
I hate how easy it is for him. And most of all, I hate how he doesn't even know.
I exhale slowly, tension leaking out of me. "Yeah. I know."
He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. "Good. Because if you stop letting me annoy you, I'll have to find someone else to bully."
"Try it," I mutter, finally letting my lips twitch.
He grins, the corner of his eyes crinkling and my chest tightens, along with other parts of my anatomy. Hard.
"Never," he winks.
Someday, this is going to ruin me.