Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  I moved away, towards the exit, thinking of grabbing a breath of fresh air before I rejoined the crowd. Theo was so, so, so right. I felt better, much better, and all I'd done was bounce around to a dozen songs I didn't know. Maybe I was too uptight? Maybe I really was thinking too hard about everything?

  I moved down the steps after collecting a stamp from the bouncer and crossed my arms over my chest, sucking in some of the smoky air outside the WOW Hall.

  It took me about three seconds to find Max, leaning over a smiling girl to the right of the entrance. He wasn't doing anything with her per se, but his posture, the expression on his face, the nearness of their bodies, those things told me all I needed to know.

  What. The. Hell.

  I stared in openmouthed shock as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and grinned that stupid, sexy grin of his. This was so not what I needed right now. I squeezed my upper arms with my fingers to ward off the sudden chill, the excitement from the show fading as fast as it had come on. And just when I was starting to see a speck of light at the end of the tunnel.

  I watched Max for a few moments, wondering when or if he'd even notice me. I could only stand the sight so long as it took the girl to press her palms against his chest and whisper something in his ear, lips brushing his skin while his eyes went dark and half-lidded.

  I scoffed and turned away without saying a word, throwing out a quick text to Addi to let her know that I was walking home. We lived – quite literally – around the corner, so it was no big deal. I kept my head down and stayed hunched over until I turned left onto Lincoln Street, feeling ten times worse than I had when I'd first left my apartment. While I'd been inside jumping around and flailing my arms like an idiot, Max was outside scamming on girls.

  That … cocksucker, I thought to myself, thinking of Flor's words about Max. He's no good for you. He won't admit it, and he keeps it pretty well hidden, but I know he cheats on you. Of course Flor was right, but it was like knowing something and seeing it firsthand were completely different things. I shook my head and kept moving, around to Broadway and my apartment, situated above a shoe store with clever sayings painted onto the glass of the windows.

  Leaning against that very same window, the words be and truth on either side of his head like horns, was Flor. I paused on the sidewalk and tried to make out the saying behind his dark hair. Be the truth you want to see, it read.

  I felt bold, so I moved up to him before he could spot me first and turn the tables like he always did.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him, moving up to the front door and sticking my key in the lock before he'd even really registered what was happening. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Flor startled and stood up, running his right hand through his dark hair and watching me out of those eyes, the ones that were just too rich, too deep, for a guy that refused to reveal any of the depth that they must be hiding.

  “Where have you been?” he asked me as I pushed the door open and started up the stairs. It occurred to me that if I went up, he'd come too and that maybe having him in my apartment wasn't such a good idea, but I did it anyway. The music had infected me. That, or I was using it as an excuse to say and do things that I wouldn't under normal circumstances.

  “Out,” I said, continuing into the darkened apartment and leaving the lights off. Somehow, after the intimacy of the show, the crush of bodies, the darkness of the singer's voice, recessed lighting didn't seem appropriate. I let Addi's white Christmas lights guide my way. “But that doesn't answer your question, does it?” I threw my keys on the counter and realized that my hands were shaking. Fucking Max, that asshole. I was taking some of my frustration out on Flor and it wasn't fair, even if he had essentially denied me my confession. “What are you doing here?”

  “Do you even know what today is?” he asked me, frowning. I noticed he kept his left hand in the pocket of his jeans, like he was clutching onto something. I refused to look at the way the lights bathed his face, turned his cheeks to shadow, gave his lips color. I set my purse down and stared at the small scar on his chin to avoid looking at his eyes. “I tried texting and calling, but you didn't answer, so I decided to stop by.” Flor shrugged like that was no big deal, but I felt my lips pursing in irritation. I hadn't answered because I'd blocked his number, not forever, just for now. Just until I could get a hold of myself.

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn't want to talk to you?” I asked, turning away and moving towards the fridge. I pulled the door open and rummaged around for a beer, curling my fingers around a bottle of Total Domination. I found my right hand suddenly at my hip, pressing against that pesky bit of space between my top and my jeans.

  I heard Florian sigh, but he didn't say anything as I popped the top and kept my attention pointedly focused on everything but him. A moment later my phone buzzed, giving me a good excuse to pay even less attention to my stepbrother.

  What's going on now? Better not be Flor again.

  I frowned and texted Addison back.

  No. Max.

  I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and turned around to find Flor way too close for comfort. I stumbled back as he watched me, bumping into the counter and coming up short.

  “What's wrong with Max?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. I swallowed and took another sip of my beer, hating the way the darkness seemed to enhance the pigment in his irises. They seemed even greener than usual, although I knew that was probably just my mind playing tricks on me.

  “Nothing,” I said, not wanting to have this conversation, not wanting to have any conversation really. “Can you just go home, Flor? I can't do this with you.”

  “Can't do what, Abi?” he asked, moving closer, too close. His fingers found mine, still, somehow, splayed open over my tattoo and as he peeled them away, I felt my breath hitch. His hand was too warm, his body close enough to touch. If I leaned forward, I could meld my form against his, sink into him, let him hold me the way I'd always wanted to, the way I'd experienced for the briefest of seconds that one, fateful night. “I've never tried to be anything but good to you. I've … tried to be a brother to you.” My breath caught again and I found my eyes squeezing shut as he curled his fingers through mine, taking my right hand and pulling it close to his mouth. I thought for a second that he might kiss me, press his lips to my knuckles and breathe hot breath against my skin; my knees went weak and I slumped even harder against the countertop. “I've tried, but I'm no good at it,” he told me, his voice husky and rough, not at all the smooth, practiced perfection that usually characterized Florian. He leaned in even closer, leaving me with nowhere to go and put his forehead up against mine.

  I kept my eyes closed, the fingers of my left hand curling around the countertop as I tried to stay standing. No good. This is no good. Shit. I tried to turn my head away, but Florian brought his hand up and ran his fingers through my hair.

  “Stop it,” I whispered as my heart hammered against my ribcage and my breathing came in fits and gasps. Tears tried desperately to squeeze out from under my eyelids, but I held them back. “Flor, stop.”

  “The smell of your skin, your hair, your breath,” he whispered, “it undoes me.”

  And then he kissed me.

  The heat of his lips seared against mine as his right hand found my face and cupped my chin, drawing me forward and into his arms. And oh, it felt good. So good. We unhooked the fingers of our right and left hands, his finding the top of my jeans, curving beneath the denim and drawing me forward while his knuckles teased my tattoo. Mine found the strong muscles of his back and dug into the fabric of his tight T-shirt, latching onto the cotton fabric like it was a lifeline and I was drowning. It really felt like I was there for a moment, like Flor was my only source of life and breath, like if I let go of him, I would lose myself.

  When he pulled back abruptly, running his hand through his hair and leaving me a panting, melting, stuttering mess, he seemed almost angry.

  “Goddamn it, Abigai
l,” he snarled, marching across the kitchen floor and pausing with his gaze focused on the windows, on the faint sounds of shouting that echoed around outside. I wondered how long it might be before Addi or Max got it in their heads to come back and check on me. “I can't do this!”

  “Can't do what, Flor?” I asked, half of me broken and shattered, the other half almost … ecstatic. Because if Flor's actions, if his words, were anything to go on, then he might, just might, feel the same way about me as I felt about him. “Flor, I – ”

  “Don't say it, Abi,” he whispered, reaching back into his pocket. He withdrew something I couldn't see in the dark half-light and placed it on the countertop.

  “Why?” I asked, standing up straight, feeling those sobs I'd fought so hard against rise to the surface. “Why won't you let me say what I want to say, Florian? Why not let me get it out there, so we can talk about it.”

  “I don't want to hear it, Abi,” he said, and I found my sudden sadness turning into anger. I clenched my fists tight and moved forward, grabbing at the back of his shirt and trying to get him to turn towards me. He refused to budge.

  “You don't even know what I'm going to say,” I growled at him, proud of myself for keeping my voice strong and even. “If you'd just let me speak – ”

  Flor interrupted me again, moving away and waving his hand dismissively.

  When he glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyes were cloaked in shadow and his expression unreadable. He reached up and patted the small box on the counter.

  “Enjoy your present,” he said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and slipping one between his lips. “Call me when you remember mine, okay, nee-chan?”

  Flor turned away from me and descended the stairs, leaving me alone in the darkness of the apartment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I'd thrown all of my clothes onto the floor, emptied out the closet, flipped up the mattress and box spring and still, I hadn't found it.

  “Fuck,” I said, sweeping some stray strands of hair back from my face. Today, Friday, yet another family dinner looming on the horizon, and I couldn't find the damn box. That box. The one that held all of the items that used to grace my Florian shrine.

  “You're up early,” Addi said, blinking in the brightness from my open window. As I turned to look at her, I saw Patrick slide by in the hallway and disappear into the bathroom. My friend draped herself in the doorway to my bedroom and yawned. She and Patrick hadn't come home until dawn and all I had from Max was a text telling me that he was sorry I wasn't feeling well and that he'd try to bring over some flowers. Addi's lie to him about my not feeling well was far better than the truth. I caught you red-handed, you dick, I thought, pushing at a pile of clothes with my foot. I thought about asking Addi about the box, but I knew it was useless. She didn't have it; Flor did – as evidenced by the gift he'd left me last night.

  A locket. With a picture of us as kids inside. A picture that I knew had come from that box.

  “It's a little early for a clean sweep, isn't it?” Addi said, yawning again. I smiled at her and shrugged as she stood up and padded down the hallway on bare feet. My cheeks heated and I closed my eyes, biting at my thumb nail and trying to figure out what I was going to do about this. I mean, based on what happened last night, it didn't seem like my feelings for Flor were a secret, not really. And he'd basically … I stopped chewing on my nail and pressed my fingers to my lips. I could still feel his mouth there, hot and insistent and desperate. But for what? For me?

  I sighed and took a few steps back, plopping down on the window seat opposite my bedroom door.

  “This is a disaster,” I whispered, dropping my fingers down to the silver locket and letting it flutter between them as I leaned down and took a deep breath. Do you even know what today is? I hadn't known what Flor was talking about when he'd first asked that, but I did now. Yesterday was the anniversary of the day we'd first met. It hadn't meant anything to either of us for the longest time, but once, when I was thirteen, I remembered looking at the calendar and being overwhelmed with a memory. There was Flor, dark haired and brooding, even at age eight, standing hand in hand with his mother on my front door step. I remember hiding behind my dad, shy and confused at what was happening. The memory itself is blurry: what Flor was wearing, what River said to me while she stood there with her son, what we even did that day, but there's one thing that remains perfectly clear. Flor's eyes.

  I closed mine now and let the color flood back into my head.

  I'd looked at the calendar that day and brought it up casually, already embroiled in full-blown Flor obsession by that point. He'd sat at the counter in the kitchen musing on it for a while and then he'd said we should celebrate. We'd walked down to the burger joint that was a few blocks from our place at the time and splurged with Flor's allowance. Ever since then we'd been getting together and having lunch or exchanging stupid meaningless little gifts. Even in the dry years between the kiss and the day I'd graduated high school, we'd made time for that day.

  And here I'd gone and ruined it.

  I sighed again and stood up, pulling my phone from my pocket and removing the block on Flor's number. It took a few tries, but I finally forced myself to dial him up.

  “Abi?” he asked, sounding sleepy and confused.

  “Lunch,” I told him, and then after I listed the place and time, I added, “and bring the box.”

  Flor looked a little wary when he stepped inside Plank Town Brewing Company, the box under one arm, and a beanie crushed over the dark hair on his head. He glanced around for a brief moment before spotting me and, my heart thumping in my chest, I waved him over.

  When he set it down on the pale wood of the tabletop, I clenched my jaw and spit it out.

  Instead of a hello, or a damn you for taking what wasn't yours to take, he ended up with this:

  “I love you, Flor.”

  A visible shiver shook his body as he took a step back and tore the beanie from his head, crushing it up in his fist and slamming it down on the table. Our waitress, approaching with a carafe of water, paused and set it down on the table two places to our right, pretending to tidy the menus stuffed between glasses filled with napkin wrapped cutlery.

  “Don't do this, Abigail,” he said, his voice rough again. I traced his face, the slight stubble on his jaw, his scar, the piercings in his eyebrow and those in his lips. I kept my hands locked together in my lap and said it again.

  “I love you, Flor. I always have, and I always will.”

  “I love you, too, Abi. You're my … little sister,” he growled out at me, slumping onto the bench opposite me. I noticed that Flor didn't bother to look my way, focusing on the waitress who finally decided it was safe to approach, picking up the water carafe and bringing it over to our table.

  “Can I get you anything else to drink?” she asked us, and I shook my head. The tension between me and Flor was thick enough to cut with a knife. As if she could sense that, she added, “I'll give you a moment to decide,” before disappearing.

  “Stop telling me you love me like I'm your sister, Flor.” I glanced down at the wood floor and tried to remember to breathe. “It's more than that. It has to be more than that.”

  “God, Abi, shut up,” he said as my eyes snapped back to him and found him bowing over the table like he was in pain. “I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear any of this.” He flicked his gaze suddenly up to mine, glaring at me through narrowed eyes, cutting so deep into me that I was certain if I looked down, I'd be bleeding. “Why the fuck do you think I cut you off before? I don't want to hear it, so please stop. You think I don't know? That you've been keeping this secret from me for all these years? I know, Abi. I'm fucking well aware.”

  Flor stood up suddenly and reached out, cupping my chin much harder than he had the night before, much less gentle. He gripped me with rough fingers and forced my gaze to remain on his, leaning over and getting close again, close enough that I could smell the slight whiff of peppermint and ciga
rettes on his breath.

  “You're hot, Abi,” he told me, his pupils dilating and his tongue running over his lower lip. “You have a good body, curvy with legs for days. Of course I want to fuck you. What guy wouldn't? But I've resisted for years because, obviously, there's a little something standing between us. We're family and you don't fuck your family, Abi. How would you feel if I took you home for a night and let you go? Would you still be able to look at me over the dinner table at home without cringing? Is that what you want?” Flor released me only when he realized other patrons were staring. Tears stung my eyes, but I bit them back with a choking breath.

  “You don't mean that,” I told him, but he was staring down at me with nothing in his eyes, just a blank expression that belayed little. The smell of your skin, your hair, your breath … it undoes me. Who says that to someone they just want to sleep with, that they care nothing about?

  “So in one breath, you're telling me that you love me like a sister and the next, you're saying you want to fuck me like one of your groupies and let me go. Is that it?”

  Flor said nothing.

  He continued to stare at me, curling his fists so tight that the tattoos on his knuckles were stretched and distorted with the motion. I followed them up his arm, to the girl with the wolf skin thrown over her head and, for the first time in forever, realized that if I looked at her just right, she sort of reminded me of … well, me. I swallowed hard and dragged my gaze back to the table, focusing on the menu instead of my stepbrother.

  “I'm not saying anything has to come of this, Flor. I just want to be honest, for once in my life, about my feelings for you. I love you, Flor.” The words hurt, almost physically, forcing themselves from my suddenly tight throat as I struggled to catch a breath. Why did this have to hurt so much? Because it didn't matter how I felt, how he felt? Our love was doomed from the start.