He’d just be a dick, sitting there trying to chat with Sam about whatever Sam chatted to people about. “You know? I think I’m going to take a lap around the neighborhood as a warm-up. Tell him I’ll be back in ten and he’d better fucking be ready or I’ll leave without him.” He turned, not waiting for an answer, and bounded down the porch steps, hitting the sidewalk at a fast jog. Three blocks later, his madometer was still redlining. Made no sense—exercise usually calmed him. But he didn’t investigate why, because it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t for months. Maybe years.
Well, except for a couple of times, like when he and Dalton had . . . Shit, now he was really pissed.
When he got back to Sam and Ian’s, the dude was just walking out the door, frowning. As soon as he saw Tierney on the front walk, he stopped, pointing at him. “Were you being a dick to my boyfriend?”
Did I upset the little woman? Tierney bit his tongue on the words—Sam didn’t deserve his anger—and took ten seconds to slow his breathing, hands on his hips, squaring off against his friend. “I just wasn’t in the mood to come inside.” He ignored Ian’s narrow-eyed look and bent over, as if stretching his legs. In reality he was searching for a rock. Just the thought of beaning Ian in the face with it made Tierney shudder with desire. Not that kind of desire.
No projectiles presented themselves—prolly for the best—but within seconds Ian’s shoes halted directly under Tierney’s nose. He took his time straightening up.
“What?” He could see it in Ian’s eyes—dude was about to throw down, and Tierney wanted it so bad he could smell blood. He urged him on with the curl of his lip, the precursor to a growl.
The fucker backed away, dropping his hand. His chest was still all puffed up, but he broke their staring match, turning his head to reveal a ticking jaw muscle. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, man.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
Ian snorted. “Sam made me promise not to get into it with you.” He headed toward his truck. “C’mon, let’s go. We’re late.”
“I’ll drive,” Tierney announced, walking the opposite way. He didn’t look to see if Ian followed him.
They were late, not that it was a surprise. They also weren’t talking to each other, as proven by the tense, silent ride to the field. In Tierney’s car. Which Ian hated. Which Tierney totally knew.
He kinda hated it also. Need to trade this thing in. It was too flashy—made him look like he was overcompensating for something, which, duh, he had been when he’d bought the fucking thing. Mad at the beemer now, he parked it in a screech of brakes and slammed the door shut too hard after getting out.
Ignoring Ian, he headed toward the bench to drop his pack and change his shoes. He didn’t even have to warm up before whipping off his sweatshirt and track pants—his anger kept him warm, even sitting in the chilly November air while he laced up his cleats.
Today was just a scrimmage. The Beaters had come to their turf, and next week they’d go to the other team’s pitch, but it wasn’t a league game. Thank fuck it wasn’t just the normal practice routine or else Tierney wouldn’t get a chance to beat the shit out of some anonymous rugger or three in the name of sportsmanship.
McDaniel, their captain, jogged up while Tierney was still tying his shoes and announced, “The Beaters only have twelve guys.”
“What? So no scrimmage?” Completely fucked with his plans to work out his aggressions through the letting of blood.
McDaniel shrugged, not quite meeting his eye. “Not unless we loan them one.”
“I’ll sub for them.” He could rough up guys on his own team as easily as the other.
He ended up playing flanker. Usually he was a winger or one of the other backs, but the Beaters didn’t feel it necessary to take Tierney’s own skills and preferences into account, despite him doing them a favor. He let that feed into his mad too, stoking up the bonfire until, by the time they formed up and Tierney found himself opposing Ian, he was past caring.
In a way, it was perfect. The dude should pay for enabling Tierney’s lifetime of poor decision making. Tricking him into thinking he was in love with his so-called best friend and fucking saving himself for the dude or something.
Motherfucker.
In the first scrum, as soon as he could get away with it, Tierney wrapped a fist in the back of Ian’s jersey.
“What the hell, dude?” Ian yelled in his face, spittle flying.
Tierney yanked hard, making it impossible for Ian to do his job. Ian stomped his cleat on Tierney’s boot, twisting away and wrenching Tierney’s shoulder at the same time. In spite of the holes in his toes and the throbbing shoulder, he didn’t lose his grip, digging in and dragging Ian closer, until the guy had to let go of the lock next to him, and they were nose to nose. He shoved Tierney back, and just when it was about to happen, when Ian was about to lose it, the Stallions’ hooker got the ball to the scrum half and the rest of the players were gone, leaving Ian and Tierney facing each other, gasping for breath and glaring.
“Prick,” Ian spit, then turned and chased the game down the field.
What the fuck did he have to do to get a fight out of the guy?
He never got one, even after using every dirty trick in the book, and convincing his temporary teammates he was sabotaging them. Ian got the ball a couple of times, and Tierney made sure he sacked the fucker hard, even raking him with his cleats when Ian was down—an unusually legal move—but other than Ian doing the same in turn, no fists flew. Maybe if he’d done some shit-talking, but all the anger inside him had made him inarticulate, so he had to rely on physical communication.
But as he chased Ian up and down that field—fuck playing the game—something miraculous happened. The bonfire of rage reached critical combustion temperature, and started consuming stuff. Things Tierney had been carrying around for years. Like soul plasma, it burned away all that rot and depression. Murdered it. Pure, white rage killed the emotional fungus loving and losing Ian had left in Tierney’s heart.
It was a beautiful thing.
Until the second half, when he was grappling with Ian again, just about to let his fist fly. About to smash in that face he’d thought he loved.
“What the fuck is your damage?” If this were a cartoon, Tierney’s hair would have flown back with the force of his friend’s voice.
For a split second, everything froze—the noise and the game and all the twisting bodies and flying mud.