8. Jeremiah

Chapter 8

Jeremiah

I crack my neck and roll my shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tiredness and stress from my body after being out late babysitting Oakley at that damn party. It's been two weeks since she's been back in my life, and she's all I see now. Awake, asleep, it doesn't matter. Everything is Oakley Ashford.

The smell of sweat and anticipation fills the visitor locker room, and I can almost taste the energy crackling in the air as my teammates buzz around me. We're getting ready to face our archrivals, St. Vincent's, and tonight's game promises to be a brutal one. The noise is deafening. Guys are hyped up, yelling and smacking pads.

"Yo, check out this chick!" Zeke, one of the receivers, holds up his phone. "Been watching her cam shows all week. Took these screenshots last night."

A few of the guys crowd around for a look. I ignore them, focusing on taping my fingers. Don't need the distraction.

"She's some cam girl, but she's got this mysterious vibe, always wearing masks and shit. Drives me wild because she doesn't actually show anything."

"Let me see that." Jameson snatches the phone. He whistles low. "Definitely has that fairy princess vibe going on. You tap that yet?"

"Nah man, building the anticipation, you know? She keeps things anonymous, no names. Makes it hotter, but I'm gonna get her under me soon. I just need to convince her to let me fly her out to St. Charles." Zeke grins like the cocky bastard he is.

The surrounding circle grows tighter as they crane their necks for a glimpse.

"Ease up, you'll drool on my phone," he jokes, tilting the screen just enough to tease them. "She's like a drug, ya know? The less you see, the more you want."

"Sounds like a pain in the ass," I mutter, my focus drifting from the knotted tape on my wrists to my teammates salivating over some internet girl.

"Ah, come on, Jere," a lineman chides, clapping me on the back hard enough to make me stagger. "You telling me you wouldn't wanna unwrap that present?"

"Didn't say that," I shoot back, my tone clipped. "Just not into chasing ghosts."

"Suit yourself, bro," Zeke chuckles. "More for the rest of us, then."

I roll my eyes and slam my locker shut. I just lied through my damn teeth. All I do is chase ghosts. Well ghost, singular because it's only the one that's got me all twisted up. The last thing I need is Zeke's sexcapades invading my headspace before a big rivalry game. I need to be focused, ready to shut down their offense.

"Hey eighty-seven, c'mon just check her out for yourself!" he calls out as he strides closer to me .

"Fuck off," I mutter, not even bothering to look up from my cleats. He ignores my dismissal and shoves his phone in my face, eager to share his latest interest. Apparently, fuck off and I ain't interested, don't comprehend in his thick ass skull. We have a fucking game, but I can help him weed through the cobwebs occupying his fucking brain afterward.

"Look at her, man." He grins, swiping through the photos of a girl wearing a bunny mask, her eyes hidden behind dark shadows. Her lips are painted a deep red, and she oozes sensuality in a way that would make any man weak at the knees. She's dressed simply, in a blue skirt and white top.

"Where'd you find her?" I ask, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and unease that I can't quite put my finger on. Something about her draws me in, and I can't help but stare at the screen, captivated by her allure.

"Found her on the Starlet Streams site," Zeke says, still grinning like a cat that caught the canary. "Makes you wonder what she's hiding under that mask, doesn't it?"

My chest tightens as I scrutinize the photos, searching for any clue that could reveal her identity. There's something about her. The curve of her neck, the arch of her brow—that feels achingly familiar. But it can't be her. It just can't.

"Get that shit out of my face," I snap, shoving my teammates' phone away as I force myself to refocus on the game. Tonight is about one thing and one thing only, kicking St. Vincent's asses all the way back to their campus. And I won't let anything stand in the way of that goal.

I try to block out the noise and chatter, the image of that girl in the mask. But something about it niggles at my mind.

Zeke is still talking shit, walking around showing everyone those pics.

Against my better judgment, I let myself look them over again. I'm unable to shake the feeling churning in my stomach. The moment I zero in the photos, really looking at them, it feels like I've been punched in the gut. I fucking know that beauty mark on the left side of her collarbone. Oakley, wearing a bunny mask that barely conceals her bright blue eyes, staring back at the screen.

"Fuck!" I roar, snatching the phone and smashing it against the cold concrete floor. The shattered pieces scatter across the ground. I grab Zeke by the collar, slamming him into a row of lockers with a crash. "The girl, what's her fucking name?!"

"Hey! What the hell is your problem, Jeremiah?" he gasps, clutching at my iron grip on his shirt. His eyes are wide with fear, but I don't care. All I can think about is Oakley, my sweet, innocent Oakley, parading around like a piece of meat for men to ogle at.

"Answer me, you piece of shit! What. Is. Her. Name?" My voice is deadly, and I see everyone except my brothers take a step back. They're all staring at me now, but I barely register their presence. My rage is blotting out everything else.

"Christ, man! It's fucking VelvetVix! She's just some chick with a cam and an account. Everyone's talking about her," Zeke stammers, his earlier bravado evaporating under the glare of my wrath.

My heart hammers in my chest, pounding harder than the anger coursing through my veins. Oakley, my Oakley, reduced to this? The thought makes me want to tear someone apart. I push him away from me with a violent shove that sends him sprawling across the floor.

"Stay away from her," I growl, my voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoes through the locker room like a warning shot. "If I ever see you or anyone else looking at those pictures again, I'll fucking end you. Do you understand?"

Zeke nods frantically, his face pale beneath the overhead lights. Good. Let him be afraid. Let them all be afraid. Because I'll be damned if I let anyone touch Oakley. Not while there's still breath in my body and rage burning in my soul. He's not bucking back, but I feel the need to add, "Oakley belongs to me. If I hear you talk about her, or even fucking look at her for too long and I'll break your kneecaps. This is your one and only warning."

I move to walk away from everyone in the locker room when a shoulder slams into mine, sending me stumbling sideways. Heat flares in my chest, ready to unleash on whoever was stupid enough to do that, but it's Graham's familiar scowl that greets me.

"Jesus fuck, Jeremiah! You trying to get kicked out of the game before we even play?" he snaps, muscles tense judging but the grinding of his teeth I hear.

"Back off, Graham," I growl, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to leash the anger boiling in my veins. But all of it is in vain because it doesn't abate, only shifts targets.

"Talk to me," he insists, stepping in front of me to block my path. "You're not usually like this. What's going on?"

"It's Oakley," I admit, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.

"Oakley?" His brow furrows, confusion etched across his face. "What about her?"

"Photos," I spit out, "The chick on Zeke's phone. It's Oakley on a damn website in a bunny mask. Dammit, Graham, what the fuck is going on?"

"Shit." He runs a hand through his hair, piecing it together. "Alright, let's deal with this rationally. Going all Hulk on everyone isn't going to help her."

"No." The word is a sharp blade.

"Okay, okay." Graham holds up his hands. "Let's think this through. You go full Hulk, and what? Coach benches you, maybe worse. Then what good are you to anyone else?"

"Fuck." I scrub a hand down my face. It's annoying as fuck when someone else is the logical one in this family. "I know, I know."

"Listen," he says, his tone shifting, "we'll sort this out. But right now, you need to get yourself together. We've got a game to win."

"Did not have me being irrational on today's bingo card," I snort, but the sarcasm fades as I meet his steady gaze.

"Thanks," I mutter, the gratitude genuine despite everything churning inside of me.

"Anytime," he replies, clapping me on the shoulder roughly. "Now let's show St. Vincent's who they're messing with."

We turn back toward the sounds of the locker room, the feel of anticipation thick in the air.

A sudden burst of laughter cuts through the tension in the locker room, and my head snaps up to see Penn grinning as he leans against a row of lockers. "Well, well," he drawls, his eyes flicking between Graham and me. "This is fucking great. Looks like Linc's fucking his sister and your little bunny is a stripper. I really need to start carrying popcorn around with me everywhere. There's always a fucking show."

"Shut the fuck up, Penn," I snarl, my fists clenching at my sides. His answering laugh is a jagged thing, cutting into me deeply. He's fucking unhinged, psychotic more than any of us, just how Dad wanted it. I don't know what he saw in my brother that he didn't in the rest of us, but when Penn fixates on something, there's no drawing his attention elsewhere.

I can taste the anger, bitter and metallic on my tongue.

"No need to get all worked up." Penn smirks, raising his hands defensively. "Just stating the obvious. I mean or do and take that shit out on St. Vincent's so we can shut them out."

"Enough!"

"Aw, come on, Jere. Can't take a joke?" He chuckles, and the sound grates against my skull.

"Joke?" I spit back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "You think this is funny?"

"Lighten up, brother," he says, his eyes glinting with mischief that only serves to fuel my scorn. "Just some locker room talk, right?"

"Locker room talk," I echo hollowly, my heartbeat pounding in my ears like it's trying to escape. "Stay the hell away from Oakley."

"Or what?" he challenges, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "You'll break another phone? Damn, baby bro, you've got it bad."

"Enough, Penn," Graham interjects, but his words are distant, drowned out by the roaring in my head.

"She's off-limits," I mutter under my breath, forcing my hands to uncurl from fists.

"Off-limits, huh?" Penn says, smirking. "That's not really our style, is it?"

"Fuck off," I say, my voice low and lethal. The locker room is a pressure cooker, and I'm the steam screaming for release. I can smell the sweat and testosterone, the sharp tang of determination, and beneath it all, that dark, musky scent of rivalry that makes me want to claim what's mine .

"Watch yourself, brother," Penn says lightly, but there's a warning there, one I'm too pissed to heed.

"Keep pushing me," I warn, my tone promising retribution. "See what happens."

"E-fucking-nough. Penn, stop instigating shit for once in your goddamn life," Graham cuts in, his voice hard and annoyed. "We have a game to win."

"Right," I say, though it comes out more like a snarl.

"Jeremiah, you need to calm down before you do something you'll regret," Graham cautions, stepping in front of me to block my view of Penn's infuriating smirk. My chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I try to force my racing thoughts into submission.

"Fuck, this is hard," I mutter under my breath, my hands shaking with the effort it takes to restrain myself. I hate feeling this powerless, this out of control. But I can't let my emotions dictate my actions.

I force myself to take a deep breath. Graham's right. I can't let this situation spiral out of control. But damn, if it doesn't feel like everything is slipping through my fingers.

"Since when did you become so damn possessive over little Ashford?" Penn sneers from across the bench, his eyes narrowed.

"Fuck you," I snap, my teeth gritted. "You don't know anything about what happened between us."

"Neither do you, apparently," he shoots back, a smug grin playing on his lips.

"Enough," Linc cuts in, his voice cold and commanding. "This isn't helping anyone."

"Let's go do this shit," Graham says, clapping me on the shoulder, pulling me back from the edge and nudging me toward the door that leads to the field tunnel.

"Let's fucking do this," I echo, channeling all the chaos into something fierce, something that will help us crush St. Vincent's under our cleats.

The game's about to start, and I'm supposed to focus, but how can I when my mind is a battle zone?

"JB! Your head in the game?" Coach barks, snapping me back to the present.

"Always," I lie through gritted teeth. The whistle blows, and with it, I'm thrust into the tunnel, ready to kill someone on the field.