Sweet Rome

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I focused on the relaxing feeling of the burning summer sun pounding on my back, attempting to calm myself.

Didn’t work. Nothing ever does.

“Look, I’m going to practice. I’m not coming,” I snapped with finality, slamming my finger on the END button and stuffing the cell in my jeans pocket.

Heading inside the building, I tried to let the blast of air from the air-conditioner cool me the hell down from the usual friggin’ anger boiling me from the inside out. My blood felt like acid pumping through my muscles. But I embraced it—welcomed it even. It was a reminder that I needed to get away from those people, finally break free from their overbearing ways. I’d had too many years of putting up with their degrading crap. I couldn’t take much more.

I sometimes asked myself why I was sticking around. I had my own money, a full scholarship, but the truth was I felt trapped. They completely controlled me and I hated that harsh piece of reality. I had no real family except my folks, and pathetically, I couldn’t bear the thought of being on my own. Plus, I did have some good memories of my daddy before the money changed him. I still remember the first time he took me to his office downtown, showing me off to his colleagues and proudly stating how I would one day be the CEO of Prince Oil, his protégé. I remember feeling important… loved even, but when the years passed and football became my passion, that pride my daddy had felt toward me seemed to fade, and it continued to spiral downward until there was nothing but contempt.

My parents were powerful and ruthless, and truthfully, I was terrified of what they would do if I shamed them publically by cutting myself off. Reputation was everything to the people they mixed with, and they wouldn’t tolerate any humiliation on my part. I only had ten months to get through before I could leave the state, leave them, only ten more months to keep up the charade.

Forcing myself back to the present, I smashed open the second set of doors, hearing the wood splinter against the wall, and stormed down the empty halls, pressure building in my chest with each step at the thought of getting hitched to Shelly.

Shittin’ Shelly Blair.

Christ, I f**ked her twice in high school and, stupidly, once freshman year, and she acts like we’re soul mates, in love. I’m not even sure I have the capability to love anyone. Had that shit beaten out of me a long time ago. It’s amazing how little emotion you can feel when you’ve been ripped apart on a daily basis, told you weren’t loved repeatedly, until your heart ceases to feel anything. Well, anything apart from anger—constant physical and verbal abuse just seems to help that shit grow.

My phone vibrated again, but I didn’t look; I knew it would be my daddy, demanding I attend tonight. Momma would have called in the big guns.

I’d answer and he’d tell me my refusal was “Unacceptable, boy!” Then he’d threaten me, blackmail me, tell me how much he and Momma hated me, regretted me, how he could make my life hell if I pushed him too far.

Same ol’ same ol’.

I turned the corner, fists clenched at the thought of having to sit next to Shelly for the next half hour, trapped in a room, no way out of her long-clawed grip, listening to some stuck-up old Brit drone on about damn religious philosophy, of all things. I was too f**king mad. I just couldn’t sit next to Shelly pawing at my arms, rubbing against my leg, hoping to make me hard enough to give in and f**k her after class.

Never. Happening. Again. My c**k went limp just looking at her. She thinks she looks hot—all that big hair, expensive plastic tits, and fake red lips. But all I see is a f**king praying mantis, ready to rip me apart.

I set off, head down, toward the classroom, and then I heard it. Shelly’s laugh. The laugh that sounded like a thousand cats being strangled… slowly, painfully, one by one.

I wasn’t proud of what I did next.

Bullet Prince, star quarterback for the Crimson Tide, dived to the right and hid behind a staircase.

I flattened my back against the cold white wall, praying no one would see me hiding like a pu**y, when a flash of movement to my right caught my eye. Some chick holding a mass of papers came flying around the corner, muttering to herself, checking her watch, brown curls piled on her head, thick black glasses, and the brightest f**king shoes I’d ever seen.

Neon orange. Christ.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile at her whole package, and I almost felt along my lips just to check it was actually there.

When was the last time I f**king smiled? That is, when was the last time I was smiling because of something other than looking at some ass**le I’d knocked clean out on the floor?