God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

His hair is styled in his signature Prince Charming look—the sides short and the longer strands on top slicked back, making his face appear sharp.

He looks serious, more so than usual, as he shoves the helmet over his head and gets to the middle with a member of the orange team. The referee throws the ball down and lotus flower fights over it with his long-netted stick.

That’s some weird shit down there…

On second thought, I’m not complaining about the way he’s bent over, ass on display. Maybe lacrosse isn’t so bad, after all.

The crowd cheers when he gets the ball for his team. Or as much as preppy people will.

Since I used to play football, and still do at times, this is like a Mary Sue sport in comparison.

Though they do get physical. Hmm.

So he does like some roughness in his life. My cock twitches at the memory of his groans when I squeezed him with a firm grip. How he thrust against my cock at a maddening pace, trying to match my rhythm.

I have to shake those thoughts away so I don’t get a hard-on and effectively get kicked out by the bunch of prudes.

My attention zeroes back on Bran, who seems to be doing well. He runs a lot from the attack to the defense, and he retrieves a lot of balls for his team. The crowd is buzzing when they score. Got to say it’s not too bad. There’s obviously adrenaline going on.

Number ten, the one and only lotus flower, gets stifling attention from the other team’s defenders, who try to block him with every move. One of them pushes him and he falls as the referee announces a foul.

I jump to my feet. “Fuck that guy! Suck my dick.”

“Niko!” Jeremy clutches my arm and tries to shove me down.

That’s when I realize most of the people surrounding us are watching me as if I’m the personification of Lucifer himself. A lot of pearl-clutching happens, too.

I roll my eyes and sit down.

Jeremy, who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone, seems like he wants to apologize to our company or something equally crazy.

Bran doesn’t seem hurt. He recovers in a few seconds and resumes running all over the field.

My eyes track his every movement as I sit with my elbows on my knees and my hands forming a steeple at my chin.

He’s just so elegant.

So fucking beautiful.

The definition of second-best male beauty. The first is me.

“Isn’t that Landon King’s twin brother?” Jeremy asks.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Might want to go back to sleep,” I say, still watching Bran.

“The one you wanted to join the Heathens?”

“It was a good idea.”

“More like the worst. Is there a reason why we’re watching him?”

“Because he’s Landon’s brother. Need to keep an eye on the enemy or some shit.”

“You don’t look at him like he’s an enemy.”

I’m going to hate-fuck him so that’s considered on the list.

“Shush, Jer. You’re like an annoying buzzing bee that won’t go away.”

“Jeez, thanks.”

“Anytime, we’re bros.”

I don’t hear what Jer says, because Bran recovers the ball from the defense, runs to the attack, erasing a few players in his path, and then passes the ball to the one who scores.

“Yes! Get those fucking bitches,” I cheer, laughing and ignoring the lady in front of me, who’s covering her son’s ears.

My smile disappears when Clara jumps and screams, “That’s my man! So proud of you, babe!”

My fingers wrap around the edges of the chair so tightly, I hear a cracking sound.

He’s not your man.

Definitely not your fucking babe.

“Niko.” Jeremy places a hand on my arm. “Whatever you’re currently thinking about, don’t do it.”

“But she’d look so pretty in a fucking casket.”

“The woman just doesn’t agree with your language. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.”

He thinks it’s because of the Karen, when the fact is, I’m considering ways to add Clara’s name to the MIA list.

I try to focus on the rest of the game, but it’s futile. The Elites end up winning, and I don’t feel that sense of triumph I experienced when Bran assisted the goal.

My mood has taken a sharp dive ever since fucking Clara staked a public claim on him.

Why shouldn’t I kill her again?

As soon as it ends, she skips over the people toward the exit and I stand up, then follow her.

I can make out Jeremy asking me not to do ‘anything stupid,’ but I live for stupid.

Clara slips through the small crowd, pausing every now and then to take selfies. This chick needs an urgent intervention.

After a thousand pictures, she finally reaches the Elites’ players’ locker room and walks right in as if she owns the place.

I can’t do the same since I fucking stand out and I obviously don’t look the part of the British kids.

Standing by the opposite corner, I scan my surroundings, contemplating the best way to go inside. The fact that Clara is there, with him, makes my vision turn red and fills my brain with violent solutions.

Like that amazing casket idea.

Just when I’m about to walk in there and risk the commotion, she emerges, or more like she’s dragged out by none other than Bran.