All Hail the Underdogs (Breakaway, #3)

by E.L. Massey

LUCIFER WAS AN angel once. That’s what Damien thinks the first time he sees Patrick Roman.

Because Damien has a type, and that type is apparently terrible.

It takes him several nights of loud music—fuck you, Damien; I’m having a crisis—

“I wanted to make sure he still pulled an all-nighter studying for the exam. Feels better, doesn’t it? Knowing he put in a full semester of work before he failed the class.” And that is so marvelously spiteful, so—so Rome that Damien could kiss him. And— Oh. Oh no. Damien wants to kiss him. With, like, feelings.

He’s like a poem in a language Damien doesn’t know. But he wants to.

He looks so young. He is so young, even if he forgets sometimes.

Pansexual?

Me fr

He’d always thought the word love was dangerous, a thing more often used for coercion or justification than romance. And even if it was used kindly it was only kind until it was taken away.

not “the one.” Maybe he was just a stupid straight boy with a nice accent and swoopy hair, which masked the fact that he was a massive dick.

He checks his phone—nothing from his mom—and takes another sip. He shoves his headphones on and pulls up his playlist of Rome’s favorite songs because if he’s going to be pathetic, he’s going to do it really fucking thoroughly.

Real if ur gonna be dranatic af u gotta do it properly

Now, when Damien misses a pass in practice, Rome can yell: “Distracted, Bordeaux?” And Damien can answer: “By your beauty.” And Rome might tell him to shut the fuck up, and Justin might remind them they’re there to play hockey, not flirt. And if hearing their captain grouchily say the word “flirt” is enough to set them off into intermittent, lingering fits of laughter that make Damien miss a pass again, Rome can say: “Still distracted by my beautiful face?” And Damien can answer: “Nah. This time it was your ass.” And Rome can say: “You can’t even see my ass under all this shit.” And Damien can say: “I have a vivid imagination.”

You know you hit rock bottom when you start getting jealous of the guys you're supposed be rooting for in a romance novel

The Rome he’s dating notices when they stop at a convenience store for snacks and one of the employees chooses to shadow Damien as he browses the shelves. The Rome he’s dating returns from the cold section with an arm full of drinks and says, “Afternoon, sir. I know my boyfriend looks like a real suspicious character in his floral shirt and velvet scrunchie, but he’s got an Amex black card in his wallet and a Land Rover parked outside—a gift from his loving parents. I have six dollars and a borrowed bike. My parents are both in prison. So if you’re going to follow someone around your fine establishment, it should probably be me.”

The Rome he’s dating awkwardly kisses Damien’s bruised fingers after a nasty slash and hesitantly asks if they can still hold hands or will it hurt too bad?

“It’s true,” Damien says. “I have dreams of lounging by the pool drinking mimosas while Finley is at kindergarten and you’re off earning millions.”

My dreams fr