41

“On your back, bro,” Diego warns as he passes me the ball. I control it with my left foot and use my body to shield the defender from stealing possession.

It’s Saturday morning and we’re ten minutes into the second half of our first playoff game. Lucky for me, I’m feeling about five thousand times more competent than the disaster that was Thursday night, and our team’s playing great. 

That’s not to say this game’s been easy, though. Pretty much the opposite. 

Elmridge Univeristy’s not only stacked with top-tier talent, their campus is less than an hour away from ours and they’re one of Windhaven’s oldest rivals. Doesn’t help that in our last match-up two years ago they destroyed us in an embarrassingly uneven 4-0 loss. 

Yeah, there’s a lot more to this game than just advancing in the playoffs—we’re out for vengeance. 

We’re currently holding onto a 1-0 win—the only goal when Weston pulled out his bend-it-like-Beckham talent and nailed a free-kick into the net from forty yards out early in the first half. It’s a close game, and we need to put some cushion on our lead.

I dribble back towards Diego a few feet before giving him a quick look that tells him exactly what play I want to run. He nods and I lay the ball off for him before spinning to the outside of the dude marking me. I sprint up the field where Diego’s through-ball meets my feet mid-stride—the timing so precise I don’t have to speed up or slow down at all. 

Within moments, I’m down the outside flank. The sweeper’s ahead of me, and the defender I left in the dust is quickly gaining ground, so I look towards the box. Liam’s running towards the center with a hand in the air, hollering for the ball. I take one more touch before sending in a cross just high enough to go over the defender’s head but remain well within Liam’s reach. He sprints forward, head and ball connecting with a satisfying thud. 

It looks like a sure thing to put us ahead 2-0, but their goalie is Cameron-caliber good. He dives to the left, arm stretched out wide as his fingertips nudge the ball just over the top of the goal. 

Liam shakes his head and shoots me a thumbs up while Weston jogs up to take the corner. Diego lines up behind me at the top of the box as we get into formation for the kick.

“Nice cross, man,” he says while him and an Elmridge center mid shove one another. He nods towards their goalie. “They’d be shit if they didn’t have that dude bailing them out all the time.”

“Fuck off,” the scrawny midfielder spits out, giving Diego another hearty shove to the back. “Could say the same about your shitty team.”

Diego turns and laughs in the guy’s face. “Get real, kid. You’re fucking delusional.”

The ref interrupts their trash talk to let Elmridge substitute. The defender I juked out on the last play gets pulled, jogging off the field in defeat.

I glance over to check out his replacement. The sub starts jogging over, his face curled in a strange smile as he stares me down. I'm weirded out and about to turn around when I realize I know this dude from somewhere. He gets closer, and that's when it hits me.

Shit.

Derek Dickson.

Not this asswipe. 

He was a year ahead of me at Raeville High and possibly the world's biggest prick. There are more than a few reasons everyone called him Derek Dickhole, including the teachers. 

When a high school teacher refers to you as a dickhole, you gotta know you're a fucking asshole.

He hated me from the get-go. Before I made the team, he was their star, their captain, and easily the best player at the school. It's not like I stole his “fame” on freakin' purpose, but the guy took it so personally it was insane. He was constantly talking shit and taking cheap shots during practice, doing everything he could to piss me off or attempt to injure me. We got in more than a few fist fights over the years—so many, in fact, that they had to separate us from marking one another during practices because things got so heated. 

I actually forgot he played for Elmridge, but it's not that surprising. He's a fucking bench warmer now, so he doesn't play much.

As he approaches—that arrogant-as-fuck smile still painted on his face—I turn around. But just because I can't see him doesn't mean I can't hear him.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Steel Blue himself. It's been a while, huh?” 

I don't speak, refusing to indulge the idiot as I watch Weston set the ball for the corner.

“What's wrong, you little bitch?” He bumps into my back. “Can't even speak to your high school teammate?”

I take a step forward and grind my teeth together, still ignoring him, but dude doesn't give up.

“I know something that may change your mind. Heard your own girlfriend screwed you over, bro. Gonna out you for all that drug shit in high school, spill the deets on all your fuck-ups.” 

I stiffen, anger seething within me. 

How the hell does he know about that? 

I funnel the anger into energy as Weston sails the ball through the air, right in my direction. My foot connects with the sphere, but it hits the post and goes wide right. 

As their goalie starts setting up a goal kick, Dickhole keeps running his goddamn mouth. 

“Looked her up on Insta, bro. She's fine as hell, man. I can't wait to hit that.”

I stop in my tracks and spin around, finally facing him for the first time.

“The fuck did you just say?”

Yeah, I said I would try to be the bigger person and not react to his bullshit, but nope. He can talk crap about me all he wants, but I'm not gonna sit back and let him say a word about Rayne. 

He grins, pleased that he got me to speak, and cocks his head. “You heard me, asshole. I said I'm gonna rock your ex's world, have her bouncing on my dick like the little skank she is.”

This fuckin' piece of shit.

All I can see is red, blood pumping through my veins hot and fiery. The goalie passes Dickhole the ball, and the moment it comes to a stop at his feet I go all in, slide tackling the shit out of him. 

Although I get some contact with the ball, the main force of the hit is straight into his ankles, causing him to crumple to the ground in pain. I know I'm fucked when I hear the ref blow his whistle loud and clear—that type of shrill, lengthy blow you know means business. 

I jog away from the scene of the crime to avoid the ref, but he runs up in front of me. He presses a hand to my chest to bring me to a halt. 

“No more of that, son,” he demands in a rough voice, holding up a yellow card before scribbling down the foul in his pocket notebook. 

I give a gruff nod and motion for Liam to switch sides with me so I can get away from the motherfucker—if he ever gets up from the hit I just laid on him, that is. Liam frowns and nods his auburn head towards the sideline instead.

I whirl around and instantly know I'm screwed. Coach Hanson is red as a fucking fire truck, and Jamal is jogging towards the line ref for a substitution. 

Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who's getting pulled.

The second I'm off the field, Coach is in my face, ready to rip me a new one. Beads of sweat are pouring down his forehead, and his eyes are bulging and bloodshot. I've never seen him more infuriated.

“Are you shitting me?! What the fuck are you doing out there, Steel? Completely careless.”

I lower my shoulder and try to shove past him, but he blocks my path and continues screaming at me. 

“You are goddamn lucky that wasn't a red card or you'd be getting an ass-chewing worse than this one. Get the hell out of my sight. I don't want to see your face for the rest of the game.”

He hurls his Warriors cap onto the ground as I head to the bench. I take a seat on the very edge, as far away as possible from my teammates, all of whom are staring at me in a way that makes me feel like the world's shittiest person. It's not anger or disdain or frustration clouding their faces, but I kinda wish it was. I could handle that.

It's the looks of total disappointment that are making me wanna tear my hair out right now. 

I'm supposed to be their captain, leading the team to a fuckin' Natty, and I'm over here risking everything because I can't keep my emotions in check.

But how the hell am I supposed to keep my cool when he's talking about Rayne like that? 

I hate that guy so fucking much.

I watch the rest of the game go by, the team dynamic noticeably off as we barely hold onto the 1-0 lead to secure a spot in the next round. 

We pile onto the bus, and what would normally be a rowdy, celebratory ride back to Windhaven is quiet and uncomfortable. Everyone's on edge because although we got the W, we know that type of play won't cut it next round. 

Not a chance.

I sit in the very back of the bus, squeezing myself into the only one-person row there is. I pop in my ear buds and rest my head against the cool glass of the window. I don't move a muscle for the entirety of the bus ride, too fucking ashamed to face any of my teammates.

By the time I'm home, showered, and watching TV in my bedroom, I'm still beyond pissed at myself. 

“Blue!”

My solo pity party is interrupted by Cameron yelling my name from downstairs. I don't respond. The last thing I want to do is face my roommates after the immature and selfish shit I pulled today, but then Weston starts hollering for me, too.

“Get down here, V!”

“Fucking busy, man,” I yell back.

“There's someone here to see you! Quit fucking whacking it and get your ass down here.”

My first thought is that it's Rayne, and a jolt of energy strikes me straight in the chest. I hurl myself off the bed and fling open my top drawer, yanking a white tee over my head as I jog down the hallway.

But when I get to the bottom of the stairs, dismay seeps over me. 

Not Rayne.

Just some unfamiliar girl standing in front of Cam and Weston, her back to me. She's got shoulder-length dark hair and two massive duffel bags hanging off each arm. I have no freaking clue who this chick is or why she's here to see me, and frankly, I don't give two shits.

“What's up?” I say in a detached tone. I walk into the room and cross my arms over my chest.

They look up from the girl, each of them sporting dazzled expressions.

“You're full of surprises, dude,” Weston says as Cam nods in agreement.

“The hell are you two talking abo—”

My sentence trails off the moment Mystery Girl turns around, recognition slapping me square in the face. With her dark, structured eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, and big blue eyes just a shade or two darker than mine, it's like I'm staring into a gender-swapping mirror.

She grins and takes a step towards me. 

“Hey, Big Brother.”