Hits Different

Chapter 1 Something Glorious

Chapter 1

Something Glorious

Brandon

I take a deep breath and place the ball on the penalty spot.

The crowd is loud, but that doesn’t matter. The opposing team’s goalie, a lean badass named Dmitry Volchok, already has more than one reason to hate me and I’m desperate to give him another.

He’s edging out of his box, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The ref blows her whistle, and with insulting ease, I fire the ball straight into the far left corner of the net with a decisive whoosh .

GOAL!

The crowd roars, and Volchok rips off his gloves and slams them to the ground. We lock eyes and I shoot him a wink. My reward is a snarl and a barrage of NSFW language that is dashed away by the noise from the crowd.

He’s got a temper, as I’ve been reminded several times throughout the tournament, but I’m too pumped up to care.

I leap into the crowd with an almighty howl that our fans eagerly reciprocate. What can I say? We’re not called The Wolves for nothing. From across the field, rival fans return fire with roars. Their dancing Bear mascot gives me a comical thumbs down.

I make sure to grab Freddie in my celebration. He’s been feeding me all match, and if the scouts are watching me then I’m going to make damn sure my boy gets noticed too. That’s part of being a good teammate.

I love this. I live for it.

It’s all I’ve got.

There’s a few thousand people in the stands. College soccer doesn’t attract the same kind of attention as football or hockey, but tournaments like this are a great way to get noticed. We’re a fun, energetic team which means sponsors like us, and we’ve got a decent social media following because girls like us too.

All of that attention equals butts on seats.

A shiny championship trophy is the perfect way to finish my junior year before we tour Europe for the summer. Realistically, my body could use a break to rest up, but that means going home and that’s not an option.

My stomach does a somersault, the same one it does any time I think about home, but I can’t focus on that right now because there’s ninety seconds before half time and we’re still down by one.

I’m a striker but my position is merely a formality because I spend every game covering as much of the pitch as physically possible. The Tribune’s Player of the Month profile described me as the human embodiment of frenetic energy , which I took as a win and Coach took as another excuse to tell me calm the hell down.

I try not to believe my own hype, but I kept that newspaper cutting. I cropped out the picture of my parents that accompanied it, and the words ‘scandal’ and ‘secrets’ that follow us around. I’m going to turn pro one day. I have to .

That’s why I can’t follow Coach’s advice.

I have to prove myself. To everyone, all the time. It’s the only way to guarantee I keep my spot. No matter how invisible the differences between my teammates and I might be, sometimes they’re all I can see.

I’m marking Number 19, who’s doing an admirable job of shielding the ball, but he’s got no chance. I spent last night in the hotel bar chatting him up, learning that he rolled his ankle in training, so there’s no way he’s going to be able to outpace me if I take a sharp right, and—what-do-ya-know—I've left him in the dust.

The ball has flown to the other end of the pitch, affording me a quick second to catch my breath. I pull my shirt up to wipe the sweat from my brow, and I’m close enough to the sidelines to hear more than a few wolf whistles.

I catch eyes with a gorgeous brunette four rows back. She blows me a kiss, but I pretend not to notice. There’s no sign language equivalent that I could return to indicate I’m far more interested in her surfer-dude looking boyfriend. At least, not one that I could do with children present.

The whistle blows and I glance at the scoreboard as we trudge into the locker room.

2-2.

Not good enough .

I start chugging water, peeling off my shirt and tossing it into the laundry bag. Reuben, the captain, does the same but it misses wildly. “I got it”, I say to Hector, who’s in charge of keeping our kits in order. I scoop it off the floor and drop it in his bag. He matches my smile, and we bump fists.

Next to me, Billy practically collapses onto the bench, head in his hands.

I don’t need to ask what’s on his mind. This is his last championship before graduation, and despite being one of the best goalkeepers in the league, he hasn’t received an offer from any professional club.

It explains why the pressure is getting to him. And why he’s broken his clean sheet by letting in his only two goals of the season.

“Do me a favour”, I say discreetly, “Take some deep breaths”. I pass over an energy drink that he takes with shaking hands.

“I can’t believe I let in that penalty”, he says between swigs. His voice threatens to crack. “I suck. I’m the worst”.

“Watch your mouth. That’s our goalie you’re talking about”, I place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The only reason we’re in the finals in the first place is because of your performance this season. So what if you let in a couple of goals tonight? It keeps things interesting”.

I nudge him in the ribs and he cracks a slight smile. I revert to my best Coach impression, “We win as a team, and we lose as a team. And we ain’t losers”.

I glance over at Coach Shah, who is infamously not a fan of my infamous impression of him, but he’s huddled with his staff readying a last-minute pep talk. I return my attention to Billy.

“Don’t get in your own head. Besides, you’re not doing any worse than Freddie”, I say loudly, shooting him a wink. “We’ve all heard the chants. Dyer couldn’t even score in a brothel”.

Despite the tension, a few of the guys break into laughter.

Freddie Dyer and I actually went to the same high school, although he transferred in as a senior so we didn’t grow up together. He’s a defender, but don’t hold that against him. He was the first person to make a point of saying he was cool with a gay dude being on the team, without even really saying it at all.

It’s not that my sexuality is a secret. I just have to be smart about what I do and who I’m seen with. When your father works in politics and your mother is a one-time Hollywood actress turned tabloid favourite, people take more than a casual interest.

One day, when the guys were lounging around talking about girls and planning the next team social, Freddie casually reminded everyone of the rules: that this night was for players only. No girlfriends or boyfriends. He hadn’t even looked at me when he’d said it.

But somehow, it set a tone. Don’t ask, don’t tell. And we’ve all been living that way ever since. Even though there are a handful of openly gay professional players, like my hero Brad Fleming, I still want to make sure that when I come out publicly, I do it properly.

I catch myself. I’m thinking too far ahead. Between training, my course load and my mandatory attendance at various political events, I don’t exactly have time for a personal life. Never mind a boyfriend.

Or any kind of friend, really.

But if I was in the market for a best friend, Freddie would be my guy.

Even if he did just roll up his sweaty jersey and throw it right in my face.

“It’s hard to concentrate with your fan-club screaming every time you flash your abs. Which is so blatant , by the way, that the referee should book you for distraction”. He lowers his voice. “Someone should put those girls out of their misery”.

“Jealousy is a very unattractive trait, Dyer”, I meet Freddie’s grin, shove him and he shoves me back. “Even worse than hitting the crossbar”.

“The sun was in my eyes, and don’t change the subject”. I push my head through a fresh shirt. When I reappear, there’s an annoying I-know-what-you-did-last-summer smile playing over his face. “The linesman’s doing a sterling job, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ve been focusing on the game”, I say innocently, “But I hope my nocturnal exploits haven’t offended your delicate monogamous sensibilities”.

“Not at all. I loved sharing with Billy. Snuggling him through his night terrors was the perfect way to spend an evening”, Freddie balances on my shoulder to stretch his hamstring, “I just wanted to check that you’re not taking one for the team in the literal sense, that’s all”.

Freddie’s pretty much the only dude on the team that I can joke around with like this. Everyone’s cool, but that’s because I’m on top of my game right now. But, I know the kind of things that could happen if I were to ever not be on top of my game. How easily I could be out of here.

Maybe I’m not being fair. We’re a family here, after all. And every family needs its black sheep.

“Because you do enough for the team already”, Freddie continues, reading my mind, “We don’t need you to screw our way into the trophy cabinet”.

“Now you tell me”. I grin, but truthfully, last night’s hookup was just a one-time thing. It always is because anything more than that isn’t on the table.

I caught feelings once, and it burnt me so badly that I was left unrecognisable.

Even to myself.

“As if having half the cheerleading squad chanting for you isn’t a distraction. Sabrina has got them well trained. She’s like a drill sergeant with pompoms”. Sabrina is Freddie’s girlfriend. They’ve been together since they were kids. She was literally his girl next door. It’s wholesome. Very wholesome.

If you like that sort of thing.

“And you’re sure that this particularly enthusiastic performance has nothing to do with the fact that Parker Di Rossi is watching from the away end?”

I freeze. Everything flashes white. Something short circuits in my head.

Parker Di Rossi. I never thought I’d hear that name again.

I haven’t seen him in years, although technically, I’m on his turf. This is his college we’re playing at, after all. Not that Parker was ever really into soccer, or anything resembling team-based activities. You have to enjoy being around people to want to be part of a team.

Something twangs in my ear. Is he here to see me?

I shake my head sharply. Damn it.

He can still throw me off balance without even trying.

Freddie stares at me searchingly. I’m spared having to answer by Coach, who claps his hands together, bringing us in to huddle. Nervous energy crackles in the air. We’re so close to getting what we’ve worked for. What we deserve.

“If you want to go home without a trophy, then carry on playing like you’ve already lost”, Coach’s eyes flare. “If you want to let each other down. But if you want to win, if you want to bring home more than just each other, then let’s see it”. His eyes land on me, and every muscle in my body tightens. “Something fucking glorious”.

“Win on THREE”, yells Reuben, and we all howl in unison.

I force the image of Parker Di Rossi from my mind as we clatter out. I’ve got a game to win. The last thing I need is my focus being pulled by the only guy to ever break my heart.

Forty minutes later, we’re still tied and I’m starting to panic. Five minutes left, and my stomach is in knots.The fans are frustrated. Even the mascot looks anxious, and he’s a giant dancing wolf.

But that’s not why I’ve got a funny feeling that I can’t shake. It’s the way that my attention lifts to the stands every time the whistle blows. The snatch of faces that I scan hopefully. The familiar pang of longing, buried deep in my gut.

Parker’s here. Parker’s here. Parker’s here.

To punch me in the face, probably. And I guess I couldn’t blame him. Not after what happened. I opened up when I should have just kept my mouth shut.

One of the Bear’s forwards comes flying towards me, but I outpace him easily, pulling the ball back and firing it to Reuben in midfield. He takes it, launches it towards goal, where it hits the crossbar. Volchok screams at his defenders, even shoving one, for letting us get that close to scoring.

A collective groan goes up, and I clap, encouraging us to keep going.

Everyone will say , a thought flashes painfully through my mind, that you’re all hype. All smoke and no fire. That you don’t really deserve to be here .

Three minutes left.

You’re going to be found out, Brandon. It was only ever a matter of time.

Two minutes.

Parker will see you lose.

No matter what we try, we can’t break through their midfield formation. On the sidelines, Coach is pacing in exasperation. His words ring through to me.

Something fucking glorious.

Alright. Here goes nothing.I catch Freddie’s attention. ‘Freshman Playoffs’ I mouth. His eyes widen as he realises what I’m going to do. He shakes his head in warning.

I charge forward, muscling my way past their midfielders. I hear Freddie shouting my name, but I shoot past him too, taking the ball with me. From the centre, Reuben’s yelling at me to follow the game plan, but I don’t stop.

I just need to find the space, the same space Volchok leaves open every time he - and bang—it’s right there. My legs are burning, I've never run this fast. The crowd are on their feet. Defenders scatter in my wake as Freddie distracts them by heading to the corner.

It’s me and Volchok, with his last defender sweeping in to intercept. Volchok’s the best goalkeeper in the league. He’s used to strikers aiming for the furthest corners of the net, just out of his grasp. The very last place on earth he expects me to aim the ball is directly at him.

So that’s exactly what I do. As hard as I possibly can.

His mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. There’s barely ten feet between us and it hits him square in the shin, rebounding right at me. I’m hoping to God the ref doesn’t call a foul because this is my last chance. The ball ricochets towards me and I curve it over Volchok’s head and into the back of the net.

The crowd explodes, but that’s when I realise my mistake.

I haven’t slowed down, Volchok is still coming towards me, and I’ve forgotten about the defender on my heels. The steel goalposts come hurtling into view. I try to skid to a halt but it’s too late; the three of us collide into ice cold steel with a sickening crunch.

I feel the sharp jab of an elbow in my back, a studded boot headed towards my face, then everything goes black.

Parker

Brandon doesn’t move. He’s lying face down with his arm tangled beneath him. I’m screaming for someone to notice, to help him, but I’m completely drowned out by the boos raining down on the pitch. It’s like that nightmare when you need to scream and no sound comes out, except all I’m doing is screaming but nobody’s listening.

The final whistle blows.

Brandon’s teammates slowly realise that something isn’t right. A bloodied Volchok pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. There’s some pushing between opposing colours. Officials jump in to keep the teams apart. A call goes out on the loudspeaker for a medic. Brandon is stretchered from the pitch.

The scoreboard updates 3-2.

And for a football ground filled with three thousand people, it’s suddenly very fucking quiet.