Offside Rule

1. Xavier

ONE

XAVIER

“ I saac, finish it off!” I heard the coach shout to his son from the edge of the field.

My feet were glued to the green grass in the center, itching for a free kick, but the plan was ripped from me the moment Alejandro’s voice covered the grunts and footsteps of my teammates.

I swept my eyes back to the edge of the field where our coach was standing, his face red and dripping sweat from his forehead to his chin. He raised his wrist to wipe the sweat from his deep wrinkles, and the anticipation built.

He’s got to be kidding me.

The rest of the team stopped mid-play, waiting for me to make a decision. Truth was, I didn’t have much of a choice. At important championships, I could always override the coach’s word as long as it brought us a positive result, but when we were training? Yeah. He was ready to chop my head off if I disobeyed.

Santa Bay United was going for the win this year in a completely new formula, but the more I trained, the more I realized we didn’t stand a chance. We were a solid team—good enough to make it to the Euro finals this season with a good chance to win—but despite what some people assumed about football, a team needed more than a couple of good players to fight for first place.

A good coach was crucial.

It wasn’t our team’s fault if we lost, as most of the current members were the best players in Spain. All but one. Isaac .

That was our coach’s fault.

As our gazes collided, Coach pushed his chest forward with a look that was meant to intimidate me, but that son of a bitch was the last person on Earth who could make me feel small.

I shook my head. He was so obsessed with seeing his son actually put the ball through the net that he kept forgetting that the lack of training would cause the rest of the team to suck as badly as his son in a real match.

Finally, I stepped back. There was no point in fighting him about it, anyway. He wasn’t going to budge.

Isaac took my place, and I walked away, standing close to my teammates in the box.

My hands dropped to my waist as my foot bounced on the artificial grass. He was going to miss, I knew that. Isaac always missed, and still the favoritism never seemed to stop.

I didn’t get it. Wasn’t the ultimate goal to win? Or was it about who took the shot? Coach was supposed to know better. After all, he was a legend in football twenty years ago, but it seemed he cared more about passing on his legacy than creating the ultimate team.

“He’s going to miss,” I murmured to myself, and our striker, Vane, looked at me.

“Bet he will.” His lips pursed with a disappointed look as I pictured the ball going anywhere else but where it was supposed to.

Isaac took a few steps behind the ball, clutched the hem of his shirt between his fingers, and dragged it across his wet forehead. His eyes slid to his father before his throat bobbed with a massive swallow. I knew he was sick of it too, and the only reason he played by his father’s rules was because he wanted to make him proud, but he should’ve stopped going along with it a long time ago. Especially now that we had something so important at stake—winning a trophy, making Spain proud, and proving to everyone that a young team could still play.

I lost sight of the concerned expression on his face when he turned around, ready to shoot, but even without seeing his face, I knew.

The guys were standing in a defensive line in front of the net, and no matter how much footwork he did before kicking the ball, it flew straight into them and rolled onto the ground.

“Goddamn it,” Isaac spat out, gripping the front of his hair.

My hands fisted at my sides, knuckles white. I wasn’t mad that he had missed this strike, I was mad that he’d missed every single chance he’d had and was still getting more shots than any of the rest of us.

“Idiot,” Vane muttered under his breath.

“Again,” Coach pushed Isaac, and despite the defeated look on his son’s face, he still didn’t let it go. “I said. Go. Again,” he raised his voice, stressing each word.

I wasn’t going to stick around to watch the team’s training session turn into private training.

“Does anyone feel like playing cards while Isaac learns how to shoot?” I asked, turning to make my way off the field.

My skin prickled with uneasiness. I knew I was being rude to him, but after months of shit piling up higher than the Eiffel Tower, I couldn’t keep my frustration locked in anymore.

The men laughed, and even though I wasn’t the captain of the team—because being the coach’s son came with undeserved title perks—they considered me one.

All the guys wandered away from their spots.

“Get back on the field.” Coach rushed us, massaging his bald head.

I stopped in my tracks, the rest of my teammates behind me. “Unless you get your shit together and start training the rest of us, I’m not coming back on the field.”

While I had never spoken to him that way, I was done with his bullshit. He could throw me off the team for talking back to him if he wanted to, but that was better than losing on the world stage. It was better than coming back home with our heads hung low, too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone.

It was time he realized what he could lose if he didn’t come back to his senses.

Coach opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes darted to his son, and his lips glued back together. That was the only answer I needed; he wasn’t going to stop me. So I left.

Coach might’ve been my uncle, but this team was his responsibility, and we were going to lose tomorrow’s game. He still had a chance to make things right since losing the match wasn’t going to eliminate us, but I just hoped it wasn’t going to be too late.

“You coming to watch the game tonight in the hotel lounge, Xavier? Looks like there’s nothing better to do here.” Micah, our winger, bumped his shoulder into mine. His blond hair had gotten in front of his eyes, so he brushed it back with his fingers.

We were staying at a hotel in Hamburg, ten minutes away from the stadium where we were about to get our asses kicked in less than twenty-four hours.

I shook my head. “Nah.”

“You sure? We got free booze,” he tried to convince me.

“I’ll pass tonight. And you shouldn’t drink before a match,” I told him before walking into the locker room.

“It’s Germany, bro. The land of beer. It would be offensive not to have at least one.” He winked, a wide grin on his face.

Even if I didn’t go hang out with the team, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t want to watch the game. England and Italy were playing, and since we were going to be on the same field as England tomorrow, I wanted to see their weak points one last time before meeting them. It was a hell of a good team, and we needed to prepare both mentally and physically. It wasn’t going to be an easy match.

So instead of staying in my hotel room, I decided to walk into a random bar close by. As much as I loved my teammates, I needed to be alone after the day we’d had.

The bar had brick walls and wooden floors, with an L-shaped bar where a row of stools stood. On the other side hung a large TV.

This would do for tonight.

I took a place on one of the stools, supporting my back with the bar as I bounced my leg. I watched the teams enter the field, observing their faces, their emotions, and how tense or ready they were. The game began once each team had sung their national anthem.

I was nervous about tomorrow, I had to admit. It was my first time playing in a championship and I didn’t take it for granted—unlike our coach.

Shit, I wanted to squeeze the life out of him for what he’d done today. Favoring someone is different than pushing the whole team aside. He may have been a star in his youth, but that didn’t mean he was a good coach now.

When the match started, I tried to focus all my attention on their attack and defense. They were clearly killing it with their defense, but missing something with the attack. It was like they didn’t communicate at all. One player wanted to pass the ball to another to shoot, but they hesitated and lost any chance to score.

“Offside,” I whispered under my breath, because I could clearly see that England’s striker had been in front of the Italian defender when they’d struck.

“It’s not offside.” I heard a feminine voice next to me, and my head flew in her direction instinctively.

She had piercing green eyes, and burning red hair that was all curled up in a bun on top of her head. Her cheek was resting on her shoulder as she uninterestedly watched the game, as if she already knew the outcome.

I let out an offended puff, more bothered than I should’ve been.

“It was offside, just wait for the replay,” I argued with her as my Spanish accent slipped, then pointed at the screen in front of us.

The woman tugged her crop top lower on her stomach as she leaned forward, planting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. “You’re wrong. Antonio had his foot in front of the ball before Harry hit.”

I opened my mouth to contradict her again, but I realized I shouldn’t bother. “What do you know about football, anyway?”

Just as I turned my eyes back to the TV, the channel replayed the clip while the referee talked to the back team to make a decision. I squinted my eyes, sweat sliding down my back.

The two players ran at the same pace next to each other, and when Harry ran to score, he was two steps in front of Antonio. I waited for a close-up where they showed …

Shit.

Antonio did have a foot in front of the ball.

I threw a glance at the girl next to me, who was wearing a proud smile on her lips as she sipped from her water.

She had been right.

“Yeah. What do I know about football, anyway?” she mocked me with a lazy drawl, but with a hint of pride in those green eyes that avoided me still.

“Come on, stranger. Let me see those all-knowing eyes of yours better.”