Chapter 30 #2
“A one-two is a give and go,” I tell Deacon. “It’s a two-player quick pass combination. You take possession of the ball and quickly get it to me, then run your ass up the field. We’ll go back and forth until one of us is in position to score.”
His brows draw forward.
“Hey,” I snap my fingers in front of his face.
“Quarterback,” I say, trying to come up with a way for him to better understand this.
“Take the snap. Go short and get it to me. As soon as I’m in possession, our roles reverse.
You’re the receiver. Go long. As soon as you take possession, you’re QB again and I’ll run up the field.
Fast. Go long again. Rinse and repeat until we reach the goal. Got it?”
His mouth is still pinched, but he nods. Good enough.
We take our positions, and Coach blows his whistle, starting the play.
Deacon does exactly what I tell him, and since Coach called out the play, the other half of our team playing as our opponents are ready, but they expect Hunt to pass the ball to Holt and are taken by surprise when he gets the ball to me instead.
The play is on.
I race up the field, eyes tracking Deacon until he’s in front of me, and I shoot it back over to him.
“What the fuck,” Austin curses, racing after us. I block him out.
“Go, go!” Felix whoops, hanging back to play defense.
I sprint up the field, my cleats kicking up turf with each of my steps.
Deacon shoots the ball back to me, and I dribble forward, narrowly avoiding Austin’s steal.
Asshole.
I pass back to Deacon.
We’re two-thirds up the field. He’s almost there when Deacon shoots me a look. He’s not going to take the shot.
I spot the cross. Hunt’s coming in from the wing.
I get in front of him, just outside the penalty area and he snaps it back.
The ball flies high through the air. I time my jump, connecting with it cleanly in mid-air.
The satisfying thud of my foot meeting the ball echoes in my ears and I watch it sail toward the goal.
Atticus leaps, arms outstretched but the ball goes high, sailing through the top corner of the net.
Goal.
“Holy shit, bro!” Atticus shouts after climbing back to his feet.
I chuckle, my euphoria riding high. “That was fucking magic,” I tell Hunt.
He opens his mouth to respond, but before a single word leaves his mouth, Parker Benson plows right into him from behind.
Deacon doesn’t have a chance to brace himself. His body goes careening forward, and he crashes into the field. Hard.
“What the fuck?” I snap, veering off in their direction. “The play was already over,” I shout, throwing my arms in the air and shoving Benson back.
Not even bothering to apologize, Benson shrugs and jogs away.
Asshole.
I help Deacon to his feet, paying special attention to the way he moves. That fall didn’t look good.
“You alright?” I ask.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, a dark expression crossing over his face. “Great.”
Bullshit. The guy looks pissed.
“This the type of shit I should expect more of?” he asks. “I kinda thought it was just the one asshole.”
My gaze sweeps over to where Holt is. Benson, Chambers, Pru, and a few others stand loose beside him, their gazes trained in our direction.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Holt doesn’t like being outshined. He’s pulling his boys in.”
If Austin doesn’t want to be cut out of a play, then he should get his head out of his ass and do the fucking play. The dick can’t even fight his own battles. Not that I didn’t see this coming. I knew he’d be pissed and find some way to retaliate. But what Benson did was a bitch move.
Deacon isn’t the one who took Austin’s position. I’m the one who slipped into his spot. The hit should have been directed at me.
Fuck them.
“Is it an us against them sort of thing?” Deacon asks. “I like to know where and how deep to draw my lines.”
I nod. “It’s looking that way.”
The team knows there’s a situation between Holt and me, and that’s enough to draw some obvious lines, but so far, it’s always been Austin against me. This is the first time another of our teammates has so blatantly gotten involved.
There’s a divide between those players who are pledged to Zeta Pi, and those of us who aren’t. The frat brothers are sticking together and following Holt like blind fucking sheep.
No surprise there.
But the rest of the team is loyal to Julio. He’s our captain, so the team is used to following his lead. It feels natural, and if they’ve played with him for more than one season, then they know to trust his judgment.
Julio made it clear whose side he’s on. Mine.
And the rest of the team is either making their positions known or staying the fuck out of it.
But until today, tensions have stayed strictly off-field, outside of the game.
It’s tense in the locker room. We don’t all get along.
But on the field, we keep our heads in the fucking game.
Deacon spits on the grass and grins. His saliva paints his teeth red, and between that and the gleam in his eyes, he’s got one hell of a manic appearance. “Cool. So all the assholes over there are free game?” He rolls his neck from side to side, legs bouncing in place.
I nod. “Safe to say it’s everyone who’s pledged to Zeta Pi.”
“Looks like I won’t be joining any fraternities.” His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t drop his bloodstained grin.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Not unless you want to become besties with those twats.” I nod toward Holt’s entourage.
“Pass.”
Figured as much.
Coach switches us to drills for the rest of the day.
I think his plan is to wear us out so we can’t keep taking our shit out on one another on the field.
Despite how physical it’s gotten, and how damn near everyone on the team is either bleeding or visibly bruised, he hasn’t once yelled at us to knock it off.
Coach feels the pressure of our game against Crown Point University, too. And while he needs us all in one piece, it’s to his benefit if we’re pissed off during the game. That way, he can direct our anger.
When practice ends, we all make our way to the showers.
My calves are on fire and an ache has settled into my lower back.
In the locker room, I shed my clothes and grab a towel before heading for the stalls and making quick work of rinsing off the day’s dirt, sweat, and blood.
I have no intention of sticking around any longer than I need to.
No need to chance another confrontation with Holt.
Not when I’m as hot-headed as I am right now.
Done in the shower, I grab my clothes and get dressed before retrieving my things from my locker. Shouldering my bag, I linger a few minutes while the other guys finish up. Holt is talking nonsense a few rows away, and I tune his aggravating voice out.
We need to come up with a plan. One that actually has a shot of working, because on top of what Holt did to Cecilia, if today’s practice is anything to go by, he’s becoming a goddamn liability for the team.
Glancing at my phone, I fight the urge to text Cecilia. To see if she’s okay.
She was visibly shaken after her encounter with Holt.
But I know she wouldn’t have accepted any comfort from me.
She wants to stand on her own two feet. I get that.
But there’s nothing wrong with having a support system.
With having people in your corner to watch your back.
It’s what I have with Felix, Atticus, and Julio.
Hell, after today, I feel confident enough to add Deacon into that mix.
Cecilia needs to know she has people. She has me.
I should message her.
I’m going to message her.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard and I type out a text only to delete it.
Fuck.
It’s not complicated. We’re not together, but we can still talk. Right? I mean, we haven’t. Not for the past several weeks. But we could. There’s no rule saying we can’t be … friends.
The word is bitter as I roll it around in my head.
I don’t want to be her friend. The thoughts I have when it comes to Cecilia Russo aren’t friendly. They’re obsessive. Consuming. I want to know the girl inside and out. On an intimate level.
I want to know the girl she was before the assault. Know the survivor she’s become. The fighter she is each and every day.
And I want to meet the amazing woman I know she’ll be after she has time to heal. I want to know every version there is to know of Cecilia. And I want to lay claim to every goddamn one of them.
Fuck, I’m going to turn into a stalker or some shit with the way my thoughts are wandering, but I can’t help it.
I want to own her. Mind, body, and soul. To strip her bare and memorize every inch of her sun-kissed skin. To get inside her head and know her innermost thoughts. Her secrets. Her fears.
Friends.
I barely manage to stifle a laugh and shake my head as I continue glowering down at my phone.
No. I don’t want to be her friend. But if soccer has taught me anything, it’s that forward progress is never instant.
I’m used to delayed gratification, and winning Cecilia back will be the sweetest form that there is.
Decision made, I type out a quick message.
Me: Hey.
She has her messages set to show read, so I see the moment she opens my text.
Seconds tick by without a reply, and I consider typing out another one.
Am I that guy now? The one who sends a string of messages in some desperate bid to get a chick’s attention?
There are no little bubbles. Nothing to indicate she has any intention of responding.
I rub the back of my neck. Fuck it. Guess I am that guy.
Me: Can we ta—
I delete the text without sending it and try again.
Me: How are you—
No. Shit. Why is this so hard? I delete my second attempt and take a deep breath. Just be casual. She won’t want me checking in on her. Despite Austin being a fucking creep. I know asking how she’s holding up is the last thing she wants to hear from me. It’ll just make her throw more walls up.
Third time's the charm. I’ve got this.
Me: We have a game against Crown Point University coming up. It’s a home game. You should come.
I hit send and wait.
Fuck. Should I have worded that as a question? If I made it a question, she’d feel more obligated to respond. Damn. I should have—
Three little bubbles appear. She’s typing a response.
Yes.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I turn around to find Holt leering behind me, eyes locked on my phone. A cruel smile curls his mouth and he lets out a piercing whistle.
“Damn, Herrera. Who would have thought you’d be the one to turn pussy for a fucking cleat chaser?” He laughs and some of the Zeta Pi members join him.
Julio and Felix drop their shit and immediately step up to flank me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Deacon rise from the bench beside his own locker, but Julio must wave him off because he sits back down, his expression calculating.
“Do you need something?” Julio asks, his voice steady.
Holt eyes him up and down with a sneer. “Not from you,” he retorts. “Unless you plan on acting like our fucking captain for once and put your boy back in his place.”
Silence.
The background noise in the locker room from the team’s chatter, faucets being turned on and off, and other random sounds come to a halt as all eyes turn our way. The tension between us ratchets in the room.
Julio folds his arm over his chest and dips his chin. His eyes narrow into a cold glare. “You wanna run that by me again?” There’s a warning in his voice, but judging by the smirk on Holt’s face, he’s not going to heed it.
Austin takes a menacing step forward. “Get your boy in line,” he growls.
“Or what?” Julio deadpans. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. To curse. Every guy in the room knows how serious Julio is right now.
“Or we’re going to have problems,” Austin snaps, but some of his earlier nerve is slipping away. His mouth dips, eyes now wary.
I laugh. I can’t help it. One second it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop and the next I’m fucking cackling.
“Or we’re going to have problems,” I repeat, my voice mocking.
“You’re such a fucking cliché. We already have problems, so why don’t you back the fuck off?
Or better yet, quit the team so we don’t have to deal with your pretentious ass any longer. ”
Austin bares his teeth, but before things escalate further, Jamiea—our assistant coach—pokes her head into the locker room. “Everyone dressed?” she calls out. Her hand covers her eyes as she walks further into the room.
“All clear,” Julio says, keeping his voice controlled.
She drops her hand and, almost as quickly, drops her smile. Her dark brown gaze flickers over each of us. “Everything alright?”
Austin takes a step back.
“All good,” I tell her, not bothering to remove my gaze from Holt’s.
“Just catching up with friends,” he adds.
“Mm Hmm. I absolutely buy that.” Sarcasm. Walking toward us, Jamiea inserts herself between us, forcing both Austin and I to take several steps back in order to give her enough room to pass for respectful.
Now, Deacon climbs to his feet. It looks like he’s still got eyes for our assistant coach.
That’s too bad. Jamiea won’t cross that line. Not now that he’s a student at PacNorth. She isn’t much older than us. Twenty-five or twenty-six if I had to guess. And she’s not a teacher. But she’s still faculty and there are rules. Ones I know Jamiea well enough to know she won’t break.
“Anyone want to explain what’s going on?” She folds her arms and taps her foot, her impatience clear.
Holt and I glare at one another over the top of her curl-covered head, our eyes never leaving each other.
“It’s all good,” I tell her. “We were just heading out.”