Chapter 9
Ethan
There are at least a dozen things I should be doing right now.
Officially enrolling, picking up my schedule, checking my course materials, fixing my laptop or, I don’t know, buying sheets for my bed, but instead I’m back down at the training centre, drilling balls into the back of the net with so much force, I knock the damn thing down.
I don’t know why I let Mia get to me. Every time I walk over to the goal to scoop the ball out from the back of the net, I see her face.
The disapproving frown, brows pulled together, blue eyes narrowed, full lips pouting.
Where does she get off, judging me like that?
The girl had clearly made up her mind about who I am before we even shared the same oxygen.
If we knew each other, if she was one of Bre’s friends, or lived local and knew my folks, at least she’d have a reason for her bad attitude.
Acting like she’s better than me, just because she’s smart and kind of cute, is some bullshit.
I shouldn’t have tried to talk to her. I wouldn’t have bothered if she hadn’t kept crossing her bare legs in that damn meeting, and now I can’t stop imagining what she’s hiding under that baggy blue sweater.
Something in my shorts stirs and not for the first time, I’m disappointed in my own dick.
Maybe I’m a masochist and didn’t know it.
Maybe I get off on women who don’t like me.
I wouldn’t know, it’s never happened before.
Mia Meyers. At least I won’t forget that name in a hurry.
Dropping the soccer ball to the ground, I still it with the studs on the bottom of my boot and hold it in place.
Focusing on the exact spot I want to hit, I pull back my leg, twisting at the hips and kick.
Where does she get off being so rude? The ball flies over the top of the net and rolls all the way to the trees at the edge of our practice pitch.
Goddamn it.
‘If you’re here to make up for this morning, you’re making a poor job of it.’
I turn to see Clive watching me from the sidelines.
‘A striker who can’t score against an open goal isn’t much good to me, son.’ He rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. ‘Much like a striker who turns up to practice hungover.’
‘Hungover?’
An excuse, any excuse, is on the tip of my tongue but there’s something about the neutral set of his features that stops me before I can start.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say instead. ‘Won’t happen again.’
This apology shit really is starting to feel way too familiar.
‘I know it won’t,’ he replies. ‘And it’s Clive, not sir, you’re not in the army. I meant what I said this morning, everyone gets a chance. Having just got off the phone with your father, seems to me you need one more than most.’
It’s the last thing I expect to hear and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body.
‘You spoke with my dad?’
A nod.
‘Did he call you?’
‘He did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That you need a firm hand and a lot of discipline,’ he replies. ‘I also got the distinct feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. Anything you’d care to share?’
‘Nothing, sir. Clive. Nothing, Clive.’
The ground beneath my feet has turned into a trampoline and it’s a struggle to find my centre of balance. Any second now, I’m going to topple over and never get back up. What the fuck, Dad? Clive sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Whatever happened before you walked through my door is no concern of mine. There’s not a lad on this earth who hasn’t fucked up royally at one time or another.
All I need out of you is a commitment to the game and all the skill I saw in the tapes you sent from Marshall.
That means I see you at every practice, every game, every team meeting.
I see you ten minutes early and I see you sober. ’
Dipping my head to stare at the grass, hands clasped behind my back, I return his nod.
‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘I suspected as much. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be making you captain, would I?’
For a moment, I think I must be hearing things but when I look up, Clive’s weather-beaten face doesn’t look nearly as pissed as it did before. In fact, I realize, this might be his version of smiling. Jesus.
‘Captain?’
‘Co-captain. With Baral.’
It’s been so long since I got some good news, I don’t know how to react.
‘Assad knows the team inside out, he can keep morale up, but they need motivation, someone to kick them up the arse.’
‘You can depend on me,’ I tell him, forcing a serious expression on my ecstatic face. ‘Thank you so much for this opportunity, I won’t let you down.’
‘I said kicker not kisser, climb out my rectum,’ he replies with a scowl. ‘The rest of the team don’t need to hear this, but you’re leagues ahead of them skill-wise and the way I see it, there’s two ways this year can go. You can sink to their level, or they can rise up to meet yours.’
He walks over to me, presses a clump of grass back into the ground with the toe of his sneaker, then lines up behind the ball. Without even looking up, he kicks it straight into the back of the net, a perfect strike.
‘Don’t get me wrong, we’re good. Best in the league.’ He fixes me with another steely stare. ‘But with you, we could be better. I’ve always believed iron sharpens iron, what do you think, son?’
‘I think I agree?’
‘What do you know? That’s the right answer.’ Clive lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and for one horrifying second, I feel like I’m going to cry. ‘In case no one else has told you this, it’s not the mistakes you make that define you in life. It’s what you do next that counts.’
No one has told me that. The only thing I’ve heard recently is what a fuck-up I am, how I’ve ruined my life, Chris’s life, cost my dad a fortune, broken my mom’s heart. Hemden has only been painted as a punishment. For the first time, it feels like a clean slate.
‘Now, if you haven’t got anywhere else to be, I want to see twenty more shots to the back of the net before you clock off.
’ He claps me hard on the back, knocking the rising emotion right out of me.
‘That last one was pathetic. Every time you miss, you give me a lap of the pitch. Go on, get started, I’m not going anywhere until you’re done. ’
Pulling up my shirt to wipe my face, I jog over to collect the ball then take position.
As I take a three-step run-up, I focus on blocking out all the negative thoughts, my parents, forgetting my sheets, the scene in my room this morning, I manage to lock them all away.
But one sneaks through, slipping under the net and grabbing my attention. Mia fucking Meyers.
The balls skews wide and rolls off into the trees.
‘That’s one lap,’ Clive calls. ‘Unless you’re looking to be knackered by teatime, I wouldn’t make a habit of missing.’
‘Yes, Clive,’ I say as I take off around the field.
He doesn’t need to worry. As far as I’m concerned, from this moment on, Mia Meyers doesn’t exist.