Chapter 43
Ethan
‘Are you trying to take my head off?’ Michael yells from the goal line as the ball bounces against the back of the net. ‘This is training, yeah? Not the World Cup.’
‘If it was, I’d be up five-four to the USA,’ I shout back, jogging back to the line where Assad waits with a miserable scowl.
‘You’re in a good mood for a Monday.’ He stops the ball with his right foot when Michael rolls it back. ‘Successful night on Saturday? You disappeared quickly enough.’
I shrug but the smile on my face stretches from ear to ear, and neither of these guys are that stupid.
Michael’s eyebrows creep upwards but he says nothing.
I wonder how much he knows. Not that I care.
I want everyone to know. I want to take out an ad in the student newspaper.
I want to hire a skywriter plane. Hell, I want to fly a skywriter plane.
No, I’ve never done it before but right now I feel like I could do anything – pilot a plane, win the World Cup, bring about world peace.
Nothing is impossible if I can turn my shit around after the summer I had. And now, Mia? Are you kidding me?
Ninety-nine per cent of the blood in my body rushes to my dick when I think about how I left her, naked in my bed.
Assad steps up to take his penalty shot giving me time to adjust my semi.
Getting laid is great. Hooking up with hot girls, always a good time.
But being with someone you’ve fantasized about, someone who makes you want to be a better person?
Taking all your experience and dedicating it to giving her the most earth-shattering, mind-blowing, tear-a-hole-in-the-universe orgasms of her life?
Holy shit. That is the good stuff. Turning away from the goal, I squat a couple of times, flexing as many muscles as I can to move the blood flow from my dick to anywhere else in my body, and send up a silent thank you to my ninth grade science teacher who shared that trick with the class.
If I had to see as many embarrassing accidental boners as he did, I’d want to spread the good word too.
And the best part of all? When I’m done with practice and my health psych tutorial, I get to see Mia again.
I get to sit on a stool at the bar and stare at her insane body, gorgeous face and beautiful mouth, thinking about all the things I want to do to them after her afternoon classes are through.
Last night was good, but it was just the beginning.
‘Fuck.’
I turn around to see Michael stretched out on the ground, holding the ball to his chest and Assad raging to himself.
‘It’s only practice, my dude,’ I say, swinging my arms around to warm up. ‘Not the World Cup.’
Assad gives me a dirty look. ‘Whatever it is that’s got you acting so chipper, I hope you’ve got enough to share with the class.’
‘Sorry, man. This one’s all mine.’
He huffs as the ball comes back to me and I flick it up onto the top of my foot, balancing it for a moment then launching it into the top left corner of the net before Michael even has time to decide which way to dive.
‘Have I mentioned I hate you?’
I’m cackling when my friend yanks his shirt over his face and screams. I never thought things would be this good again, soccer, school, Mia. A second chance is more than I deserve, but now I know how precious it is, I’ll never let it go.
It rained overnight and the grass is still wet, the October sun not strong enough to dry it out completely, and everything smells fresh and clean. By the time I’m twelve-six up on Assad, he’s ready to call it and I’m ready to agree.
‘Taylor! Baral!’
We both turn at the same time, Pavlov’s dogs, only more like Clive’s bitches. The coach stands on the halfway line and beckons us over.
‘Saturday,’ he says, no small talk, not from Clive. ‘Home game against Cotford.’
‘Right.’ I look to Assad who is staring at me blankly.
Clive pops a tab of gum in his mouth and looks us both in the eye.
‘The Harchester scouts will be there so get your shit together. I don’t want you embarrassing me, the university, or yourselves.’
That’s all we get. He turns around and strolls back towards his office. No questions, no answers.
‘Well,’ Assad says, hands on his hips. ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Shit.’
He cocks his chin towards the goal.
‘First to thirty?’
I look at my watch. I have time.
‘First to thirty,’ I confirm, dribbling the ball back to the penalty spot and lining myself up behind it. I run, I aim, I score.