Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Tristan
We’re as ready as we’re going to be.
The first game of the season is always a little bit of a shit show, adrenaline and jitters making both teams unpredictable.
“It’s weird to not have Wolfe on the field with us,” Jésus offers up as he jogs by me into position.
“Focus on the damned game,” I yell at him, shaking my head.
He’s not wrong, though. Even though Luke’s been gone for months now, and I know he’s in a better place, able to help care for his sick mom and be with Abigail, it’s weird not to have him sending me surly looks as the crowd cheers.
Nah, no one’s even remotely grumpy, except maybe Coach, who appears downright apoplectic on the sidelines, already screaming at one of the Fords to get their shit together.
Can’t say that I blame him. The two Fords are cutting up, laughing hysterically at something one of them has said. Even Logan’s doubled over.
The game hasn’t even started, but it’s clear that with our team skewing younger, the dynamic is going to be entirely different this season.
“Get your heads out of your asses and focus,” I bellow, and the three of them toss guilty looks at me. Djimon dips his head in recognition, though, then jogs away from our new center forward.
As for Connor, he winks at me, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh or frown at him.
Luke was always enough to keep these assholes in line, even without the captain title. I should have figured out before now how I wanted to play it this season without him here to be the bad cop to my good.
I’m not sure I can be the bad cop.
I doubt anyone would take me seriously, either.
I can’t blame them for that, considering who I am.
Focus. Now’s not the time to second-guess anything.
That’s the beauty of this game.
I can live in the moment. Let everything else fade away. The only expectation is to keep the other team from scoring, something I’m fucking good at, something no one can take away from me.
I expect it’s that quality that had Coach naming me captain a few seasons ago—that and the fact that I get along with almost everybody.
The whistle blows, and that’s all I need for my body to go on full alert, my mind snapping into the present.
These first few minutes are some of the most dangerous.
All it takes is for one player not to be fully in the game for an early score to happen.
The Nashville Copperheads won the coin toss and have possession first. I move side to side in my box, watching the gameplay and staying centered. Logan manages to nutmeg one of their forwards, but the ball goes wide, missing Djimon and getting picked off by their striker.
Shit.
“On your left,” I yell to Jésus, who is already in motion.
Time slows, distilled to the black-and-white ball heading toward the corner.
“Cut him off,” I shout at Joseph, who sees the opening too late.
The Copperhead forward slices the ball to the striker.
Joseph and the striker jump at the same time, but their player has the advantage of physics.
The ball slams into his head, and then it’s sailing toward me, toward the goal.
There’s no room for second-guessing.
I move.
My quads and calves tense, and I spring off the turf, using every inch of my body to block their goddamned goal.
The ball brushes against my outstretched fingers, the shock of the impact radiating through my arms before my brain registers it as normal, as good.
It arcs away from the danger zone as I crash onto the turf.
Time speeds back up to normal.
Joseph’s in possession, dribbling the ball before absolutely launching it down the field.
“What the fuck?” I roar at him, irate. “Pay fucking attention! They should never have gotten that close that fast.”
He nods, not taking his eyes off the play, now in the middle of the field.
It’s not like me to yell at them. But without Luke here to do it, I might as well step the fuck up.
I’d much rather that than let this team fuck up all season.
I’ll be the goddamned bad cop if I have to.