Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
Tristan
Sweat runs down my spine, pooling at my lower back. It’s a warm March day, oddly hot by Virginia standards, and the Blue Ridge Banshees have been keeping us on our fucking toes.
We’re tied, one-one, and I’ve saved more balls at this point than I should have.
I don’t know where the fuck my defenders are mentally, but I’m not happy.
From the way Coach looks on the sideline, he’s downright pissed.
The clock runs down, and Connor cannons the ball down the field, only for it to bounce off the fucking goalpost.
The local crowd goes wild, and the Banshees’ keeper’s jaw practically unhinges as he screams.
Right, as if the ball bouncing off the fucking post had anything to do with him.
I dab the sweat from my eyes with the bottom of my jersey.
The announcers’ voices boom out through the stadium, and I half listen as they get the crowd psyched for the shoot-out that will decide the winner.
I puff up my cheeks as I blow out a breath, jogging for the sideline and a drink.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Coach yells at me.
I ignore him, squirting whatever fruity sports drink the trainer handed me directly down my throat.
Coach is shouting the rules of the shoot-out to everyone, as if we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. Logan’s nodding eagerly, soaking it all up, and I can hardly remember what it was like to be that green.
Connor and Djimon look tired and pissed off, and the defenders don’t look much better.
“Once the Banshees have their turn,” Coach continues, “you five will each take a turn to shoot. Ford, Ford,” he pauses, a furrow in his brows at the two Fords’ dual existence on our team, “Marino, Rossi, and Steel. Take your time. Forget the crowd, forget the noise. It’s just like practice, men.
” He practically roars the last bit, and anticipation sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through me.
“Gold, this is your fucking time to shine. We’re all counting on you. ”
I nod, swallowing. More fruity sports drink.
I take a minute to scan the crowd, a force of habit held over from high school, when I always hoped to see my mom in the stands.
My sisters usually came, when they could.
My mom came to watch once. Once, in four years.
A familiar bitterness takes hold, and I readjust the elastic keeping my hair from sticking to the sweat on my face, still scanning.
She won’t be here. This might be the closest stadium to where she lives, to where I grew up, but I know my mom, and unless she has an angle to work, she’s not going to bother trying to see me.
My sisters told me they texted her the schedule back during the preseason, but I’m not about to imagine she bothered to look at it.
I drink a bit more, then jog out to the field, tossing the plastic bottle to the trainer, who catches it easily.
“You got this, Gold,” she yells, fist-pumping.
I wish I hadn’t thought about my mom.
Focus, Tristan. Think about anything else instead.
The Banshees shoot first, so I jog past their keeper and head into the goal, stretching out a little bit, popping my neck and trying to get my head back in the game.
The first starter closes in on the box.
Blood pounds in my ears.
One step, two step, a full run.
His cleat makes contact with the ball.
It arcs toward me, headed for the right upper quadrant. I move toward it, but it hits the corner with a ping, and I crash to the turf, the ball rolling safely away.
Ouch.
Wincing, I push myself off the ground, bits of grass and dirt sticking to my gloves.
I brush them off and get back in position for the second shooter.
His ball somehow misses the net completely, sailing overhead, and I jump for it out of habit, only to watch it pass.
Okay. Two down, three to go.
A sharp ache in my rib surprises me, and I glance down at my mutinous side in surprise.
I don’t have time for that.
Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake it off. Mind over matter. Just three more.
The third shooter is the weakest of their lineup, one of the midfielders. He steps away from the ball, then runs toward it.
It’s going to go right, and I start moving in anticipation.
He changes direction at the last possible second, angling his body and kicking the ball so it arcs left.
“Fuck.” I twist, trying to get my momentum to help me over to the left side, and leap up in the air.
My fingertips brush the very edge of the ball, and for a split second, I think I’ve saved it—but then the crowd loses their fucking minds.
I fall in slow motion, pain erupting across my side as I hit the turf again.
All the air in my chest rushes out of me, and I blink up at the blue sky.
I have to get up.
I have to get up.
Two more.
The pain is staggering, and I do my best to push it from my mind.
Two more.
I can do two more.
I catch the next one, but I’m moving slower, the pain insistent now, shooting up my back.
A hiss surprises me as I stretch, and it takes me a second to realize I’m the one who made the noise.
The last player takes position, and I suck in a breath, watching him carefully, waiting to move.
Patience. Patience is key.
I was patient for Michelle, and I can be patient for this motherfucker.
At the mere thought of her, my nerves soothe slightly, the pain easing up like magic.
The ball flies toward the net, and I stretch an arm up, easily batting it down.
One got in. Just one.
The Banshees’ goalie jogs in for us to switch positions, and sweat drips off my nose, the pain worse now that the adrenaline has ebbed.
“Rib?” he asks, sympathetic.
I can’t bring myself to say anything, so I just nod.
“Good luck, man.” He shakes his head, and I do my best to get the fuck out of the goal.
The minute I hit the sidelines, the trainers are on me, and I swear as they immediately find the tender spot.
The crowd cheers after Connor. No goal.
I watch from over the trainers, ignoring their questions to watch the end of the game.
Djimon’s shot goes wide, and he’s visibly mad at himself.
Marino and Rossi miss.
So does Steel.
I hang my head. We lost.
We lost, because I let one in.
“Get him to the locker room. We’re going to need an X-ray,” someone says, and I nod.
“It’s not your fault, Gold,” Coach is telling me, one arm on the shoulder that’s not wracked with pain. “We win as a team, and we lose as a team.”
I shake him off and follow the trainer into the tunnel that will take us back to the locker room.
I don’t want to hear it right now.