Chapter Thirty Four
Everest decided today’s practice would take place on the all-weather pitch, and I’m content to follow his lead.
It’s all well and good running drills on our beautiful artificial turf, which I fundraised for, but not all academies we play at will have the same luxuries.
For that reason, we keep an irregular timetable with the football jocks to use their pitch.
It stretches out before us, a patchwork of scuffed grass and churned mud, the morning’s drills leaving their mark.
I drag my eyes over the deep heel marks, stray divots, the skid of failed turns, cataloguing the errors like I’m marking a test paper.
The team storm across the pitch, equally trying to flaunt their skillset whilst giving Everest and I a wide berth on the sidelines.
I push against his bicep to get a better look at the clipboard in his hand.
“If Samson doesn’t learn how to hold his position, he’s going to keep pulling everyone else out of formation.
” I mutter, taking the pen out of Everest’s hand and drawing a line across the diagram we’ve sketched out.
X’s and arrows are scattered across it, a disagreement happening between Everest’s tailored penmanship and my thumb smudges.
“He doesn’t trust them to carry the play,” Everest replies flatly, not looking up as he marks another X further back on the field. “So he overcompensates.”
“And in doing that, he screws the entire structure,” I shoot back, my tone edged with frustration as I glance up at the field again.
Right on cue, Samson barrels forward, ignoring an open pass in favor of forcing his way through two defenders, only to lose the ball entirely.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Case and point.”
A whistle shrieks through the air a second later, the shrillness of it piercing my eardrum.
Everest barks orders, resetting the play and yelling at Samson to get his shit together.
The team groans collectively, sticks lowering as they try to catch their breath.
I roll my eyes, holding up my open hand.
“Take five, guys. Grab some water before you go again.” There’s an almost-appreciative huff as the sea of bodies drag their feet towards the pile of gym bags on the far-side of the pitch. I shift closer to the clipboard again, my shoulder brushing Everest’s as I lean into his space.
Neither of us have spoken about last night, simply because there’s nothing to say. I made a deal and I’m holding up my end of it. Actually, Everest hasn’t said much of anything. The dark circles around his eyes suggest that he didn’t sleep, despite getting his own way in the end.
Eventually, he grows bored of me leaning on him for balance and hands over the clipboard.
I waste no time in redrawing the formation, adjusting placements with quick, decisive strokes.
“Claire needs to move up,” I circle her position and drag it higher up the field.
“She’s holding back. I know she’s got the speed, she’s just hesitating for something. ”
“Probably for you to stop acting like she’s invisible,” Everest counters, finally glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
My expression contorts, scrunching up like he’s full of shit.
We both know he isn’t, but I’m not touching on that right now.
Lifting the whistle from where it hangs on his broad chest, I push it between his lips.
“Just tell her to move up and buck up, or we’ll find someone who will.
” I turn away as Everest does just that, calling for the team to get their asses back into play.
I tilt my head towards the sky, sensing a gentle shift in the season.
A light wind rolls across the open field, tugging at loose strands of my hair.
There’s a hint of a chill to it, which I’m sure those clashing sticks will appreciate. Everest cracks his neck side to side.
“You’re going to have to talk to her eventually, you know,” he comments. I chew lightly on my tongue.
“She didn’t care to answer any of my messages when I was in rehab. I have nothing to say to her now.”
“What about your sister? Have you spoken to her?”
I blink a few times, a pinch between my brows as I look up at Everest. He doesn’t meet my gaze, his unwavering stare on the field. I track the sharp line of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth before I hand him back the clipboard.
“Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.” I fold my arms, turning my attention back to the play. Samson is still hogging the ball, Clare is still hanging back. It’s hopeless.
“Doing what?” Everest shifts his stance slightly, dropping the board to his side. I flick my gaze to his face, slowly dropping it towards his feet and back again to signify all of him. We’re not doing any of that caring shit. Everest and I work best together when we stay in our lanes.
I watch a few more plays before I curse beneath my breath and tell Samson to tap out.
He looks like he wants to argue, his chest heaving and ego bruised, but one look at my face shuts that down fast. Passing him halfway, I take the stick from his hand and jog onto the field.
Twirling it once around my hand, I settle into his position at the top of the arc.
The turf is littered with failed attempts to cooperate as a team, tufts of grass that would break an ankle if we’re not careful.
We don’t have time to train up the subs, the players on this field are what we’ve got to work with.
Claire hesitates on the wing, hovering in that same safe spot she’s been clinging to all morning, and I shake my head, already moving the ball through my stick with quick, controlled cradles.
The play starts and I push the pace immediately, carrying hard down the center to draw the slide, opening a slither of space between me and the defender on my heels.
That’s all Claire needs if she’d just take it.
I fake left, roll back right, pulling a second defender toward me before snapping my head up, eyes locking onto Claire’s.
She’s closer now, but she’s stalling again, stick half-raised like she’s waiting for my permission to interject.
There’s not going to be time to direct her on the day of the match, she needs to trust herself.
She needs to trust me to run this the way we used to, owning this field like a shadow of one another. But she doesn’t move.
My jaw tightens as I slam my foot into the turf, sending up a spray of mud up myself as I redirect the play.
Cutting through the gap I’ve created, I shoot the ball and it lands in the temporary goal with, what should be, a satisfying thwack.
However, there’s nothing satisfying about teammates I can’t rely on to make the right call without being spoon fed.
I stroll back to Everest, slicing my hand across my throat.
“Axe her. We’ll both have to play to keep up numbers, and we’ll reassess the subs after the match.” Tossing the stick back to Samson, I glare at him to behave as I take Everest’s side again.
For another hour, we go again and again, until I’m fairly certain the team’s legs are functioning out of pure spite. Although, that’s the point. Plays should be muscle memory, something they don’t even need to think about. Or at least, it will be, when they start trusting each other.
Everest doesn’t let up either. Every position is challenged, every decision picked apart, every weak link exposed by the unforgiving shrill of the whistle and shouted corrections.
I’m just about to call it when movement at the edge of the pitch catches my attention.
A moment after, Everest’s head snaps to the side, and the players across the field stutter to a stop, sticks lowering and bodies turning.
Marching towards us, a procession emerges.
Students weave their way across the slick greenery, arms overloaded with paper bags and cardboard drink trays.
And at the center of it all, Thiago waves at me with a beaming smile.
His confidence is infectious, a dark hoodie stretched across his chest and baggy cargo pants on his legs.
Apparently, he has no qualms about walking through grass and mud in his pricey high-tops, the white laces turning murky with each step.
I start walking too, meeting him halfway.
“What is this?” I ask, a smile stretching across my face for the first time today.
Thi just winks, lifting his arms as if he’s going in for a hug.
Before he gets there, an arm winds around my waist and tugs me a step back.
I don’t even look up at Everest, using my elbow to crowbar myself out of his hold.
We get it, no canoodling in public or we risk damaging Everest’s precious image.
Thiago is unaffected by the whole display, saluting Everest before turning to address the team.
“Lunch is here, courtesy of the IT guys who were in desperate need of some fresh air. Tyler and James have the vegan and veggie options, the rest are fair game. Coffees and milkshakes are first come, first serve.” Thi points between the tall, skinny guys who struggle to hide their nerves at the bulky jocks rushing at them.
Everest holds back, his scowl becoming embedded in his features.
“Danny can’t—” he starts, and then Thiago snaps his fingers in the air.
“Oh yes, I’ve got Danny’s right here,” Thi sheds his backpack and tugs it open.
Danny steps closer, skeptical and almost sheepish as Everest glares on.
I cover my mouth with my hand to hide the smirk growing there.
“The lunch ladies made you a delicious green salad with quinoa and low-sugar dressing, as per your diabetic needs. Wasn’t that lovely of them? ”