Chapter 14 #2
“Mysterious wildcards,” I remind him. He snorts, shaking his head. I hope we both get chosen for the same team, it would be fun to play with him more.
We line up, tension thick in the air, before it’s broken by the shrill blow of the whistle.
And suddenly it’s just soccer.
The noise fades, the scouts disappear, and the pressure turns into the familiar clarity I only feel out on the field.
I pass when I need to, hold when I should, and never stop moving, my gaze only on the ball. I even manage to help score a few points, the satisfaction of seeing the ball hit those crisp nets almost as good as Colten’s kisses.
All the practice, the early mornings, the endless drills—they’re all worth it, to do well and to not disappoint everyone who’s supported me.
It feels really good. I know I’m doing well, and I know Colten will be happy with it.
There’s a moment where I glance over to the sideline, my gaze traveling right to where I know Colten is watching.
Instead of the approving smile I hoped for, he’s stiff, arms crossed as a vaguely familiar man stands next to him.
Rick Ashton.
They’re talking, or at least, Rick is talking.
Colten looks uncomfortable and like he’d rather be anywhere else. I find myself stepping towards him, but then the whistle blows again, and I force myself back into the game.
I need to focus. Colten believes in me and has worked so hard to support me in this. I can’t let it go to waste.
So I give it everything I have, and then some. Anything to make Colten happy.
***
As soon as we rotate out, I jog straight to Colten. Rick is still standing beside him, both of them watching as I make my way over.
I stop in front of them, sweaty and breathing hard.
“Good session,” Rick says, not looking up from his tablet.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a water bottle and small towel from Colten.
Colten’s gaze flicks to me with a warning. Careful.
I resist saying ‘Yes, Mom’, but it’s close.
Rick finally looks up with a bland, unimpressed expression on his bland, unimpressive face.
“You’re raw,” he drawls. “Your physicality and instincts are decent enough, but your positioning—” he taps his tablet “—it’s inconsistent and shoddy.”
“Got it,” I say easily. “I’ll work on that, thank you.”
His gaze glances up at me, a sharpness to it that has no place in a helpful critique.
Rick the dick continues, “You drift too wide during transitions, screwing over your teammates. Were you trying to make it harder for them to pass to you?”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” I say, very professionally.
“It’s obvious, you should’ve caught it before,” he warns before shaking his head. “This is a team sport after all, and if you can’t even manage that then no pro team will, or even should, accept you.”
“Of course,” I say, politely nodding along, the very picture of a guy who definitely will not snap today.
Colten watches me like he’s waiting for me to smack Rick, or like he’s going to smack me.
Well, too bad for him, but I was homeschooled with my three siblings, and I can do this all day.
Rick hums, like he’s almost disappointed. Then his gaze flicks to Colten.
“You quit the academy, and this is what you drag in?” Rick asks.
Colten goes still, and my smile fades.
Rick tilts his head, a vicious look in his eyes. “But I guess it’s not that surprising, since the academy didn’t work out for you. You were always too slow and too short. Never got that growth spurt, huh? Probably because of all those goth chains weighing you down.”
Colten says nothing, lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Hey, Rick,” I say calmly. “What do you mean by that?”
Colten’s eyes widen, practically shooting daggers at me that scream, ‘Don’t you dare!’
“I mean exactly what I said,” Rick says as he sneers at me, one eyebrow raised. “What, are you dumb, too?”
“Hm,” I say as I crush the now empty water bottle in my fist.
Colten subtly shakes his head at me.
Rick shrugs and tells me, “Look kid, if you want to make it at this level, you can’t keep dead weight around. Your buddy couldn’t cut it, and he's just going to drag you down.”
Well, that does it.
It’s as if I can hear something snapping in the distance, like a bone breaking.
“Dead weight?” I repeat.
Colten steps forward, eyes wide. “Patrick, don’t—”
“No, no,” I say, smiling in a way that is not friendly. “Let’s talk about dead weight.”
Rick rolls his eyes. “Like you would understand—”
“We’ve talked about my positioning, now let’s talk about yours,” I interrupt, my smile growing as I straighten to my full height.
Rick takes a step back.
Before he can say anything, I continue, “Colten still keeps all his old game films. You wore number five, right? I remember because you kept fumbling the ball like it was your first game.”
Colten goes very still as Rick’s face gains two twin spots of red, high on his cheeks. It makes his bland face ugly and even more unimpressive.
“Not to mention, your speed?” I add, giving a mean, short laugh. “You were basically there to pad the numbers. I’m surprised they let you scout, honestly, given how bad you play.”
“Patrick—”
“But really,” I start, voice sharper now, my teeth grinding together as I resist the urge to talk with my fists, “we can talk about how you’re standing here acting like you know how to play soccer, when you can’t even recognize someone who will always be better than you, short or not.”
Rick’s face is red enough to impersonate a particularly ugly tomato.