I canfeelmy heartbeat. It’s no longer in my chest. It’s in my lungs, inside my head. Feet pound against the turf, and despite being shielded safely indoors, I’m wishing for the chill to cool my skin. More than that, I’m wishing I could pass out already so I don’t have to endure this agony anymore.
The sloshing in my stomach worsens. I’m no longer looking at Sebastian for direction. I’m looking at the ground because I’m afraid if I see how much farther I have to go, I won’t make it. Back and forth and back and forth. Touch the line, sprint, touch another line, turn around, do it all over again.
Nausea worms its way up my throat. I gag and slap a hand over my mouth.
Not happening. The bile burns. It hits my tongue and I choke, forcing myself to swallow. My body pleads at me to stop. The bottom of my cleats scrape the turf. I don’t stop. Even though my gangly legs threaten to fold, even though my face feels hot enough to fry an egg on, even though I can’t see because my eyes sting from the copious amounts of sweat pouring into them, I don’t stop.
I’m not sure how much longer I run for. I lose track of time. Air drags in and out of my lungs, harsh wheezes that make it harder to breathe. I’m the last one to finish.
When I reach the goal, I collapse onto my knees and retch up everything I ate for lunch.
It’s quiet. Trembling, hunched over the ground and the puddle of stomach acid, I blink the sweat from my eyes and tilt my head up. The eyes of every soccer player take me in, some with confusion, some with concern, and a few who outright smirk. One guy chuckles. No surprise that it’s Sebastian. I hate him.
Coach Wheeler shoves to the front of the circle. His shiny silver whistle rests against his chest. He was having plenty of fun using it five minutes ago. “You feeling okay, Dumont?”
“Actually, I’m feeling pretty great,” Sebastian says with a wink.
“Not you,” he spits. Max rolls his eyes. Another guy barks a laugh and nudges Sebastian in the ribs.
I need to get out of here. I want my nice quiet apartment, my computer, a cup of cold water, a hot shower.Mistake, my mind whispers.
Big,bigmistake.
And it’s only day one.
Chapter 4
Max
Something strange is going on with Kellan.
It started when I stepped into the locker room and found him and Sebastian deep in conversation. The air, thick with strain, secrets hovering in their eyes. The fact that Kellan no longer wore his jersey, having changed into street clothes. He looked different to me in that moment. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
After they returned to the field, I continued to study them, the contrast in their demeanors. Sebastian looked pleased. Kellan looked ill, a stiffness to his limbs and the way he moved. Kellan’s motions were normally so fluid.
Then there was the group stretch. Sebastian kept throwing odd looks at his brother, some furious, some gloating. Only when he noticed me watching him did he stop. Thus, my attention turned to Kellan, who had trouble touching his toes, which I swear he was able to do three practices ago. Or was I making that up? Shit, maybe it’s a fantasy rising up from my subconscious. I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve dreamed of those strong legs wrapped around me more than once.
Currently, I stare at Kellan’s shaking body, his bent head, the dark hair plastered to the back of his neck. His skin is paler than usual. Not a good sign. His vomit sits on the turf. The guys go at him, calling him a pussy, and he hunches into a tighter ball. Something is wrong. He’s turning inward when he’s anything but. Kellan, someone who laughs at others—and himself. There’s no laughing now.
“Hey!” I bark. It goes quiet. Coach gives me a nod of approval and, seeing I’m handling it, moves off to prepare for the scrimmage.
I’m fully aware of thirty pairs of eyes zeroing in on my back as I crouch at Kellan’s side. My hand hovers over his shoulder. A few of the guys amble away to get some water or kick one of the balls around. I don’t touch him because my touch isn’t that of a concerned captain. It’s someone who wants to know what his skin feels like, who wonders if the prickle of facial hair running along his jaw will feel as delicious as it looks.
That wouldn’t end well. Pining from afar is safer than rejection. His type of guy is loud, brash, cocky, just like him. Should it concern me that I’m shoving myself into that mold, just to get his attention? Am I losing parts of myself for my teammate’s attention?
The possibility of capturing Kellan’s attention has made me do stupid shit over the past year. At times, it feels like I’m no closer than where I started from.
“Kellan?” My concern morphs into apprehension.
Responding to my voice, Kellan lifts his eyes. When they meet mine, all the breath whooshes out of my lungs. They’re richly dark. Not yet black, but the darkest of brown, where the pupil and iris are almost indistinguishable. His eyelashes are so thick and dark, flaring out as they rest atop his cheekbones.
His stare is strange. Confused. I reach for him, but that snaps him out of his stupor, and he leans away, scrambling to his feet. “I’m okay,” he mutters, rubbing his head.
I catch the eye of our lead keeper, Nick. “Get him some water,” I bark. He immediately obeys.
Kellan doesn’t meet my eyes. Hands planted on his hips, his chest swells and deflates, the pulse at his throat hammering against sweaty skin. The ridge of his spine pokes against the thin, damp fabric of his jersey.
Stop being a creeper.
