It’s a difficult thing, forcing my attention away. I need to get a life. Or a lay.
Somehow, I stop thinking of Kellan in a sexual light and think about the performance I just witnessed. How difficult it was for him to complete the exercise. It almost felt like I was watching someone else take control of his body. This year, my hope is that we’ll make it to the National Championship. Last time that happened for the men’s soccer team was over twenty years ago. With the first game counting toward rank only three weeks away, Kellan’s performance, or lack thereof, concerns me. Whatever is affecting him, I hope he can get it out of his system before then.
“Bring it in, team.” Coach calls us over to center field. A breeze ruffles the hair peeking out from under his cap.
All thirty members gather in a circle around him.
“All right, team. I don’t need to tell you that there’s a lot banking on this game. It’s been a long time since Notre Dame has gotten this far, but never have we had a team this solid. My goal is to get into the finals. At least the semi-finals. I believe we have what it takes, but first we need to work out a few kinks. For today’s scrimmage, I want to focus on spreading out. Too often I see you clumping together, moving the ball in short passes, but that makes you a target, hear me? Get the balloutof there.”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach,” goes around.
“Gold team will be upper classmen. Blue team is lower classmen.”
Lucky me I’m in the upper classmen. The lower classmen aren’t bad, but they have a lot to learn. The talent is there. It just needs to be refined.
We take our positions. Sebastian and Kellan converse in low voices, and Sebastian points to a spot on the field, which Kellan moves to. Weird.
The whistle blows. The lower classmen, dressed in blue, start with possession of the ball. As captain, I’ve noticed the strengths and weaknesses of all our players. My own weakness is that I don’t follow up as much as I should when taking a shot. I’ll go halfway, decide that’s enough, and then get kicked in the ass because of it.
My team moves forward as a whole, each player choosing a man to cover. The blue team sends the ball back to their mid-fielders, crossing from the right side of the field to the left. I’m left forward. Seb is striker. Javier is right. We each cover our man. We force them to pass, again and again. A passed ball is a vulnerable ball. If someone waits too long to pass, it’s already too late.
The blue team keeps it away from us for a few minutes, but then Sebastian puts on a burst of speed, taking possession of the ball when it’s being passed between two defensemen. We’re right at the goal line. In their panic, the lower classmen start to clump together, trying to stop the shot that’s about to happen. Meanwhile, Coach is screaming from the sidelines, “Spread out! For the love of God, give each other space!”
Blood is a rush in my ears, setting my limbs alight. I cut a diagonal, heading for an opening and calling to Seb, “Open!”
One glance is all it takes for Seb to send me the ball. Javier follows, in case it’s intercepted, but it lands in the available space beautifully. We’ve practiced this exact move many times and have it down to a science. I take the shot.
One of their defensemen, a scrappy kid named Mario, comes out of nowhere and heads it away. I didn’t even see him.
The ball now moves toward our side of the field. “Nice block,” I tell him.
He smiles shyly. “Thanks, Captain.”
“Move, ladies! Pay attention!” This from Sebastian.
We turn our attention back the other way. I’m not too concerned.
They manage to get past our mid-fielders. Again, not too concerned. Our defense is impenetrable most days. We once won a game with only two defenders due to injury. Kellan pushed himself to one thousand percent. I swear he was running the entire ninety minutes. You do what you have to do for the win.
Except as Carl sprints down the field, dribbling, Kellan stands there, looking panicked. His feet are rooted. Jason screams at him tomove.
Carl runs right by Kellan as if he’s nothing but a pillar.
“What the hell was that!” Jason yells with an incredulous look. He sprints toward Carl, who by all accounts should be Kellan’s man, but Kellan stands there watching him go, as if unsure of what to do. Jason almost reaches Carl in time, but it’s too little, too late. He takes the shot and the ball manages to slip past our keeper’s fingers.
“Fuck!” This from Jason.
I stand there, as do some of our other players, staring at the goal and wondering what the hell just happened, while the blue team cheers in victory and jogs back to their side of the field. I turn to Sebastian. He’s clenching his jaw like a mad man. Does he know something’s up with Kellan? What were they talking about in the locker room? What are they hiding?
Out of curiosity, I look to where Coach Wheeler has planted himself at center field. He’s speechless. Maybe it’s a blessing. He’s so surprised he doesn’t have a chance to yell at us before we set up again.
“You okay, Dumont?” I call to Kellan as we prepare to kick off.
His face pours sweat. He swipes a forearm across his forehead. “Fine.” The word is curt. His lips flatten into a line.
Okay then.
We kick off. I pass it to Javier, who sends it to Sebastian. Out of the three of us, he’s the fastest. But I’m still distracted by what happened with Kellan and don’t notice the ball being returned to me. It’s intercepted. The blue team uses the same tactic, heading toward Kellan’s side of the field. “Get the ball!” I shout to Kellan.
