I didn’t last long. I erupted with a groan that cracked against the tiled walls as climax ripped me open. My legs gave out, and I went to my knees, still pumping white fluid over my hand. When I was spent, I knelt there until the water ran cold.
All I have to do is finish out my two weeks, as promised. So, ten days of avoiding Max. If I act aloof, maybe he’ll get the picture and stop tempting me with his long, heated glances.
Pain splits open my face, and I drop to the grassy turf with a cry.
Shit. I can’t see. My ears are ringing. It’s then I realize I was hit in the face with the soccer ball. I must have zoned out during practice.
I try getting to my feet, but everything is black and I’m short of breath, tingles running across my face from the force of the ball’s impact. A slow inhale drives a sharp pain into my ribs, and I cough. That makes it worse. The taste of copper floods my mouth.
I’m bleeding. Great. I spit out a mouthful of blood, wondering if I’ve lost any teeth in addition to my good sense.
Feet pound into the soil, and someone calls my name. Not Sebastian. Max.
I lay on my back and wait for death.
His face pokes into my line of sight. Those green eyes rest on me, questioning, and trace down my nose, to my mouth, which I swear he lingers on. A sudden flare of heat warms my chest, makes me jolt in surprise, but then he’s trailing his gaze down my sweaty neck, my torso, legs, all the way to my cleated feet.
A few seconds later, his teammates hurry over, a few laughing. “Hard spill there, Kellan,” says a guy I believe is named Cameron. I know nothing of his position, his year, his major. Same as all the other guys. Except for Sebastian, of course. And Max.
They all chuckle as they look down at me, seeing that I’m not broken in half. One player, the tallest guy on the team—he’s at least six-four—bumps Max’s shoulder with his own. “Maybe you should make Kellan run laps for screwing up.”
The words are meant for my brother, yet they’re for me too. They dig their way under my skin. I’m fourteen years old all over again. I feel sick.
Max chuckles too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Where is the person who kept me company on the back porch just days ago? Where is the kind soul who tickled his adoring niece? Is he the same person? Two separate people? If I just watched one of my teammates get hurt, I wouldn’t be laughing.
“Dumont!” Coach Wheeler bellows.
“Yes, Coach?” answers a high-pitched, girlish voice.
“Not you,” he snarls at Sebastian, who giggles at his lame joke.
The man’s beefy hands yank me upright. Blood darkens his face. His eyes bulge in his head, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“Get over here,” he growls, hauling me over to the nearest bench. He’s so close I can see the clogged pores of his nose. “You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on with you, Kellan. I’ve been watching you fuck up for the last few days, and I’ve had it. It’s like you have no idea how to play the game.”
I’ve used every excuse in the book. I’ve been stressed over school. I’m sick. I have a lot on my mind. I was up late studying and that’s why I can’t coordinate my limbs. I sprained my ankle. And then I sprained my other ankle. At this point, I’ve run out of excuses.
I’m not Kellan,I want to say.I’m Kellan’s identical twin, and I fucking hate running around and getting sweaty. I don’t know how to kick a ball. Fuck, I don’t even know what a penalty kick is. But do you need me to code a website for you? Because I can do that.
I settle on, “I know, Coach. And the only thing I can say is—”
“Coach, it’s not his fault.” Max’s voice reaches me. Gritting my teeth, I stare at the ground, but he appears at my side, speaking over me. He smells too good. I hate sweat, so the only logical explanation is pheromones. “I called his name and he got distracted. That’s all.”
I glance up through my eyelashes. Coach Wheeler purses his lips, skeptical about the whole thing. I don’t blame him. It sounds like a lie—because it is. What I wouldn’t give to be at home right now, fingers flying over my keyboard. I’ve been so exhausted following practices that I barely have time to finish homework before passing out. Thus, Miaku has been pushed to the wayside.
The man stares me down, forcing my eyes elsewhere. Behind him, the scrimmage continues. The thwack of a ball against the net suggests someone scored. And—of course. That’s Sebastian’s boasting voice I hear.
“That doesn’t excuse the other mistakes he’s made,” Coach Wheeler says. “If this keeps up Kellan, I’m going to have to consider probation. I know you have talent—everyone does. And I know some people have bad weeks. But something isn’t right here. What I want is for you to take the week off. Work through whatever problems you’re dealing with. When you return on Monday, I expect you to be back as your old self. Understand?”
The thought of ruining Kellan’s future career, getting him kicked off the team, never crossed my mind. My stomach churns at the possibility. “Sure. Sounds great.”
Coach Wheeler blows his whistle. “Practice is over anyway. Jason, you lead the cool down. Max, help Kellan get cleaned up. First aid kit’s on my desk.”
The team jogs back to center field. Leaning down, Max hauls me to my feet. I sway, and his arm goes around my waist. “Careful,” he says near my ear.
But I push him away, firm, stumbling a little until I right myself. I don’t like people touching me. That’s a boundary no one is allowed to cross. “I can walk.”
“Your ankle might be sprained.”
