Sebastian smiles winningly.
Kellan frowns. “I hate you both.”
Dread sits in my stomach like a writhing pit of snakes. I stand on one end of the indoor field with the rest of Kellan’s team, wearing Kellan’s jersey, his cleats, his socks that I sincerely hope he washed before giving to me, though knowing him, he never thought of it.
I’m sweating heavily, and we haven’t even started practice yet. It’s my anxiety. The terribleWhat if?I’m less concerned about passing myself off as Kellan and more concerned about sustaining a grievous injury I’ll never heal from. For some reason, last night I thought it a good idea to watch some soccer matches. You know, to prepare myself.
Big mistake. I watched men get flattened on the field. Kellan’s teammates are at least ten to twenty pounds heavier than me. Kellan is more muscular than I am, but I’m hoping no one will notice our weight differences with the jersey on. In terms of body shape and height, we’re pretty much the same.
A man strides over, clipboard in hand, whistle in mouth.
“That’s Coach Wheeler,” Sebastian mutters from the corner of his mouth. He’s been slowly running through details I might need to know. I appreciate it, even though he’s only looking out for himself.
“Boys,” says the man, a middle-aged character with graying hair and hard eyes, “we’re starting off today’s practice with your favorite.”
I hear someone whisper, “Oh God.”
My stomach drops to a puddle at my feet.
“That’s right, Caleb,” he replies with a scary wide smile. “Suicides.”
That… doesn’t sound good. From the corner of my eye, I watch for the others’ reactions. Dismay, trepidation, it’s all there, clouding every expression. I’ll have to watch Sebastian to see what I’m supposed to do. As long as it doesn’t involve kicking the ball, I’m good.
“Coach,” calls a guy from down the line. “Maybe we could—”
The whistle blows.
Nearly thirty players shoot forward. I’m on their tail when suddenly they crouch and touch the white line closest to the goal, turn around, and sprint back to where we started. I follow their lead, trying not to make it obvious that I have no idea what we’re doing. Sebastian catches my eye. He must see my absolute terror because he laughs and pulls ahead of the pack.
My body is resisting the exercise. I have natural muscle tone because of good genes, but that’s where it ends. I can’t remember the last time I ran. Middle school? I focus on not tripping over my feet as I touch the white line and return to the goal. I thought it would end there, but the players touch the boundary line and turn again, heading back out to the field. I’m last out of all of them.
“Pick it up, Dumont!” the coach roars. I cringe and go faster, but my heart is sprinting faster than my feet, and I feel faint. Liquid sloshes in my stomach.
“Yeah, Kellan,” Sebastian echoes. “Pick it up!” He slaps me on the ass and darts away before I can claw him. My snarling response is lost to the air heaving in and out of my lungs.
The green turf bleeds into my eyes. The blur of legs stretches into strange shapes on the edges of my vision.
I am dying a slow and painful death.
My world has become the sweat coursing down my face, my back, my legs, my neck, my chest. It is the unbearable burn seizing my calves. It is the shredding muscle of my lungs as they tear open and repair themselves in quick succession, so that each breath is more painful than the last.
Somehow I manage to trip over my own feet and I’m soaring forward, slamming into the back of one of the players, who goes down with me.
“The hell, Kellan?” the guy snarls, slapping aside my hands as I try to use him for leverage. He kicks me away and continues on with the exercise. The captain, Max, slows his pace, turning toward me in confusion. I hurriedly scramble to my feet, wishing for this torture to end.
What did the coach call these again?
“Pick it up!” the man bellows, hands cupped around his mouth, “or I’ll make you do another three rounds!”
Fucking hate Kellan.
Despite my body’s protest, I manage to move from a crawl to a slightly faster crawl. Fuck this shit. Seriously.
Fuck.
This.
Shit.
