Okay, maybe that was a little premature—because not even a minute into the match, I’m already trying not to lose it.
Guess what this asshole just did.
You know that moment before kickoff, when both teams line up and shake hands? Yeah—when it was time for him to shake mine, he crossed his arms and looked away. Didn’t even glance at me. Fucking disrespectful prick.
And the whole stadium saw it.
Even though we’re on the Dragons’ home field, our fans are loud enough to boo him for that little stunt. Still, my heart’s pounding—tight and angry in my chest.
“You okay, Cap?” João asks, shooting me a worried look.
That pulls me back.
This is exactly what Moon wants. The whole handshake thing—it’s probably just a setup to screw with me, to throw me off my game. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
After how I lost it last match, I know the team’s a little on edge—especially João. He joined the Centaurs this season, so he doesn’t really know me yet.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, giving him a quick smile.
João smiles back, a hint of hesitation in his eyes, then gives me a slightly clumsy clap on the shoulder. He’s a head shorter than me, with a mess of black curls and big brown eyes.
But just as we’re about to jog to the center of the field for the coin toss, I feel Moon’s gaze snap toward us. He’s already stepped aside with the rest of his team, but his eyes flick from me to João and back again—then away—before his lips curl into this faint little smile.
A rush of anger burns in my chest.
João’s one of three openly gay players on our team—the other two being, well, me and Eric. And while I’m not even slightly worried about anyone messing with Eric—because, yeah, no one’s dumb enough to start shit with a six-foot-four slab of muscle who looks like he could bench-press a car—I have to admit, I feel protective as hell over João.
He’s kind, sensitive—one of those rare people who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.
So if Moon even thinks about pulling the same crap with him that he does with me, he’s gonna have to think again.
Because I will kick his ass.
The match starts, and from the first few seconds, it’s clear this isn’t just a friendly. Both teams are locked in—tense, totally focused.
Barely two minutes in, João sends a perfect pass to Eric. Eric takes it and fires it across to Jackson, slicing right through the Dragons’ defense. Kim and Brooks, the Dragons’ defenders, close in fast, trying to shut Jackson down, but he fakes them out and chips it back to Eric—already in the box—who slams it in with one of his signature headers, like a fucking cannon.
My heart skips as the ball rockets toward the Dragons’ goal.
Price, their keeper, dives for it, and for a second, I think he’s got it—fingertips outstretched, almost on target.
But the shot’s too strong. It clips off his fingertips—hard—and still slams into the net.
The stadium explodes in white and blue as our team rushes toward the center of the field, clapping Eric, Jackson, and João on the back, pulling them into quick hugs, yelling over each other and grinning like idiots.
We needed that—scoring early, just to feel like we’ve still got it.
As Eric jogs past, I slap his ass, still grinning. He shoots me a breathless grin back, chest rising fast. We’ve got this running joke that his ass deserves an assist every time he scores with a header—because obviously, that’s where all the power comes from.
We all trade looks that say the same thing—this is just the start. We need more goals if we’re gonna pay the Dragons back for knocking us out of the championship.
And we can’t let up now. After a goal that fast—and that humiliating—they’re definitely coming for blood.
But to my surprise, over the next ten minutes, the Dragons’ attacks are pretty toothless. And the reason for that is Sawyer Moon.
Martinez and Torres—the Dragons’ inseparable attacking midfielder and right winger duo—make at least four solid runs into our half. But every time they feed the ball to Moon, the whole thing falls apart. Because I’m on him. Sticking close, keeping the pressure tight—and he can’t handle it. Sends lazy passes to Johnson, loses possession, or—once—even trips over the ball, earning a disappointed sigh from the black-green-and-red section of the stadium.
After the fourth failed attempt—when I block his shot and send it to Billy Miller, who takes off downfield—Moon, still lingering beside me, mutters a curse I don’t think was meant for me to hear.
