I let the masked pixie get under my skin, and I have to accept it’s over. Move on. Build my walls back up.
Beckford is supposed to be a fresh start, and I can’t fuck it up.
Chapter 10
Blake
The BHU goalkeeperisgood.
Not Zac Kincaid good, but he’s definitely on par with Galdeen. By half-time, the score is nil-all, but not without lack of trying from both teams.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with my arm as I follow my team back onto the pitch for the second half. Coach Johnson’s half-time speech was nothing short of inspirational, and I wonder if he’s been watching sports movies again. I smirk as I recall how much shit we gave him last season after Jasper and Ritter busted him watchingRemember the Titansin his office the week before our championship game.
“What’s so funny?” Everett asks, nudging my shoulder with his.
“Just wondering whether Coach has been studying film again.”
He snorts. “Probably.”
I hold my fist up. “Let’s go lock this down.”
“Let’sdo this, baby!” he hoots, pounding my fist with his.
I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I take my position on the pitch.
The game is fast-paced, and my body is screaming at me after the smash room yesterday, but I relish the pain. It spurs me on, makes me want to push myself harder.
Time counts down in the second half, with the scores remaining nil-all. Noah executes a well-timed slide tackle, and the ball spills out to Kristof on the left. He takes a touch, then slots a through-ball to Griffin, who’s under fire. The BHU defensive pressure is intense, but Griff gets a pass back to Noah, who resets down the right.
I’m on my toes, jostling for position against my defender, watching for the perfect moment to time my run. The ball moves quickly, and I back away from play, confusing my defender. When he turns his head to look for me, I make my move.
I twist around and sprint towards the box. Everett spots me and crosses the ball. I run onto it, aiming for the left post, but the keeper gets the tip of his gloves to it, and it spills over the line for a corner kick.
As Jasper sets up, I find my spot at the corner of the box, waiting for his signal. I know he favours an in-swinger, and we’ve practised this to death at training.
He tugs once at his left sleeve, and I start my run before he moves, drifting back a step to buy space. When his boot connects with the ball, it arcs in, curling towards goal, seeming to hang in the air. The keeper shouts, takes a step, then freezes—caught between claiming and covering his line.
That hesitation is all I need.
I cut across my defender, feeling his arm brush my ribs, and launch. The ball skims my forehead clean and I flick it towards the net. There’s a flurry of movement as opposition players scramble to block the shot. The keeper reacts late, flinging himself sideways, but the ball has already crossed the line.
My teammates swamp me, and we celebrate.
For the next fifteen minutes, we tussle it out, my lungs burning from exertion. BHU’s goalkeeper has lost confidence, and his teammates are too busy shouting at each other to play well. They get sloppy, and we capitalise.
Everett scores a penalty, and I slot in another right before the ref blows the final whistle. Our winning streak continues. No team has ever won back-to-back-to-back championships, but we’re sitting one game clear on the ladder halfway through the season.
The change room is loud, with everyone shouting over one another. I sit on the bench, icing my shin, which copped a stray boot in the dying minutes of the game.
Everett drops next to me with a grin and swings an arm around my shoulder. “You had to one-up me, didn’t you?”
I smirk. “You want to play with the big boys.”
He barks out a laugh and shoves me away. “Cocky bastard.”
Coach Johnson gives his post-match speech, then I escape to the showers. The noise dulls to a low echo, steam rising as the water hammers my shoulders. I rest my forehead against the tiles and close my eyes. The last two months have been intense.
Most of my teammates have cleared out by the time I’m finished, but Everett and Noah are waiting for me.
