“Is everything okay with Em?”
His girlfriend stayed over last night and dropped us off at the stadium this morning so we could catch the bus, and it didn’t seem like there was any tension between the two of them.
“Yeah, it’s not her.”
I frown, unsure what else could have him so strung out. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He sighs and slips his AirPods out of his pocket. “Not really.”
Shrugging, I don’t push. If he wants to talk, he will. As someone who keeps his cards close to his chest, I’m not going to force anything out of him. Following his lead, I put my own AirPods in and close my eyes, focusing on getting mentally prepared for the game.
Nothing could prepare us for how bad tonight’s game would go.
The Westhope University pitch is narrower than ours; the stands are close enough that you can hear individual voices cutting through the air. But the home team’s taunts don’t bother me. If anything, they spur me on. The only thing that bothers me tonight, besides the grass being a little too long and a little too damp, is the fact we’re playing like shit.
We’re sluggish, our passes aren’t connecting, we’re spending too long on the ball, and we can’t find the bloody net. Frustrations are boiling over on the pitch, and Westhope are capitalising.
Admittedly, I’m distracted. As much as I try not to, when the ball’s in our defensive end, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting to Euphoria. It’s a masked night, and even though I know Pixie won’t be there, I can’t get heroff my mind. I’ve accepted I have no way of finding her, but it’ll take time for my mind to catch up.
Noah’s pissed. We’re down three-one in the second half, but despite the easy tap-in I got in the fifty-eighth minute, we haven’t even looked like scoring. I don’t know why we’re playing so badly. Our training sessions this week were tight, and no one’s carrying an injury.
Westhope is sitting middle of the table while we’re on top, but we’re not playing like back-to-back champions tonight.
There’s a scramble in the middle, and Griff wins a free kick. I peel off my defender, drifting into the half-space. The ball comes in fast and low, and I take it on the turn, making my run. My eyes scan ahead for an opening, and I take my shot, my left foot swinging through, but it’s blocked.
The defender throws himself in the way, clearing it over the sideline. The crowd roars, masking my shouted curse. My lungs burn, the cold night air sharp in my throat, but I welcome it. The pain grounds me, keeps me on task.
I get into position for the throw-in, but it’s futile. Westhope’s defenders win the ball, and we’re left chasing yet again. Everett is subbed out first, and my eyes widen when he tosses his drink bottle into the fence. I’ve never seen him lose his cool like this. He’s usually the carefree jokester on the team. You want comedic relief? He’s your guy.
When Westhope scores again, I’m subbed off, and I take a seat on the bench next to my housemate.
“You good?” I ask, sucking down some water.
“Yep,” he mutters flatly. “Fucking brilliant.”
I arch a brow. “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you?”
He meets my gaze. “Maybe I’m a private person who doesn’t like sharing.”
Ouch. I guess I deserved that.
Leaving him to sulk, I turn my attention back to the game and watch as Ashcroft scores an absolute banger for us, but it’s too little too late. Our winning streak is over, and we lose five-two. We hang our heads as we trudge into the change rooms.
There’s no joking or laughter as we listen to Coach’s address, then rush to shower and change. There’s no excuse for this loss. We didn’t play for each other, plain and simple.
The bus ride back to the hotel is quiet, each of us reflecting on our own game and what we could’ve done better. Knowing the boys as well as I do, we’re all blaming ourselves. It sucks, but that’s the nature of sport.
When the bus reaches the hotel, Coach hands out room assignments and says he’s booked dinner at the restaurant for seven. Everyone beelines for the lifts, but I notice Everett on the phone in the corner of the reception area having what looks like a heated conversation.
I grab the second keycard off Doyle for our room and tell him I’ll be up in a second. He nods, and I head over to where Everett’s pacing, his phone glued to his ear.
“—expect me to do anything to help you… No fucking way. I won’t let you use her as a pawn in your sick mind games. You’re done trying to control me.”
His eyes flick to me, then he scowlsand turns his back on me.
“Just try it. I’ll take great pleasure in exposing the monster you really are.”
He hangs up on whoever he was talking to, and I half expect him to throw his phone in anger. His shoulders are tight with tension, but when he finally turns to face me, his expression is blank.
