There’s only one thing I can do. Walk away and hope it’s not too late.
My phone buzzes and I slide it from my pocket, my chest tightening when I read the text.
Pixie: We’ll find a way to shut this down. This is forever, striker. I love you.
I drop my head in my hands. She’s not going to make it easy for me to do the right thing.
My head’sa mess as I change into my playing kit the next morning. I didn’t get any sleep, and from the dark circles under his eyes, neither did Everett. I catch a few concerned looks from our teammates, but no one is game to make comment. Except our captain.
“All good, guys?” he asks, taking a seat between us as we slide our shin pads beneath our socks.
Everett answers with a clipped, “Yep,” at the same time I grunt, “Fine.”
He sighs, obviously thinking it’s some kind of beef between the two of us when he asks, “Is it something we can leave in the change rooms?”
Everett’s jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
I nod, even though my mind is a swirling vortex.
“Are you sure we’re not going to have a problem out there?”
“We’re good,” I assure him, even though we’re anything but. We’re both worried about Juliet and Tinsley. “No drama here. Promise.”
Except for our world imploding.
Noah studies us for a second longer, then claps his hands once against his thighs and stands. He hesitates a moment before dropping his voice low. “Whatever’s going on, just remember you have the team behind you. If you need anything, all you’ve got to do is ask.”
Everett and I exchange a glance. Noah’s had his own battles with his father, but there’s nothing anyone can do to help our situation.
“Thanks,” I grit out. “But we just want to focus on the game.”
If only it were that simple.
We both play like shit, but where I’m able to keep my head, Everett’s lashing out at anyone who crosses his path. He’s finally done halfway through the second half when a late slide tackle sees him earn a yellow card. When he moves to shirtfront the ref, I hurry over to intervene, pulling him away before he gets evicted from the game. A red-faced Coach Johnson subs him off, and I wince as I watch my best friend get reamed out on the sidelines.
I catch Noah’s eye, and he raises a brow, but I just shake my head and try focus back on the game.
It’s futile, though, and we end up losing to Westhope five-one, thanks to a lucky break away from Jasper. We trudge into the change rooms after the game feeling our season slipping away from us. Sitting sixth on the ladder at this late stage, we have no chance at contending for the championship this year.
We all slump on the wooden benches around the room as Coach Johnson paces in front of us. He hasn’t said a word, and frustration radiates from him. Coach Raynor wears a frown as he leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.
The only sounds are heavy breathing, the occasional throat clearing, and our coach’s heavy tread.
Finally, he stops pacing, his heavy gaze landing on each of us one-by-one.
“That,” he says flatly, “was not good enough.”
No one argues.
“There was no communication out there. You switchedoff after the first goal. It was like watching a bunch of bloody witches hats out there for them to run their training drills.” His eyes land on Everett and me for a fraction longer than the rest. “When you pull on this uniform and step out on that pitch,ourpitch, you play disciplined. I won’t have my players throwing the game into disrepute, and in front of our home crowd at that.”
Shame settles deep in my gut, and when I cast a quick glance at my housemate, I see it reflected in his expression as well.
Coach Raynor pushes off the wall. “The season’s not over. We have six games, but if you want to salvage your pride, it starts with accountability.”
Silence settles again. He’s not going to get any arguments from us.
Coach Johnson exhales through his nose. “Shower up. We’ll see you in the gym tomorrow afternoon, ready to work.”
