9
Ethan
There are at least a dozen things I should be doing right now. Officially enrolling, picking up my schedule, checking my course materials, fixing my laptop or, I don’t know, buying sheets for my bed, but instead I’m back down at the training centre, drilling balls into the back of the net with so much force, I knock the damn thing down.
I don’t know why I let Mia get to me. Every time I walk over to the goal to scoop the ball out from the back of the net, I see her face. The disapproving frown, brows pulled together, blue eyes narrowed, full lips pouting. Where does she get off, judging me like that? The girl had clearly made up her mind about who I am before we even shared the same oxygen. If we knew each other, if she was one of Bre’s friends, or lived local and knew my folks, at least she’d have a reason for her bad attitude. Acting like she’s better than me, just because she’s smart and kind of cute, is some bullshit. I shouldn’t have tried to talk to her. I wouldn’t have bothered if she hadn’t kept crossing her bare legs in that damn meeting, and now I can’t stop imagining what she’s hiding under that baggy blue sweater. Something in my shorts stirs and not for the first time, I’m disappointed in my own dick. Maybe I’m a masochist and didn’t know it. Maybe I get off on women who don’t like me. I wouldn’t know, it’s never happened before.
Mia Meyers. At least I won’t forget that name in a hurry.
Dropping the soccer ball to the ground, I still it with the studs on the bottom of my boot and hold it in place. Focusing on the exact spot I want to hit, I pull back my leg, twisting at the hips and kick. Where does she get off being so rude? The ball flies over the top of the net and rolls all the way to the trees at the edge of our practice pitch.
Goddamn it.
‘If you’re here to make up for this morning, you’re making a poor job of it.’
I turn to see Clive watching me from the sidelines.
‘A striker who can’t score against an open goal isn’t much good to me, son.’ He rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. ‘Much like a striker who turns up to practice hungover.’
‘Hungover?’
An excuse, any excuse, is on the tip of my tongue but there’s something about the neutral set of his features that stops me before I can start.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say instead. ‘Won’t happen again.’
This apology shit really is starting to feel way too familiar.
‘I know it won’t,’ he replies. ‘And it’s Clive, not sir, you’re not in the army. I meant what I said this morning, everyone gets a chance. Having just got off the phone with your father, seems to me you need one more than most.’
It’s the last thing I expect to hear and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body.
‘You spoke with my dad?’
A nod.
‘Did he call you?’
‘He did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That you need a firm hand and a lot of discipline,’ he replies. ‘I also got the distinct feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me. Anything you’d care to share?’
‘Nothing, sir. Clive. Nothing, Clive.’
The ground beneath my feet has turned into a trampoline and it’s a struggle to find my centre of balance. Any second now, I’m going to topple over and never get back up. What the fuck, Dad? Clive sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Whatever happened before you walked through my door is no concern of mine. There’s not a lad on this earth who hasn’t fucked up royally at one time or another. All I need out of you is a commitment to the game and all the skill I saw in the tapes you sent from Marshall. That means I see you at every practice, every game, every team meeting. I see you ten minutes early and I see you sober.’
Dipping my head to stare at the grass, hands clasped behind my back, I return his nod.
‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘I suspected as much. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be making you captain, would I?’
For a moment, I think I must be hearing things but when I look up, Clive’s weather-beaten face doesn’t look nearly as pissed as it did before. In fact, I realize, this might be his version of smiling. Jesus.
‘Captain?’
