Beside me, Coach blows the whistle, and reality crashes back in. The opening play is cleaner than I expect. The ball snaps from our midfield straight into Meg’s stick, and she moves quickly, cutting through the first line of Radley’s defense before they’ve fully settled into formation. At least something has come out of our grueling back-to-back training days. Claire shifts wide creating space for herself while Samson shifts up field to support her. It’s just like we practiced. Put the pressure on early, lead with aggression.
Except Radley has been a team for years, and Marcus doesn’t even need to signal for them to adapt. A good team acts like a hive mind, knowing the plays inside and out. Two players close in, doubling on Meg before she can break through the center. Sticks clash, the crack of it slicing through the rain as they box her in. She pivots in an attempt to shake them off, but the turf betrays her.
A slight slip throws her off balance and the pass she sends out is a fraction too high. Claire fumbles the catch under pressure,and I watch helplessly as the ball hits the ground. My lids shut as I force air through my nose. Watching on isn’t in my nature. I can’t control what I’m not a part of.
“Reset!” Meg barks, shouldering the play by herself. My eyes burst open, suddenly remembering I’m not carrying this alone. Win or lose, probably the latter, we’re sharing this burden.
Radley surges forward, passing and catching with the kind of flow that’s going to take us all year to achieve. Each movement feeds into the next like a well-oiled machine that knows exactly how to function. The Vultures scramble to match their energy, but it’s clear from the start, we’re always going to be half a step behind in every direction. The first goal comes far too quickly, and the remainder of the first half fails to recover.
Stomping off the pitch and dragging her helmet off, Meg snatches the drinks bottle I offer her.
“We’re getting killed out there,” she grumbles. Coach holds out his umbrella, not that he’s shielding her from much. She’s soaked to the bone, a line of mud tracking up her side from where she slipped and skidded through the grass. The rest of the team look even worse, also temporarily hiding beneath the umbrellas of spectators.
“We knew it was going to be rough. It’s our first match of the season,” I reply, keeping my face impassive. Droplets pour from my jawline, my jersey plastered to my chest.
“A match you rushed us into.” Meg’s eyes are like lasers, spearing me right between the eyes. There’s no use arguing. We both know she’s right, but I had my reasons. I…I thought I had my reasons, as unjustified as they seem now. I suppose I just wanted her to prove that she could do it, step on a pitch and face an opponent again. Prove it to herself, to me, to Coach. Meg’s still in there somewhere.
I hold her stare without flinching, letting the rain fill the silence between us. Whatever team spirit Meg manages toconjure up passes across her face, and after another drink, she nods.
“Well, it’s your match. Your turn to shine.” Jerking her head towards the stick clutched in my wet hands, she plants herself confidently under Coach’s umbrella, her brow raised in challenge. I accept it without contesting. In fact, I’ve been itching to get out there and push back against Radley, laying into them with the same ferocity they’ve focused on Meg and Claire, as if I wouldn’t notice.
Around us, the team draws closer, shoulders pulling back as the lull of halftime subsides. It’s clear that they’re just as pissed at me as Meg is, but they won’t be openly vocal about it. Glancing across the pitch, Radley signals they’re ready and Coach makes the call to get into position.
Turning on my heel, I don’t bother with my helmet as I jog onto the pitch, mud dragging at my cleats with every step. “Good luck,” Meg calls after me, not that there’s any good faith in it. Marcus is already circling near center, rolling his neck like he’s shaking off boredom. His eyes lock onto mine the second I step into range, an infuriating grin pulling at his mouth.
“Oh, we’re playing for real now?” He chuckles, practically dancing from foot to foot as if we’re not in the middle of a downpour that’s not letting up. “It was cute to send out your cheerleader first, but if you don’t mind, I came here to play a real game.”
I don’t respond, closing the final stretch between us until we’re toe to toe, the rain dripping from the end of my nose, soaking the collar of my jersey. Somehow my silence only serves to deepen his grin, like he’s been waiting to goad me since he got here. His stick spinning lazily in his grip before he plants it against the turf.
“Nothing to say, Calloway? Your big talk about winning before we wipe the floor with you is my favorite part.” I meetMarcus’ dark eyes, ignoring the glint in them. His hair is cropped short, cleaner than the last time I faced him, and he seems to have been hitting the gym more regularly too. I wish I could say the same on the gym front, but I’ve been rather distracted of late.
The whistle sounds, snapping the Vultures into motion. The ball is scooped up by Marcus a fraction of a second faster than I can get to it, promptly sailing past my ear as he passes. Both teams surge forward, boots tearing through wet turf and sticks clashing in quick succession. It’s almost impossible to track through the rain, our strategies becoming guesswork. Danny cuts left, Claire hangs back, and Samson braces at the front line. I briefly think he’ll be our best line of defense, until Marcus drives in from the right flank, barreling through Samson as if he’s not a six-foot-two wall of muscle.
We scramble to recover, to close gaps that shouldn’t have been allowed to form, but Marcus is already moving. The ball whooshes into the net as if our goalkeeper doesn’t even exist. I exhale, an aggravated noise being drawn from deep in my chest. Some apologies are needed, but at least I can say we chose our team members well. We’re being thrashed by both Radley and the weather, yet every player resets with their heads held high.
We return to the center, rain dripping from lashes, shoulders tight and breath heavy in our lungs. Marcus shakes out his arms, and I plant my stick into the turf harder than necessary, taking my frustrations out in all the wrong places.
“So this is the unisex team everyone is raving about? It was hardly worth the journey over here.” Marcus sighs dramatically, still pushing for a reaction. Dragging his gaze toward the sidelines, a small smile grows across his face as he finds his angle. “Don’t worry, Calloway. When I win, I’ll make sure to give your cheerleader a victory lap around my dick.”
“She’s my co-captain,” I spit back instantly. Marcus grins wider. First, he already knew that, and second, he’s finally managed to coax me into his verbal sparring. Damn him.
“Well then, maybe I’ll let her call some of the shots, if I’m feeling generous.” His head tilts condescendingly, the testosterone rolling off him clogging my throat. One of his players drops the ball between us, and I don’t miss the look they share before they both glance over at Meg. I don’t look for her reaction, focusing on keeping my eye from twitching.
I know what he’s doing, yet I can’t walk away. No oneletsMeg do anything. She takes what’s hers, carves out her own space, and I’ll be damned if I let him twist that into something cheap.
“What’s wrong, Calloway? Worried that she’ll get a look at what a real captain is supposed to look like and will throw herself at me?”
I take a step forward without thinking, closing the gap between us until there’s nothing casual left in the space.
“You’ll stay away from her,” I murmur in a tone meant just for him. Marcus pushes his tongue into his cheek and his brow raises.
“Will I? From what I’ve heard, she has a kink for a little kidnapping and gagging.”
I still, the pounding of the rain having no effect against the roaring in my ears. A dark entity flares within my chest. My grip tightens around my stick, knuckles whitening despite the rain slicking everything down.
Marcus has done his research, and he knows exactly what nerve to strike. The whistle has been blown for the round to start, but I don’t move. Marcus’ chest bumps mine, using my hesitation to attempt swiping the ball out from underneath us, but he doesn’t get a chance to complete the play. Lifting the stick, I swing hard, the shaft connecting with Marcus’ throat. Isense the inhale of breath around me rather than hear it. At last, it’s my turn for a smile to carve itself across my face.
Marcus staggers back, choking from the impact but he recovers fast. Rage contorts his features, but at least the smugness is gone.
