“He likes to test players,” Colten warns me, frowning as he watches Rick. “Push them to see if they snap. Make sure you don’t.”
“I don’t snap,” I say.
Colten looks at me, blinking slowly before saying, “Not today, you don’t.”
I grin. “You sound nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he spits nervously.
Honestly, it’s kind of funny how wound up Colten is because I’m…not.
I mean, okay, a little. There are guys here I recognize as part of the academy circuits. Kids who’ve been training like pros since they were, like, a literal baby. You can tell, too, as a few of them tap around a ball, each touch textbook clean.
They’re good, really good.
But instead of that making me panic like it probably would’ve a year ago, all I can think is that playing with them will be really cool.
It’s fun getting to play with people who love the game as much as I do. Honestly, I’m just excited to play with them. Maybe a little worried about accidentally ruining all their nice and expensive equipment, but it’s going to be awesome!
“Patrick, are you even listening?” Colten snaps.
“I am listening,” I say, pulling my focus back to my best friend, who is glaring at me as he fixes my jersey, which I personally thought looked fine.
“You need to show consistency,” he reminds me, smoothing out the already wrinkle-free fabric. “Not just flashes. There’s the first touch, your decision-making, positioning—everything matters right now.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say, giving him a little salute.
“I’m serious,” Colten presses, crossing his arms. He’s so tense, his shoulders are almost up to his ears. I’d never say it out loud, but he looks a little ridiculous.
“I know,” I say, softer. I have to keep myself from pushing his shoulders back down. He's so high-strung right now that I’m not sure he would welcome such a touch, even if it’s all I can think to do.
Usually when he’s like this, I bully him into doing drills with me or let him show me one of his documentaries.
But this is how he takes care of me. Supporting me, being serious enough for both of us, and focusing on the details I usually glaze over.
I just wish he could enjoy himself here, too.
Will it always be this way?
“Over there,” Colten starts, nodding toward a cluster of players, “Number 14 is a left-footed winger and fast. Don’t let him cut inside. And 22 is a center mid; he’ll dog you down the entire field, so if you press, make sure to commit.”
I glance over. “Are those guys from when you were in the academy?”
“Some,” he says, his lips thin as he looks over the many talented athletes around us. “I’ve also been watching all the regional games and studying the top players.”
He’s watching everyone but me, as if purposely avoiding looking at me. I want to grab his hand, or bump his shoulder, or justsomethingthat sayshey, we’re good, right?
Instead, I say, “You’re such a soccer nerd.” Like I haven’t watched those same matches with him.
He snorts, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Get on the field, Farmboy.”
There he is. I grin, bump his shoulder, and jog off as my group gets called.
***
Drills are first.
We do passing patterns, first touch under pressure, and agility runs with cones. I feel like one of those dogs doing tricks for a competition.
