“It’s obvious, you should’ve caught it before,” he warns before shaking his head. “This is a team sport after all, and if you can’t even manage that then no pro team will, or even should, accept you.”
“Of course,” I say, politely nodding along, the very picture of a guy who definitely will not snap today.
Colten watches me like he’s waiting for me to smack Rick, or like he’s going to smack me.
Well, too bad for him, but I was homeschooled with my three siblings, and I can do thisall day.
Rick hums, like he’s almost disappointed. Then his gaze flicks to Colten.
“You quit the academy, andthisis what you drag in?” Rick asks.
Colten goes still, and my smile fades.
Rick tilts his head, a vicious look in his eyes. “But I guess it’s not that surprising, since the academy didn’t work out for you. You were always too slow and too short. Never got that growth spurt, huh? Probably because of all those goth chains weighing you down.”
Colten says nothing, lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Hey, Rick,” I say calmly. “What do you mean by that?”
Colten’s eyes widen, practically shooting daggers at me that scream,‘Don’t you dare!’
“I mean exactly what I said,” Rick says as he sneers at me, one eyebrow raised. “What, are you dumb, too?”
“Hm,” I say as I crush the now empty water bottle in my fist.
Colten subtly shakes his head at me.
Rick shrugs and tells me, “Look kid, if you want to make it at this level, you can’t keep dead weight around. Your buddy couldn’t cut it, and he's just going to drag you down.”
Well, that does it.
It’s as if I can hear something snapping in the distance, like a bone breaking.
“Dead weight?” I repeat.
Colten steps forward, eyes wide. “Patrick, don’t—”
“No, no,” I say, smiling in a way that isnotfriendly. “Let’s talk about dead weight.”
Rick rolls his eyes. “Like you would understand—”
“We’ve talked about my positioning, now let’s talk about yours,” I interrupt, my smile growing as I straighten to my full height.
Rick takes a step back.
Before he can say anything, I continue, “Colten still keeps all his old game films. You wore number five, right? I remember because you kept fumbling the ball like it was your first game.”
Colten goes very still as Rick’s face gains two twin spots of red, high on his cheeks. It makes his bland face ugly and even more unimpressive.
“Not to mention, your speed?” I add, giving a mean, short laugh. “You were basically there to pad the numbers. I’m surprised they let you scout, honestly, given how bad you play.”
“Patrick—”
“But really,” I start, voice sharper now, my teeth grinding together as I resist the urge to talk with my fists, “we can talk about how you’re standing here acting like you know how to play soccer, when you can’t even recognize someone who will always be better than you, short or not.”
Rick’s face is red enough to impersonate a particularly ugly tomato.
“And for the record?” I lean in slightly, and Rick takes another step back. “Colten wasn’t forced to quit the academy. He could’ve gone pro, but he just didn’t want to. You probably wouldn’t understand, given that you were definitely forced to quit after all your parents' money didn’t buy you a spot in the MLS.”
