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“C’mon,” he says.

Rowan gives two taps to my bicep before wrapping his hand around it to help me up. The gesture adds to my confusion, but I’ve got enough sense left to shrug him off once I’m on two feet.

More sense comes back to me, and I notice the other guys circling. Some of them, I recognize from the Sac team. Some, I don’t recognize at all.

They’re all looking at me, looking more confused and annoyed than Rowan does.

I clam up, realizing what a dumb idea it was to want to throw down with Rowan in front of witnesses. I can’t beat a dude without telling him why, or else I’m just a deranged wackjob fit to be cuffed, but I also don’t want all these dudes knowing my girl stepped out on me. Deep down, I know it’s not my fault, but at the same time, maybe it is. Lese is always saying I don’t pay her enough attention. Don’t text her enough, don’t go out with her enough, don’t buy her things enough, and don’t touch her good enough. It’s humiliating.

The really sad thing is, I’m not even sure I can blame her for fucking Rowan. I mean, he’s Rowan Hughes.

“You look familiar.” Rowan’s voice fills the feet of space between us, low and even spoken. “You play soccer?”

I surprise myself when my voice makes sounds, even more so by how calm I stay as I look into his grey eyes. “Used to.”

Finally, there’s a hint of expression on him. The slight lift of one corner of his mouth. “How old are you? There’s noused to.Either you play or you don’t.”

“Yeah, I play.”

He sizes me up slow. “Tommy, right?”

My name in his voice is disarming. There’s no reason he should know my name. We grew up in different neighborhoods. Never went to the same schools or played for the same team. Only times we ever interacted were on the field. Does he remember that day eight years ago the same as I do?

Thinking it’ll save me some face, I answer, “I go by Tom now, mostly.”

“No, you don’t.” His half smile grows to a smirk. “You’re too young to be a Tom.”

“I’m twenty.”

“You’ve got a babyface. Tommy suits you. Like Tommy fromRugrats.”

“What?” Takes me a minute to remember whatRugratseven is, then I’m sort of offended. Speechless, mostly. The moisture in the air must be collecting in my ears, because my head is full of fog. Not sure which way is up anymore.

Rowan tips his chin to one side. “Levi’s team needs an extra midfielder. Stick around.”

“I don’t have cleats.”

Already jogging backwards and swishing a finger through the air as a cue to his buddies, Rowan answers, “Make it work, babyface.”

That’s how I, once again, wind up scrimmaging against Rowan, just like old times when his school would play mine. I made varsity as a sophomore at Johnson High, and we had three matches against McClatchy High when Rowan was a senior. Back then, I thought he looked like a soccer God, chiseled from marble and brought to life for the sole purpose of being the best.

Now, the only thing that’s changed is four years and some hair on his chest.

The few inches I have over him didn’t diminish Rowan’s power on the field when we were in high school, and it doesn’t now. Even in a pickup match at a public park after dark, Rowan is the conductor. The gravity we’re all floating in. A few times, I try to escape it. I throw a shoulder and fish the ball from his cleats, but Rowan moves like water and blocks like a brick wall. He dribbles the ball like it’s a dance, and he kicks with power. Undoubting.

He’s confident in everything, but unarrogant in the ways that matter. He’s not a ball hog. He lasers in on the best possible play and makes sure the ball gets to the right person at the right time. He communicates with his team and has their backs while keeping one eye on the opponents. It’s mesmerizing and infuriating.

He scores a goal, and he grins like his team won the cup or something. Then he turns around and jogs back to center. I’m heaving, lungs on fire, hands on my knees. It’s been so long since I played, I feel weak as shit.

“That all you got, babyface?” Rowan taunts me.

Remembering how much I hate the fucker, I find enough adrenaline to get my body back in the game, but my head has switched back to revenge. As good as it feels to play again, on the same field as Rowan no less, it would feel a heck of a lot better to make him eat crow.

Next time Rowan has the ball, I’m on him. At first, it’s still about the game, needing the steal and needing a score, but then his elbow jabs my stomach, and I shove my foot between his. The ball gets loose, goes foul, and Rowan hits the grass.

“You good, bro?” I ask him, my chest puffed up like I’m hot shit now.

One of his teammates helps him up, but Rowan’s eyes never leave me. They don’t burn with rage the way mine do. They size me up again like he just learned something new about me. Hopefully that something is that I won’t take his shit just because it comes out gold.