Page 3

THREE

XAVIER

I drove a fist into one of the lockers in the changing room, the sound of my knuckles crashing into the metal shattering the deadly silence. A throbbing sensation wrapped around my hand as I pulled it away, and I held back a hiss as I fixed my eyes on the fresh dent in the locker's door in the shape of my fist.

I didn't glance down at my hand to inspect the damage I had most likely done to myself, but instead took a step back, fighting to regain my breath. As I threaded my fingers through my hair, I felt them shaking uncontrollably.

"Fuck," I shouted, fisting locks of curly hair as the urge to let my anger spill over rushed through me. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I kept repeating, and flipped one of the benches with a loud crash before moving my attention to my backpack.

My fingers curled on it before I sent it flying toward the window. Losing my temper to the point of wanting to break everything and everyone around me was new territory. I hadn't felt this much frustration, wrath, or stress since I had been a kid struggling with anger issues.

What I felt when that fucker missed the goal ... pure rage. Especially knowing that I or any-fucking-one else could've put that damned ball in the net if it hadn't been for my uncle and his need to prove shit to people.

Why did I pass the ball to Isaac? I should've taken the shot and saved my team from the penalty that was sure to come. It wouldn't have been my first time defying my uncle's orders on the field, but when he’d screamed at me to let Isaac take the strike, I’d seen the guilt swimming in his son’s eyes. For a moment, I had seen the desperation of making his father proud, and sensed how confident he had been about getting it right this time.

But I had been wrong. I’d handed him my trust, and he’d shattered it. I was even more mad, because while I knew it wasn't his fault, I’d still unleashed all my anger on him.

It was my fault. I’d put my feelings into the game instead of thinking about my team. At that moment, I had resembled my uncle too much for my liking.

My chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and I found myself dropping to the ground. I propped my elbows on my knees as my head hung low between my legs.

I ignored the greater pain buzzing in my chest, which made the scratch on my knuckles seem like nothing. Both were on me. I was responsible for the potential loss today, and also for signing myself up to sit out the next game or two.

Time slowed, and I didn't know how long I crouched there listening to my own breaths. When steps sounded in the distance, I felt a flicker of fear mixing with the unbearable pain.

Had they lost? Had they won?

I waited for the usual cheers and whistles, but only silence accompanied their steps. Even those were silent.

They’d lost. They’d fucking lost.

Vane was the first to enter, his brows pinched together as he strode into the room. For a moment, I thought he was going to step right past me. But when he gripped me by my collar and pinned me against one of the lockers, my eyes widened in shock.

"Why did you do that?" The rest of the guys spilled into the small space around us, watching the encounter, but making no move to intervene.

And I deserved that. Even if they all threw me to the ground and launched a fist or leg directly into my stomach, I'd suck it up.

"We'll lose the next game without you, you fucking selfish bastard," he murmured, his hold on me tightening. The hurt in his eyes choked the air out of me.

My eyes softened. "You won't," I pushed.

He let go of me, stepping back. "We will."

"You shouldn't have done that." Micah shook his head, and at the sight of the disappointment written all over his face, I knew I had let my team down. I wasn't their captain, but they sure as hell saw me as one.

Isaac entered last, his head hung low as he dropped onto an empty bench, refusing to interact with us.

"I know," I admitted, my shirt bunched as if Vane was still gripping it. "You won't lose the game.” I took a moment to think of a good plan. "I-I will train with you, we will prepare for it together, I just won't be on the field." The idea flew from my lips before I could stop it.

The entire team stopped what they were doing, hope shining bright in their eyes. Vane smirked, and glanced at me over his shoulder.

"You are fucking lucky we won today. Let's just hope we'll have the same luck next?—"

Before he could finish the sentence, and before I could curse them out for making me think we lost, Coach stepped into the room. His shoulders were near his ears, and it looked like smoke was ready to come from his nostrils.

He was mad? HE was mad?

He marched up to me, stopping only when the tips of his shoes touched mine. “It seems to me that you forgot your role in this team, Xavier. You are a defender. Your role is to defend , not strike every time the goddamn ball rolls in front of you . ”

My fingers curled into fists, and my teeth ground and slid against each other, the now-quiet room filling with a faint rasp. It felt like the ground was breathing under me, and with each inhale, it was ready to swallow me whole.

I couldn’t stop myself from talking back. “I did my job.” I pointed at my chest. “Don’t try to pin this on me, because what I did out there”—I stretched a hand toward the exit—“was for the sake of the team, even if my job doubled and I had to play as a striker and defender. And may I say, I was good as hell at both.”

His eyes almost bulged out of his head, and I noticed his hands forming a fist. I was half expecting him to punch me right in the gut, but instead he took the longest breath before he let himself speak.

"The referee decided not playing the next game is a fair price to pay. You are lucky, Xavier. She's the most ruthless I know. I thought she was going to suspend you for the entire championship."

The referee. The fire girl I met at that cheap bar right after our training. The fact that she hadn't fought me more on my comment last night bugged me. There was something about her, something challenging. She had made me look like a fool in the one thing I'm so fucking good at, and I had still wanted to fight more instead of retreating and accepting my loss. The shock of seeing those green eyes again so close to me, right on that field, as she tried to stop me from messing up what I'd managed to mess up anyway ...

She had looked hot as fuck, and when she’d given me that little smirk when I realized who she was, it had made the thin material of my shorts grow tighter on me.

What struck me was that I'd been nothing but rude to her that night, so why would she minimize my suspension when we both knew I deserved a longer one?

I nodded. "This still doesn't change anything I said, Coach," I pressed. "If you don't start training us properly, I can't guarantee the others—who we both know are the fucking best players you could have on that field—won't leave your ass as well. If we are going to lose, it should be because we suck, not because our coach can't handle his team," I said, before passing him and walking down the corridor.

It was time for him to realize we weren't going to simply obey everything he said from now on.