“Jesus Christ.”
Shane sauntered into the room, shirtless, eating an apple. “What’s up?”
I wanted to melt into my bed. If I was somewhere with a fire alarm, I would have pulled that thing so goddamn fast and made a run for it. Instead, I was stuck in my room with Dre the Sex Expert and Shane the Cock Master.
Fuck my life.
“Saint here is asking how to be a good fuck.”
Shane chomped on his apple. “No shit.”
“And I said I needed backup.”
“Good call.”
“You probably know what makes a better dude fuck.”
“That I do.”
Honestly? I was okay with them talking like I wasn’t there, because I didn’t want to be there, and I was regretting a lot of life choices at the moment.
“So,” Dre turned to me. “Most guys in college are bad fucks. They’re usually drunk or too damn turned on to make it good for her.” He paused. “Her?”
“Her,” I confirmed.
“But,” Dre continued. “If you’re into making it good for her, then first thing is you want to take your time. So preferably not drunk.”
“What about… if I, uh, don’t have a lot of time?”
Shane cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“What if I… you know?”
Dre grinned. “Ah, like if your train leaves the station early.”
Shane’s eyes widened as recognition dawned. “Makes an early deposit.”
“One Pump Dump.”
“Ejects the media before you safely release the hardware.”
I picked up my pillow and threw it at them. “I hate you both so fucking much right now.”
Dre whipped the pillow back at me, but I ducked, so it hit the shelf behind my head, sending a couple of books crashing onto my bed. Still pissed off at their jokes, I picked up a book and reared my arm back to throw that, but instead I was tackled to the floor by a big dark body. “Calm down, Saint. We were just playing with you.”
The laughter in his voice made me even angrier. I went into fight mode, because while I wasn’t as strong as Dre, I was scrappy as fuck. I wriggled out from under him, elbowed him in the ribs, then climbed on his back and put him into a headlock.
“Fuck, Saint!” He hollered as loud as he could while I was pressing on his windpipe. “Now you’re pissing me off. That fucking hurt.”
“Good!” I yelled, squeezing tighter.
He reached back and grabbed a fistful of my hair, and I was seriously worried he was going to either scalp me or buck me off when a something cold and wet drenched me.
We both stilled and through dripping hair, I peered up at Shane standing over us, holding an empty water bottle. He upended it again, letting a couple more drops fall onto my head. “You two done?”
“You just wanted to see a wet T-shirt contest, you perv,” I mumbled as I rolled off Dre onto my back.
“That was a bonus.” Shane winked as he sat down on my desk chair.
Dre sat with his back against my bed, wrists braced on bent knees. “I’m sorry, man. For real, we were just kidding.”
I glared at him, still not ready to be buddy buddy again.
“Look,” Shane said leaning forward and meeting my eyes. “If you’re worried about coming too early, focus on her. Here’s the thing—if you’re really into her, you’ll be less eager to get it in, and instead want to make it last. You blew early with her one time? Fine, now you know what she does that gets you off fast. Next time, take charge.”
“You’re probably overthinking it, bro,” Dre said. “When you’re really into someone, you’re not going to be all worried about what to do and where your hands go, and if you’re making it good for her.”
“That’s where chemistry comes in.” Shane added. “Sometimes… you two just fit. And it all becomes less about body parts and getting off and more about how it feels. And how he feels.” He smiled. “Well, in your case, she.”
I grabbed the pillow off the floor and stuffed it under my head. “Okay, I get what you’re saying.”
“Let it work itself out, man.” Dre smacked my head. “And we all know you got stamina.”
“I got game and stamina on the field plenty. It’s everywhere else in life I feel like I’m seriously fucking lacking.”
“You think we’re confident in everything we do?” Shane asked. “I mean, fuck. I’m worried about making the GPA needed to stay on the team.”
“We all got shit we need to get better at,” Dre said.
“This conversation is the gayest one I’ve ever been a part of and that means something coming from me,” Shane muttered.
A laugh bubbled out of my throat. “Fuck you.”
“You and Dre wanna wrestle some more?” He picked up the water bottle. “I can go fill this back up.”
“Get out of my room, sicko.”
He laughed as he grabbed the rest of his apple and walked out of my room. “Yell for me if you change your mind!”
I rolled onto all fours and stood up. “Fuck now my carpet’s all wet.”
“Saint.”
I glanced down at Dre. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, for real. Hit me up anytime.”
“We’ll see, because I’m pretty sure I filled up my awkward quota for the entire year.”
Dre laughed and rose to his feet. “Whatever, man.”
“Thanks, though. For real.”
“Anytime. Now get game ready, man. You gotta play false nine and you need all of this up here, all right?”
Fuck. Yes. The game. I was so screwed. “Yup, I’m focused.”
Dre didn’t look like he believed me as he gave me one last look before striding from my room.
I didn’t really believe myself either.
That focus lasted on the way to the field and during pre-game warm-ups. It lasted while I strapped on my shin guards, pulled up my red socks, and wrapped white athletic tape around my ankles and below my knees.
It lasted as I performed the pre-game ritual I’d been doing since elementary school—smack my shin guards twice, then jump in the air five times while swinging my arms.
This was when I got in the zone, when I left Lavin the jokester behind and became Lavin the athlete. It was like pulling on a familiar pair of jeans. I lived for this shit.
Zac lounged on the bench in full man-spread. In fact, was he dozing?
Shane stood in front of me, stretching his arms over his head. “You ready?”
We’d been practicing new formations all week. Learning a new position wasn’t easy, but Coach said he thought I was getting the hang of it. “I’m ready.”
“I’m going to warm up Dre if you want to help out.”
“Sure.”
In the penalty box, Shane juggled the ball on his knees while Dre pulled on his gloves and squirted some water in his mouth. He set his bottle behind the side post, then smacked his hands together. Squatting, he hiked up his shorts and held his arms out. “Go.”
Shane sent the ball higher into the air with one thrust of his knee, and when the ball was descending, he sent it soaring toward Dre with one perfect strike from the top of his foot.
Dre’s long body was like poetry in motion as he leapt to the far right corner, hands outstretched. The ball smacked into his gloves, and he immediately cradled it to his body as he rolled to a stop.
With a shrug of his shoulder, he tossed it back to Shane.
I could have watched them do that all day. They’d been doing this since they played together for a club team in high school. Shane was made to be a soccer player. He wasn’t too tall, but he was fast as shit, with strong legs and great balance. And Dre was just about the perfect build for a goalie, a little like Tim Howard, who Dre cited as inspiration.
Shane and I alternated taking shots on Dre, who didn’t appear winded as we made him dive in just about every direction.
By the time Coach hollered for us to come together, I was in full game-focus mode. Zac met us
in the huddle around the coach, blue eyes alert as he shot me a smile. He gave Dre a high five and jerked his chin at Shane.
I loved Coach, but his pre-game pep talks were usually really odd because he spent a lot of time reciting lines that were supposed to inspire us, but instead often made no sense. That could be because he quoted passages from children’s books. Today, it was Winnie the Pooh.
And only Coach Mendoza could make Pooh quotes terrifying. He managed to, though, by spitting each word and glaring at each of us. “You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think!”
It was like someone told him he had to threaten us with positive thinking. But whatever, I was sufficiently scared into believing I was now brave, strong, and smart, so maybe he was doing something right.
“Hands in!” He barked at us, as we piled our hands on top of each other in the center of our huddle. “Team on three. One. Two. Three.”
“Team!” we yelled. And we yelled it for real, because if we didn’t yell it, he went on a rampage about low-energy. I ran out onto the field, slapping some asses as I ran by my teammates.
My focus was fucking stellar, right up until the minute I glanced over at the sidelines. The reason my brain decided to say fuck soccer was standing on the sidelines, with a blotchy face and red eyes, huddled in a large jacket.
Then the whistle blew.
And shit went to hell.
For thirty-five minutes, I managed not to cost us a goal but that was about it. Shane was shooting me laser-precision glares, and Dre yelled at me from his comfy spot in front of the fucking net every time I got near the ball.
I wasn’t the only one distracted. Coach had Bianca sitting on the bench behind him, and half of the time I looked over there, he was bent over, whispering to her.
I was a bucket of fail because I couldn’t get to Bianca, and I couldn’t manage to make my feet work right. The scoreboard still said 0-0, and even I was bored of this game.
I took a corner kick and sent the ball sailing over the net and out of bounds without a single soul touching it. Shane threw up his hands, and even Zac was staring at me like I was another person.
Manny Rodriquez was never one to hold his tongue. He marched up and smacked me on the side of the head. “What’s wrong with you?”
I took the hit without ducking, hoping it knocked some sense into me. “I don’t know. I’m off my game, all right?”
“Ya think? I hope Coach beats some sense into you at half-time.” He spat on the ground and walked away.
“Saint!” I looked up to see Coach beckoning me from the sidelines and Le was standing by the ref, rolling his neck.
Oh fuck, I was being subbed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I always played all game, every game. I trotted off with as much dignity as I could and as soon as I reached Coach, he clamped a hand around the back of my neck. I winced as he bent his head to speak in my ear. “You want to tell me what’s wrong with you? Why you’re playing like a walk-on freshman?”
I didn’t dare look at Bianca. I didn’t fucking dare, because Coach would catch the look with his eagle eye and then I’d be dead and buried in his backyard. “I don’t know. The new position is getting some used to, I guess.”
“Nah,” he shook his head. “Lies. I saw you in practice. This is about this.” He jabbed a chubby finger at my temple. “Sit on the end of the bench, shut up, and get it together. I’m putting you in again after the half, and I better see you kick your ass into gear or I’ll kick it myself.”
He shoved me away from him and I walked toward the bench with my head down, sufficiently shamed. I sat down, ignoring the looks from some of the freshman second-string. They probably scented blood in the air with glee, hoping it meant more playing time for them.
Motherfuckers.
I stared blankly at the field, wondering what my fucking problem is. If I had a shitty game, I could handle it, but a shitty game in soccer meant I was letting my team down. After Carson’s injury, the team was a little demoralized. So my major suckage out there wasn’t helping anything.
“Psst.”
I looked down the bench, but all the players were watching the end of the half. I frowned and then faced forward again.
“Psst.”
The sound was louder this time. Coming from…behind me? I twisted at the waist and caught sight of Bianca squatting behind the bench, staring up at me with big dark eyes. “Turn back around before he sees!” she hissed.
I whipped around immediately, and blinked at the field. “What are you doing?” I whispered back.
“A pep talk.”
Fuck, this was embarrassing. First practice, I fell in front of her. First game, I played like a fucking newbie. “Noticed I needed one, huh?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I twisted around to face her. “You show up upset while I’m out there on the field and can’t make you smile.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “What? Y-you’re distracted by me?”
“Are you okay?”
Her lip quivered, and I reached out a hand, but she stopped me with a frantic wave. “Turn back around!”
“Jesus Christ.” I followed her orders with a huff.
There was a pause. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think… look I came because I wanted to see you play. And I don’t want you to think you have to impress me. I only want to watch you doing the thing you love. So can you do that? Enjoy the game and show me what it’s like to be able to do what you love.”
I scraped at a grass stain on my forearm as I thought about her words. I loved soccer, but I wasn’t good enough to go pro. Or even play D1. That was fact, and I was okay with that. But I never wanted not to play. Getting a chance to play at Travers on the team I did was a fucking miracle.
I sucked air into my lungs on a slow inhale and then exhaled. “Yeah, I can do that, B.”
She didn’t answer for a minute. “Great, get out there and kick ass then, baby.”
I turned around one last time and stuck my hand between the seat and back of the bench. “If I score a goal, you let me take that road trip north we never got to.”
She hid her face in the crook of her elbow to stifle her laughter. When she clasped my hand, her face was bright once again. “Deal.”
I smacked my shin guards, and then stood up. “It’s on.”
Eight
Zero Banging
In any team sport, there’s a point where you have to sacrifice your own glory for the good of the team. That was the story of my life, to be honest. Fucking figures were the exact words running through my head as I took off down the field on a fast dribble. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shane sprinting along the wing opposite from me.
I had their last defender heading my way, while Shane had blown past his man ten yards ago. I could either take on my defender and risk losing the ball, or pass it to Shane, the open man. Who would score.
Since we only had two more minutes in the tied game, we needed to fucking score. I’d done my job this half, busting my ass at false nine and confusing the fuck out of the opposite team—current play as an example.
I didn’t let myself second-guess my instinct, which was to win this fucking game. I sent the ball skittering across center field, right on Shane’s foot. He took it to the box and sailed it past the goalie in the upper right of the net.
I punched air, screaming, “Fuck yeah!” and raced toward Shane who met me half way in a back slapping hug.
His smile was huge, splitting his grass-stained face. “Phenomenal pass, Saint!”
As we ran back to center line, I finally remembered what I’d given up to make sure that goal happened. But when I glanced at the sideline, Bianca was jumping up and down, clapping her hands.
I gave her a thumbs up and she blew me a kiss.
A kiss.
I decided not to be a dork and pretend to catch it.
When I reached the sidelines, Coach palmed the back of my head and cru
shed me to his chest for a split second. “Did good, Saint.”
Did good. From Coach Mendoza, that was high praise.
I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face as we shook hands with the opposing team.
Pizza buffets were where defined abs went to die, but we still went to Pizzaz Pizza after home games. Coach paid, so we shut up and ate greasy pizza along with wilted lettuce from the pitiful salad bar.
I managed to find one cherry tomato that wasn’t a wrinkled ball sac and popped it in my mouth. Zac was eating chocolate cake he found on the dessert bar, while Dre stuck up his nose at everything but vegetables. Shane had an entire pepperoni pizza in front of him, and I was trying for a combo of pizza and salad.
The guys were talking about the game, but my attention kept shifting to Bianca, who sat beside Coach sucking on the straw of a gigantic cup of Coke. Her skin was still a little pale, her eyes dull, but when she met my eyes, she smiled slightly and winked.
I turned back around and focused on the guys before Coach saw me staring at her.
“The pass was perfect,” Dre was saying around a mouthful of romaine.
“I thought you were going to take the shot yourself.” Manny leaned on the table from a couple of seats down.
“Nah,” Dre said. “Saint’s a team player.”
And I lost the bet to map Bianca’s body. Go me.
Shane nudged me with his elbow. “For real, man. Great play.”
I bit into my crust. “Well, great shot.”
“First half was a little rough,” said Marcus Timmons, a backup defender.
Shane opened his mouth, but I spoke over him. “It was rough, not gonna lie. I had to settle into the new position, I guess.”
I stuffed more food in my mouth and stared down at my plate, hoping that signaled everyone to talk about something else other than me. I was done being the center of discussion.
Luckily, they all moved on to talk about the construction to Hawkins dorm on campus, so I could eat in peace.
The bell above the door to Pizzaz rung, and I spotted the end of Bianca’s hair as she walked outside. Coach was still at his spot, in deep discussion with Le.
FALSE 9: Red Card Series Page 9