Page 14 of Save Me

Alistair continues to press against the player, and even from here, I can hear the two of them goading each other. Suddenly, Alistair’s stance stiffens even further, and for a second, he and the other guy seem frozen to the spot. Mr. Freeman takes a deep breath, presumably to yell further instructions, but then Alistair pulls back his stick, swings, and hits his opponent in the side with full force.

I gasp, horrified. Alistair hits him again, in his belly this time. The other player bellows with pain and drops to his knees. Meanwhile, the second defender lands on top of Alistair, wrestles him to the ground, and rains punches on him with his gloved fists.Alistair whacks him with his stick too. A shrill blast of the whistle sounds, but it takes several players to pull them apart. I hear James Beaufort’s dark voice. He’s screaming at Ellington, and I can imagine that, as captain, he’d like to rip his head off right now.

Next to me, Mr. Freeman is swearing freely. Most of his choice of words is certainly not family friendly, “fucking shit” being about the most printable. He’s taken his cap off and is clutching his hair so hard I think he actually pulls some of it out. A moment later, the referee sends Alistair off.

He comes over to us, pulls off his helmet, and takes out his mouth guard. He throws them both carelessly to the ground.

“What the hell, Ellington?” growls the coach.

I take a cautious step back so I don’t get caught in the crossfire.

“He had it coming,” he replies. His voice is so calm you’d never think he was just in a fight.

“You are…”

“Suspended for three games?” Alistair shrugs. “If you think the team can do without me, then fine.”

He strolls casually away from the coach, drops his stick too, and pulls off his gloves. When he catches sight of me staring, he pauses.

“What?” he asks aggressively.

I shake my head.

Luckily, the referee blows his whistle, and I don’t have to answer. I hurry back to my original position. It takes me a few seconds to see the ball—in the net on Wren Fitzgerald’s stick. Wren isn’t as fast as Alistair, but he’s stronger. He rams an Eastview player out of the way with his shoulder, but the ball is soon tackled off him. But Beaufort’s on it and catches the ball back when the other player goes to pass.

I pull a face. Beaufort’s good. Bloody good. His movement is agile and silky, he keeps in step with his opposition, and if anyone gets in his way, he’s brutal. I can’t see his face under the helmet, but I’m sure he loves to be on the field. When he plays, it looks like he’s spent his entire life running around with a lacrosse stick.

“What are you doing?” Alistair’s voice sounds next to me. I jump guiltily as I remember why I’m actually here. I hurriedly open my notebook again.

“I’m writing the game up for the Maxton blog,” I explain, not looking up. “Who’s the defender who just took the ball off Wren?”

“Harrington,” Alistair replies. I can feel his eyes on me as Freeman lets fly another string of curses. Apparently, Beaufort lost the ball while I was writing my notes. Eastview has possession again.

“Come on, Kesh,” Alistair mutters.

The Eastview attacker jumps a foot and a half in the air to catch the ball. He lands, takes two quick steps, and then fires it rapidly ahead of him. It all happens so fast that at first, I’m not sure whether it hit the back of the net. But then the Maxton stand cheers loudly as Keshav holds up his stick. Seems like Alistair’s muttering did the trick—he’s caught it.

“Make me look good when you write your article,” Alistair says as I make a note:Keshav’s last-second save.

I eye him dubiously. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this close, and I realize that his eyes are the color of whisky. “You attacked another player for no reason. How am I meant to make that look good?”

A shadow flits over his face and his eyes rest on Keshav again. “Who says there was no reason?”

I shrug. “From here, it didn’t look like you’d put much thought into it.”

Alistair raises his eyebrows at me. “I’ve been waiting for months for the chance to land one on McCormack. And once he mouthed off about me and a friend of mine, I finally had official grounds.”

One of his blond curls falls into his face, and he pushes it out of the way. Then he catches sight of my notes. He wrinkles his nose. “How are you going to read that to write it up? It’s illegible.”

I wish I could protest, but he’s right. Normally, my handwriting is neat, and if I try, it can be really nice. But at the speed I’m scribbling here, it’s nothing but a scrawl.

“There are usually two of us,” I defend myself, when I really shouldn’t care what Alistair Ellington thinks about my writing. “And it’s not that easy to take photos and watch the game at the same time, let alone know what moves I should be writing about.”

“Why didn’t you just film the match?” he asks. He sounds genuinely interested, not like he’s looking for reasons to laugh at me.

I hold up my camera with no further comment.

Alistair winces. “How old is that thing then?”

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