Page 46 of Play Dirty
I swear… I can still smell her.
But the memory is ruined as Beavis and Butthead, aka Brad and Wes, walk past us. “You should really keep your tongue in your mouth, Reyes. Might end up biting it off one of these days.”
My hands fist at my sides, but instead of smashing his head in like I want to, I slam shut my locker and jog outside.
By the time we reach the grass, Coach Jensen is already barking orders. He’s definitely pissed. I’m pretty sure I know why. Shiloh isn’t meant for a guy like me; she’s like royalty, while I’m the bottom of the barrel. Everyone in this place knows it, but Velarium screams it.
“Move like your life depends on it!” He shouts, smacking his hand against the wooden clipboard. “Because as of right now, your scholarships sure as hell do.”
I roll my eyes at his words, as if we didn’t give enough already for this fucking scholarship. We break into drills. I try to focus on the ball, on my breath, on not passing out from the heat, or the way the adrenaline hasn’t left my body since last night.
Zayden sends a clean pass my way, catching it with the inside of my foot, I pivot it, and then launch it towards the goal.
Wide and not even fucking close.
“Focus,Reyes!” Jensen yells. “You want to play, show me why I should let you.”
I grit my teeth, run my hand over my face, and sweat beads begin to form around my temples and slowly run down the length of my back. The sun is brutal, not warm but sharp as it cuts through the early fall chill and lands straight into my shoulder blades.
I focus on the smell of wet grass and sweat as I try to block out the buzz in my head. The picture. The feelings that shouldn’t exist but fester inside me like maggots in a wound. Her.
“Split into offense and defense.” Jensen barks. “Show me some real hustle today.”
I jog to my position, shoulder-checking Brad as I do. Just because I wanted to— a small reminder of who I am and who I’ve always been on the field. Thiago is already lacing through the cones, steady and focused. I match his breathing like we’ve done plenty of times before. I let muscle memory take over, and once the coach tosses the ball—I’m gone.
Chasing it down the left wing, my legs pump hard, the cleats bite into the field. Zayden tries to cut me off, but I fake right, then hook left and slip right past him. The world narrows to me, the ball, and the net.
One touch. Two. Then I launch it.
Hitting the right top corner of the net, perfectly.
The coach lets out a grunt of approval. “That’s what I like to see, Reyes.”
I smile, allowing the high that comes with practice to take over. Thiago jogs over to me, grinning like an idiot. “Make one goal and already think you’re the king. Watch it, Ezra, the midfielder might come for your spot next.”
“Sure thing,” Ezra replies flatly.
“Maybe one day,” I reply to Ezra as he just lifts his middle finger and flips me the bird.
Zayden calls for the ball, so I begin to move once again. This time, I play assist. I pass it, cut it across the field, and call for the return. The ball kisses the inside of my cleats, and I flick it behind me to the newbie, Tyler. He fumbles —of course, but it’s clean enough to get the coach's approval.
“Reyes, you got eyes on you,” Jensen shouts as he scribbles something onto his clipboard. “Keep it that way.”
I try.
Fuck do I try.
I try not to think of how my hands felt on hers. The fragrance of her shampoo or the softness of her skin.
But she’s everywhere.
I go harder, trying to push the obsessive thoughts away, moving faster, pumping my legs. Getting my body worked up to the max. I side tackle. Steal. Chest trap. Pivot.
Then the sound of the whistle cuts like a blade through the field. “Hydrate. Three minutes. Move it.”
I hike up my jersey, allowing the air to hit my abs, feeling great on my fevered skin. My legs ache and my lungs burn. I welcome it all, the safe and familiar feeling of doing what I love most. Then the air shifts, everyone is standing like they are watching a fucking wreck, and maybe they are.
I heard the storm before I could spot it.
