Offside (42 page)

Her tits were too big and probably fake, too. When I glanced up to her eyes, I saw they were bright green and just…wrong. Tiffany took another step closer, pressing her body to mine and pushing her hand firmly against my crotch.

Down, you little motherfucker.

I was going to have to play this off in some way that wouldn't give rise to any suspicions. I gave her my cockiest smile and a bit of a wink.

“The middle of a restaurant isn't the very best of places to get to know each other,” I told her. “It's good to know some of the…uh…
benefits
of the team, though.”

She giggled, and the sound made me want to retch.

We walked back to the table with her holding on to my arm.

They wanted me.

Dad was ecstatic.

I felt…numb.

Days turned into weeks.

I dropped AP Biology and the Shakespeare class. I had almost all the credits I needed to graduate, anyway.

I trained with the school team.

I flew to Seattle twice a week to train with the Sounders.

Real Messini sent a special trainer to me three times a week.

It was tiring, but at least at night I was usually too wiped out to think.

Nicole stopped trying to contact me, and that bothered me a lot. It was stupid because I was the one who had done all this to her. I watched her sometimes, and whenever I did, I could feel her hand in my hair and the heat of her body close to me as we slept.

I missed her.

Horribly.

National championships.

I was in the zone, not really thinking about much of anything as we walked onto the field to play some team from Minnesota. The temperature was perfect for a game—January in southern California was not too hot or cold. There was a nice breeze, too, which felt good, but I was trying to figure out how to compensate for punting.

The band played the national anthem, and the announcer started introducing all the players. Again, I wasn't really paying any attention until I heard one particular name.

Number seventeen.

Forward striker.

Dennis Johnson.

I zeroed in on the player—maybe five-nine, medium build, with kind of shaggy, eighties hair. I knew it was him. I just knew it.

I clenched my fists in my gloves, narrowed my eyes, and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet. I had complete focus but not necessarily on the ball.

I was going to hurt that motherfucker.

Bad.

Then the whistle blew, and the other team started with the ball. Back to the midfielder, then to the left wing. Klosav was right by my target.

Target.

That's what he was.

I stayed close to the goal as he moved up with Jeremy close by, shielding Dennis from me. I moved to the left to get a better view, and the ball crossed over. The other forward's header was right to my feet, and I tossed the ball back and forth with my toes as the defenders moved up the field, and Dennis continued closer to me—trying to put on some pressure.

I'll give him some fucking pressure.

Instead of picking up the ball when he neared, I kicked it off to Jeremy. Dennis turned his back to me at the same time the ref turned away as well. I stepped up a couple of yards and slammed my palm into his back.

He stumbled a little and glared back at me.

“What the fuck?” Dennis spun around and curled his lip at me.

“So sorry,” I snarked back.

He walked off.

The next time he was close, the ball was in the box and my hands were on it. I let my inertia carry me forward, dropped my shoulder, and nailed him in the chest.

“What's your problem?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

“You're a bastard motherfucker,” I said simply as I tossed the ball over to midfield. “And by the time this game is done, you'll be leaving on a stretcher.”

“Fuck you.”

Play continued.

Second half. We were up one to nothing with fifteen minutes left in regulation time. I needed another fucking goal from my offense and was screaming at them to score. I had slammed into Dennis at least a dozen times, but I was careful to keep my eye on the ref, and none of the fouls were called. Dennis was seriously pissed, and their coach started yelling to the ref to watch me. Tony subbed in for Clint, and a free throw got the ball into the other team's box. Tony slammed it home, but the goalie tipped it off to the side. Paul headed in the resulting corner kick.

Two to nothing.

Four minutes left, and they were getting desperate.

Jeremy stumbled, and Dennis ended up with the breakaway. He dribbled the ball up the side and then toward goal, and it was just the two of us in the box. I ran up, full speed. I didn't even look at the ball as he chipped it over my right shoulder; I just dropped my head and collided with him. Once he was on the ground and under me, I brought my arm up high, and slammed my elbow into his balls.

He started screaming.

I hit him again.

And again.

“That's what you get you stupid motherfucker!” I screamed at him. Jeremy grabbed me by the arms and hauled me off of him, but I wrenched one arm away, which gave me enough room and leverage to kick his shin.

I heard the crack.

More screaming.

Red card in my face.

All worth it.

Shakespeare probably wasn't speaking to me anymore, but if he did, he might have said “that can such sweet use make of what they hate.” Somehow, the sweetness of this hatred seemed worth the cost.

Now, I wondered what my suspension would be.

CHAPTER 23

SAVE

I didn’t wait in the locker rooms for anyone else. I didn’t even shower, just changed my clothes and left, walking back to the hotel. It was only about a mile from the fields, and I kind of doubted anyone was going to let me back on anytime soon.

Definitely worth it.

I almost wanted to call Nicole and tell her the motherfucker paid for what he did to her, but I didn’t. He didn’t even know the reason, but I didn’t care about that, either. I went to the hotel’s little convenience store and bought a pack of Camels before heading up to the room.

I went out on the balcony and lit up. I hadn’t had one since that evening sitting on the back porch of the Skyes’ house with Greg.

She was so mad at us.

I smiled a little and took a deep drag off the cigarette. It tasted like shit and reminded me of how I had told her I wouldn’t smoke anymore. I tossed it over the balcony rail after taking about three puffs and then started tapping my fingers rhythmically on the railing.

Everything in my body felt tense, like a tightly coiled spring being stretched too far apart, just waiting for someone to let go. I looked down over the edge at the traffic some ten stories below. I gripped the handrail, loosened my fingers, and then gripped it again.

I yanked the pack out of my pocket and flung it out over the street as hard as I could.

Think soccer. Only soccer.

I was probably in a shitload of trouble. Red card, suspension—yeah, that shit happens—but I broke his leg, and Dad didn’t have as much pull with the authorities here as he did in Oregon. He was going to be pissed.

With that thought, I heard the door to the room open.

“What the fuck was that?”

I didn’t turn around or look at him or anything. I didn’t see any point. I just stared out over the railing and watched the cars go by.

“You stupid idiot!” I heard Dad walk up behind me. “Do you have any idea how that looks? You’re lucky it wasn’t being televised! The Messini haven’t signed the contract yet, you know! You’re lucky I was there to do some triage and the kid’s leg wasn’t broken!”

“Not broken?” I tried not to sound disappointed. “I heard the crack…”

“You cracked his shin guard, asshole.”

“Oh.”

“You’re out of the rest of the tournament,” Dad told me, “but at least you aren’t getting arrested.”

I tried to find a reason to care but really couldn’t. I waited for his fists with the numbness of indifference, but he just kept yelling at me, and I just pretended to listen. He shoved me twice, but I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I deserved it all, and I wouldn’t take it back if I could. Eventually, he stopped and left, saying he was going out to eat, and I could fucking rot in here as far as he was concerned.

I walked into the bedroom half of the suite and dropped down on the bed, face first. I grabbed ahold of one of the pillows, pulled it under my head, and wrapped my arms around it. I closed my eyes, and memories of her scent floated around in my head.

My fingers itched and still felt tense even when I flexed them. When I opened my eyes, I noticed a little notepad with a pen next to it on the side table. I rolled over, grabbed them both, and started sketching.

It was just her face. She was looking at me with her eyes bright and excited. It was rough, but I only had the pen to work with, so I guessed it was as good as it was going to get. I pulled the little paper off the pad and brought it close as I rolled back onto the pillow.

“I miss you,” I said softly. I shook my head at how stupid I was—talking to a fucking piece of paper. After I folded it into a small square, I grabbed the pillow and pulled it under my head again. The paper stayed in my hand underneath, gripped tightly in my palm.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in my chest and the burning behind my eyes.