With You

14. With You

"Foul!"

A whistle and some yelling.

"Sebastian!"

My coach. It was my coach yelling now. He was storming towards me – which was threatening in itself, but even more so when it was a giant, balding man dressed in a red tracksuit that matched the colour of his face. Even his head was beginning to turn read. I stared at his giant red globe of a head for a second too long and suddenly he was in front of me.

"Get up," he said, waving his hand at me.

I stood from the bench, frowning.

"What?"

"Get up," he repeated. "Get your hoodie off. You're playing."

"I'm what?"

"What are you, deaf?" He grabbed my hood, tugging it over my head. "Hurry up. Nick is injured and you're taking over as a forward."

"You want me to–"

Before I could finish my sentence, Coach shot me a glare and my jaw snapped audibly shut. I tugged my hoodie over my head, smoothing down my jersey and falling to my knees to fix my laces. My coach stood over me, talking rapidly, his face only turning redder.

"Alright, you know the play. Just – look, just try to pass it to Reed, got it? Reed will take it from there."

I looked up, noticing the weary look on his face, the wrinkle in his brow – he didn't trust me. Just over his shoulder, the rest of the team stared at me. Reed stared at me, concern written in his eyes. Nick was limping across the field, hunching over the grab at his leg. Amar, Matt.

Everyone was watching. Waiting. Counting on me.

Expecting me to fail.

Beyond the field, I spotted Rowan and Flora, watching in the stands. Chloe had come along – this time invited – and sat beside Flora, all three of them watching me with wide eyes. Chloe screamed at me to go. Flora shot me a thumbs up. Rowan stayed silent, but his lips twitched in such a miniscule way that anyone else wouldn't have noticed it, but I recognised it for what it was – silent encouragement – and I nodded, standing.

I could do this.

This was my time. This was finally my opportunity. How long had I complained, whined over not getting to play in a proper match? And now Coach was putting me on, and as a forward! It was my chance. I had to do it, and I had to do it well.

I walked onto the field, suddenly wishing I had stretched more beforehand, warmed up more, practiced more. Hell, listening to Coach before the match would've been good enough.

We were up against a college I'd never heard of; with students I'd never seen before. All I knew was what I'd seen so far.

I grabbed my foot, stretching my hamstrings briefly as I took my place. And then the whistle blew, and we were off.

Reed instantly had the ball and was heading for the goal with a speed that only came after years of proper training. I followed him, parallel, watching the boy trailing him – Number 23.

I'd seen him earlier. He was a good attack, but he had a tendency to slide tackle without checking his surroundings.

I sprinted faster, my shoes biting into the grass beneath me. The weather was getting colder and the grass was slick with morning dew. I struggled to keep my footing, but pushed on, faster, faster.

The cold wind hit the sweat on my brow, and I could feel the ghost of my old curls brushing over my forehead, the way it used to when I played matches in school. Except now they were gone, cut short to the scalp, and everything had changed in the blink of an eye.