7

 

 

 

"Yo! Announcement!"

Weston jumps up on a locker room bench and claps his hands together twice. He's got his home jersey draped over his shirtless torso and a blue sweatband barely containing his mussed-up hair. One leg is completely game-ready with a shinguard, sock, and shiny white cleat, while the other leg's totally bare.

He puts two fingers in his mouth and emits a shrill whistle. Everyone glances his way, chatter dying down as we continue suiting up for our first game of the season. Once he's positive he's got the team's attention, he makes his supposedly important announcement.

"The new dude that moved into the Treehouse? He's a vampire. Just a friendly heads-up."

Half the guys start cracking up at the random accusation, me included because it's so fucking ridiculous. The other half roll their eyes at his antics. Liam—leader of the latter group—hops up beside his old roommate with a declaration of his own.

"Oi! Breaking news! Weston's a goddamn idiot. Just a friendly heads-up."

Weston shoves him off the bench before they each take a seat next to me.

"Paine, what the hell is wrong with you? Vampire?" I grin and shake my head as I pull out my goalie gloves. "Please tell me you haven't been binging Twilight again."

Liam cackles. "Jesus, mate. I thought you were past your Twi-hard phase?"

"Never," Weston quips as he flips up both middle fingers. "Forever and always on Team Guy-Who-Almost-Hit-Bella-With-His-Car."

He grabs a water bottle from his locker and squirts a hearty sip into his mouth before frowning at us. "But this new guy is for real weird. I passed out around one last night and when I woke up at eight, there was a shitload of his stuff in the living room. You two wanna tell me why he moved in in the middle of the damn night?"

"Plenty of possible reasons," Liam says. "Late flight? Car troubles?"

"Exactly," I agree. I'm leaning towards Side Rational on this one. "Dude's not a freaking creature of the night—he's a genius. Avoiding hauling boxes and luggage around during the 105-degree daylight hours? That's smart, man. Not suspicious."

Weston shakes his head. "Fine, whatever. You got me there. But it's not just the sneaking around during the fuckin' witching hours that makes me think he's a bloodsucker. He's pale as shit, with jet black hair and these freaky translucent eyes. The guy's a complete Edward-Cullen-looking motherfucker."

"You chatted with him?" Liam questions.

"Nah. He was cooped up in his coffin—sorry, 'room', all morning. Haven't officially met him yet."

I jut up a brow. "Then how do you know what he looks like?"

"Accidentally went through a box of his shit." A devilish smirk lifts one side of his mouth. "What else do you wanna know about him? That thing was filled with memories and mementos and tons of juicy crap like that. I've got the 4-1-1."

"Fucking snoop," Liam scoffs.

"What?" Weston raises his hands in innocence. "The box was open and in my damn living room. I'd argue that's fair game."

"And I'd argue that's a bloody crime. Like going through someone's mail."

Weston laughs off the notion. "Chill, Wright. You wanna know some shit or not?"

Curiosity gets the best of Liam as he shrugs and pretends to zip his lips shut.

I start the interrogation. "Give us the basics. What's his name?"

"Zion Pierce."

"How old is he? And where's he from?"

"His high school diploma was in there. Said he graduated a little over a year ago, so I'm guessing he's a sophomore. And he's from Cali. Definitely not a surfer bro, though."

"So what's the deal with his soccer background?" I grab my cleats and start untying the laces. "He good?"

"Uh, yeah." Weston grunts. "Dude's good, alright. He's been playing at fucking Stanford. Gotta be talented and have a brain to get in there."

"Great news for us, then, isn't it?" Liam comments before glancing around the buzzing locker room. "But where the hell is he?"

"I asked Coach Jones what the deal with this guy was Thursday during weight room," Weston reveals, referencing our hard-ass strength and conditioning coach. "He said Zion won't be seeing the field until he's got some practice under his belt."

"Makes sense," I say.

Weston looks around before lowering his voice. "Something's weird about him...something's just off. I can't put my finger on it, but in that box there was all this shit about—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Diego hurls a roll of athletic tape at his face. Just before the item smacks his cheek, Weston lifts a hand and casually catches it.

"Could you three stop gossiping like a buncha old ladies? It feels like I'm out to lunch with my abuela and her blabber-mouth friends." Diego relaxes onto the bench and shoots a stern glance our way. He's such a fucking buffoon majority of the time, but he gets damn serious whenever it's game day. "Focus, amigos. We need this W."

Weston tosses the tape back to Diego with a carefree chuckle. "Dude, no sweat. It's Northview State. We could win this shit blindfolded."

Truer words have never been spoken.

We score five goals in the first half alone. For the final forty-five minutes, Coach rests most of the starters, giving the benchwarmers and underclassmen a chance to shine. I watch our guys play a game of lopsided keep-away, punching in a few more goals to really seal the deal. It's such a dominant performance by us, I've only touched the ball once during the entire match.

Playing for Windhaven makes my job pretty damn boring sometimes.

Luckily, I've got a mental list of ways to entertain myself when the ball hasn't crossed the fifty in God knows how long. Allgoalies have one of these lists, from YMCA adolescents to elite players around the globe.

Any keeper who tells you otherwise is a damn liar.

My favorite how much longer is this monotonous game activity?

Scoping out the stands for hot chicks.

I'm a red-blooded, 21-year-old dude—the fuck did you expect?

As the final minutes of stoppage time dwindle down, I take a glance at the crowded bleachers. There are a surprising amount of students here for such a predictable game.

Plenty of gorgeous women to keep me occupied.

As I'm enjoying the view, my gaze comes to a halt on a trio of familiar faces: the Treehouse Girls.

Rayne's watching the match intently, ducking her head every so often to jot down notes for a Windhaven Weekly article. Ellie's dolled-up in a white sundress and cowboy boots, her red lipstick visible from all the way across the field. When I see Lexie, I can't help but snicker. She's wearing some ridiculous-as-fuck umbrella golf hat, cheering wildly with Weston's number painted on both cheeks.

In a freaky moment of ESP, all three feel my stare and turn my way simultaneously. I grin and lift a hand in greeting.

As each one gives me an enthusiastic wave in response, I notice there's a fourth girl in their group.

A girl who's definitely not happy to see me.

Sydney's hands remain planted in her lap as she levels me with a blank stare—one that lets me know she's still pissed about our last interaction. When I raise my brows, attempting to coax some sort of acknowledgment outta her, she immediately turns away.

Guess I deserve that.

I'm still feeling like a dumbass for the shit I said yesterday morning.

Equating helping her out to babysitting a child?

Yeah...that was a dick move.

That's why the moment the whistle signals the end of the game, I grab my bag from the bench and head her direction to try and apologize.

Hopefully she won't storm off this time.

I spot her walking onto the field with Rayne and make a beeline their way. I've taken no more than ten steps when I feel a sharp tug on my shirt, a familiar sound grating on my eardrums a beat later.

"Cameron! Cam-ah-ron!" the voice whines. "Where the hell are you going?!"

I turn around and shake off the possessive grip on my jersey.

Ignoring the question, I offer a casual "What's up, Jules?"

The golden-haired beauty scowls—a twisted expression I've seen on this girl's face one too many times.

She's always upset over something or other.

Fucking Julie.

There's only one word to describe our history over the past three years.

Complicated.

No, she's not a crazy ex-girlfriend.

Not a current significant other, either.

And we're no longer friends with benefits—not after I shut that shit down a few months ago.

Everyone's got a bad habit or two, right? Something that deep down they know isn't good for them, but the comfort and familiarity the behavior incites always keeps them going back for more?

For a while, that's what Julie was to me.

A vice.

Didn't start out that way, though.

We met at a party freshman year. She was a sweet and shy co-ed; I was a cool and confident athlete. With the instantaneous attraction between us, we hit it off right away.

Long story short, we started hooking up. No strings attached, no spoken commitment...just two college kids enjoying one another's late-night company.

This easy-going arrangement continued for a year without issue, but then things changed.

At the beginning of sophomore year, Julie joined the Goal Girls: a group of female fans dedicated to cheering on the men's soccer team.

The organization is split into two very different types of women.

On one hand, you've got the die-hard fanatics. The chicks who love soccer with a burning passion. The ones who paint their faces for MLS matches and rent out sports bars at odd hours to watch European leagues live.

These girls? They're cool.

And then you've got the groupies. The chicks who couldn't differentiate between Mbappé and Messi if their lives depended on it. The ones who are far more concerned with their gameday attire and snagging a future professional athlete than being a Windhaven Warriors supporter.

These girls? They're cleat-chasers.

Needless to say, Julie joined forces with the latter.

Hell, she became the fucking head honcho of that group.

The down-to-earth girl transformed into a materialistic bitch overnight. Everyone noticed her new obsession with looks and status and money.

Well...everyone except me.

My friends tried to warn me about it, but I just brushed them off. I remained blissfully ignorant of the personality change for way too fucking long.

Dealing with the constant arguments, her piss-poor attitude, the desperate nagging for a "boyfriend + girlfriend" label neither of us had ever wanted...

It got old.

Why the fuck did I put up with it for two years?

Maybe because of the steady routine we'd had going for so long. Maybe because she was there and filling some subconscious void.

Or maybe because I'm young and stupid and let my dick do the thinking more often than not.

Probably that last one, honestly.

But this past summer was when I finally decided to put a stop to the bullshit.

I cut off all physical contact, gave her a firm "nothing is ever gonna happen between us so give it up", and told her we could be friends and that's all.

To say she was pissed off would be an understatement. Crocodile tears and melodramatic voicemails were sent my way for weeks on end. Once I told her the 'just friends' offer was gonna be thrown out the window if she didn't quit, she wised up and stopped with the manipulative tactics.

She hasn't brought up the topic since that conversation.

Dunno how long she'll keep it up, though.

"Hello?! Where are you running off to?" Julie snaps her fingers repeatedly, the annoying motion bringing me back to the present.

"Relax, Julie." I cup a hand over her fingers to stop the obnoxious sound before frowning at her nosy question. "And it's not really any of your damn business, but I'm going to talk to Rayne and Sydney."

She follows my gaze to the pair who are now chatting with a large group of sweaty soccer players. Rayne's animatedly asking the guys questions, then shoving a voice recorder in their faces to get their answers loud and clear on tape.

"Who's Sydney?" Julie asks.

"Vaughn's sis."

"Ick. Vaughn has a sibling?"Her nose wrinkles in disgust. "Is she as insufferable as him?"

There's no point in responding to her bitchy comment—nothing I say or do is gonna change the fact that Vaughn and Julie don't get along. Never have and never will.

And because Julie despises my housemate, she's already decided she hates his little sister by default.

Really sound logic there.

Without another word, I turn and head towards the group. Julie falls into step behind me, her handful of followers trailing her movements.

When we join the crowd, Rayne's grilling one of the sophomore defenders for some dirt...

Literally.

"Okay, Andre. What's the tea? Who on the squad desperately needs to give their shinguards and socks a good, long soak? Who's responsible for the quintessential locker room stink?"

Andre puts on a pearly-white grin, ready and willing to dish out some team secrets when an overly dramatic sigh interrupts him.

"Oh my God. Is this really what you people want to talk about?" Julie steps into the center of the circle and whips her rose-gold sunglasses off with a huff. "Enough of this interview nonsense. Why is everyone standing around when we could be partying on Mr. Grange's yacht right now?!"

The group lets out a loud cheer as I glance back at Felicity Grange—the quietest of Julie's minions. She offers a weak smile, obviously not thrilled that her family boat's being offered up as collateral for a rowdy soccer celebration.

But she doesn't protest, and I understand why.

Convincing her dad to let drunk college kids trash his watercraft is a helluva lot easier than telling the leader of the Goal Girls no.

As someone starts a rambunctious "Lake Winnie!" chant, Julie adds an amendment to the invitation.

"Men's soccer players and Goal Girls only. Sorry, Rayne." She doesn't sound even a smidge remorseful as she picks at a painted nail. Her eyes travel to Sydney. "And that excludes you, too, Little Steel. Sad day."

Julie's lips turn down as she drags a finger down her cheek like a mock tear drop.

Vaughn's jaw goes rigid, fists clenching by his sides as she insults both of his girls.

"Why don't you just fuck off, Julie?"

"It's fine." Rayne cooly dismisses the exclusion. "I think we'll hit up Mas Mantequilla instead. I kinda feel like drowning myself in strawberry margs and nachos. Don't you, babe?" She grabs V's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze as he nods.

I turn towards Sydney.

"You should come," I insist. "Lake Winnie's always a good time."

I ignore the objections that come from Julie's direction.

It's not her fucking boat—invitation list isn't up to her.

Syd's as collected as Rayne as she declines the offer. "Sounds fun, but I'm gonna join Rayne and my brother. Mexican sounds delicious right now."

"It sure freaking does!" Rayne loops arms with her and puts on a warm smile. "Let's go before the lunch crowd hits."

As the three of them turn to leave, I realize I never got a chance to do what I initially came over here for.

"Hey, Baby Blue," I call out. "Wait a sec."

She peers over her shoulder, one brow raised high. "Yeah?"

The sorry about yesterday spiel is on the tip of my tongue, but I pause when I notice every single pair of eyes are locked on us.

Legit everyone and their cousin is eavesdropping on our interaction.

Yeah...not gonna bring up our personal business in front of the masses.

And I'm also not about to take her aside for a private convo. Not with the suspicious glare Vaughn's giving me.

As casually as I can, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "You sure you don't wanna join?"

I swear I see a hint of disappointment in her gaze, but it dissipates when she nods. "Positive. Have fun."

They walk off the green field and I turn back to the party planners, half-listening as they talk rides and booze and music for the upcoming boat soirée.

Guess that apology's gonna have to wait.