Page 13 of The Striker
In short, he’s turning practice into a mess, and Coach is pissed. We all are. The only thing improving my mood is that for every cheap shot Holt takes, I’m able to hit him back just as hard.
If he plays like this during our game, we’re going to lose, and while he might not care given that soccer is just a pastime for him, the rest of us do. Even a couple of his frat buddies are starting to look visibly pissed off.
Coach blows his whistle in the middle of one of our plays.
“Reset,” he shouts. “One-Two,” he calls out our next play.
My gaze flickers to Deacon. “You good?”
His mouth twists, and I curse. He doesn’t know this one. “I got it.” I tell him, getting into position.
Deacon’s rusty on the particulars of the game, and he’ll need to spend time outside of practice memorizing plays, but he’ll get there. All of that can be taught.
What comes naturally to the guy is his speed. He’s fast as fuck and he’s one hell of a good shot. He hasn’t missed a single goal he’s gone after. To say I’m impressed is putting it mildly.
“You gonna pull your fucking weight?” I yell at Holt. As the striker, that asshole is pivotal in a One-Two play.
“Fuck you,” he shouts back.
Awesome. New plan. I put my hand up asking Coach to give us a minute and jog over to Deacon. Coach curses but gives me the time.
“A one-two is a give and go,” I tell Deacon. “It’s a two-player quick pass combination. You take possession of the ball and quickly get it to me, then run your ass up the field. We’ll go back and forth until one of us is in position to score.”
His brows draw forward.
“Hey,” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Quarterback,” I say, trying to come up with a way for him to better understand this. “Take the snap. Go short and get it to me. As soon as I’m in possession, our roles reverse. You’re the receiver. Go long. As soon as you take possession, you’re QB again and I’ll run up thefield. Fast. Go long again. Rinse and repeat until we reach the goal. Got it?”
His mouth is still pinched, but he nods. Good enough.
We take our positions, and Coach blows his whistle, starting the play.
Deacon does exactly what I tell him, and since Coach called out the play, the other half of our team playing as our opponents are ready, but they expect Hunt to pass the ball to Holt and are taken by surprise when he gets the ball to me instead.
The play is on.
I race up the field, eyes tracking Deacon until he’s in front of me, and I shoot it back over to him.
“What the fuck,” Austin curses, racing after us. I block him out.
“Go, go!” Felix whoops, hanging back to play defense.
I sprint up the field, my cleats kicking up turf with each of my steps.
Deacon shoots the ball back to me, and I dribble forward, narrowly avoiding Austin’s steal.
Asshole.
I pass back to Deacon.
We’re two-thirds up the field. He’s almost there when Deacon shoots me a look. He’s not going to take the shot.
I spot the cross. Hunt’s coming in from the wing. I get in front of him, just outside the penalty area and he snaps it back. The ball flies high through the air. I time my jump, connecting withit cleanly in mid-air. The satisfying thud of my foot meeting the ball echoes in my ears and I watch it sail toward the goal. Atticus leaps, arms outstretched but the ball goes high, sailing through the top corner of the net.
Goal.
“Holy shit, bro!” Atticus shouts after climbing back to his feet.
I chuckle, my euphoria riding high. “That was fucking magic,” I tell Hunt.
