Page 97 of Gabriel
Both my shins are bleeding,but Holt doesn’t look any better. He’s got a bruise forming on his left cheek, and a trail of blood drips down his right elbow. He’s been keeping that arm close to his side, too. A clear indication he doesn’t want it jostled, so I know it hurts like a bitch.
Good.
We’re halfway through practice, and shit is already ugly on the field. I can’t take credit for the shiner. That one was all Deacon. He’s been giving Holt a run for his money. From the moment Coach blew the whistle, Deacon’s been on him.
I’ve got to hand it to the guy. For a freshman, he’s a quick study.
Deacon Hunt analyzes the way each and every player plays, scrutinizing their position. How they move. Which direction they lean into when they move in for a steal or aim for a goal. It’s fascinating to watch, and it’s clear that no one on the field knows what to do with him.
The way his mind operates doesn’t come as a surprise. Not when you really think about it.
Hunt was a quarterback for Suncrest U before his transfer to PacNorth. He’s used to taking in the entire field, making note of everyone’s position, the directions they’re moving in. He’s had to get comfortable with taking in massive amounts of information before making split-second decisions and that skill of his shows.
Deacon will make the starting lineup before the season’s end. I have no doubt about it. Which is damn near unheard of for a freshman. This is only day one, and he’s already performing at a high level. The only question now will be where to put him.
Soccer isn’t like football. One player doesn’t determine the play. But there are certain positions that can play to his strengths. Positions like mine. Not that I’m concerned.
We usually play 4-4-2 or 4-3-2-1 formations, so there are anywhere from three to four midfielders on the pitch at any given time. Watching the way Deacon’s mind works, he’d be a killer attacking midfielder like myself. The only problem there is that an attacking midfielder provides support and opportunity for the striker to score, and right now, that person is Austin fucking Holt.
The division in the team is palpable, and I wish I could say it came from me, but Julio is right. We need our heads in the game if we’re going to have any shot at beating CPU.
During practice at least, me and my boys are making an effort. I’ve passed that asshole the ball multiple times but Holt doesn’t follow the play. He’s aggressive, causing us to respond in kind as he takes cheap shots that interfere with advances that should be resulting in goals.
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 the field. 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.
