The Winning Shot

CHAPTER TWO

EVERLY

I stare at the door long after Xander has disappeared behind it.

What the fuck was that?

Apparently, the saying that being nice doesn't pay off is true. I'd have to be a selfish jerk to just walk past my teammate, who looked like he had seen a ghost or something and was probably on the verge of a freaking panic attack, and I refuse to be that person. Again.

This whole break-the-cycle talk I had with my therapist over a year ago still echoes in my head, especially the part about not letting anyone ruin the progress I've made.

If he wants to bite my head off because I dared to care about his well-being, then so be it.

"Damn, what did you say to him?" I hear Darren's voice on my left. He sounds genuinely surprised, although I'm not exactly sure why. He of all people should know I have a natural talent to offend people, barely saying anything.

Yet another reason why I should think twice before speaking.

"Hell, if I know," I murmur, still not taking my eyes off the locker room door, like the damn thing holds all the answers.

Daren steps in front of me and shoots me that confused-and-surprised-in-a-negative-way look that I've grown to hate because that's what people call disappointment when they don't want to use that word. And I can't stand the thought of disappointing the only person who actually believes I can change and become the best version of myself. Or at least a better one. One that isn't a self-absorbed asshole.

"Just say whatever you're thinking." My tone is a weird mix of pleading and accusing.

I brace for the worst, knowing brutal honesty is basically my best friend's hallmark.

"Why do you automatically assume I'll criticize you? I know you're trying, and from what I've seen, it looks like Spade was in a shitty mood before even coming here."

"Sometimes I forget you have eyes in the back of your head."

"Growing up in Berclair will do that to a person."

Great job, dumbass. That's how you boost your teammate's morale before practice. By bringing up a sore subject.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't..."

"Please, don't..." he cuts me off, his voice is soft and calm, not fitting the situation in the slightest. "Can we go get changed, or are you planning on pissing off Coach too?"

Yeah, a rebuke for being late is the last thing I need right now.

"Of course I am. I told you that this season, I'm aiming for the record of pissing off the most people in the shortest amount of time," I deadpan, then I go past him and to the locker room.

Somehow, I manage to put on all my practice gear and get ready just in time, gaining only a frustrated sigh from Coach Davis but not a single word, which coming from him is basically an endorsement.

He acts harshly and is definitely the tough-love kind of coach, but he doesn't cross boundaries like so many others in his profession do. Even in pro leagues, there are slurs tossed around by the coaching staff, which does nothing but make players feel degraded. Davis respects us, which is the main reason we respect him.

I step on the field, zoning in and letting go of every thought that isn't lacrosse. Or at least trying to, because then something—or rather someone—else picks my attention.

"Should we have a talk about punctuality, Spade?"

I turn around to find Xander running toward the field and Coach with his 'disappointed dad' expression.