The Winning Shot

CHAPTER THREE

XANDER

I want to scream. I want to scream till my lungs give out. The dread that'd been following me for the past few weeks has now permanently settled under my skin, twisting my stomach and every other organ in knots.

It was barely my first practice, and I've already managed to screw things up. The plan was simple—stay as invisible as possible, play as well as you can. And of course, Coach had to come and rock the boat.

I know the team's well-being is his priority, but for fuck's sake, was that really necessary?! Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the opportunity, but furious that I have to suffer Everly's presence.

It's nothing personal, he's just... I don't know. He seems nice, a little too nice, if you ask me, so I can't help being cautious around him. Life taught me that people who are too friendly often turn out to be real assholes. And I don't use that term lightly.

But of course, with my luck, out of over twenty guys, Coach had to choose the one with whom I hoped to cross paths the least.

So right now, all I can do is get through our mandatory extra time with as little interactions as possible. And hope it'll be as easy as it sounds.

In the last possible second, I snatch the ball Hilton threw Miller's way and start running.

Coach divided us into two squads to run scrimmages. We're tied 2-2, and the time is running out, so if we get a shot on the goal, the stakes will be pretty high. Even during practice games, our competitive sides take charge. That's one of the stereotypes about athletes that is one hundred percent true—they love to win, preferably during official games, but we take everything we can. Mainly to stroke our egos.

I slip past two of my opponents and pass the ball to Monroe, who's exactly where I need him to be. The ball barely leaves the net of my crosse, when a strong force hits my side, throwing me on the ground.

A little too late, buddy. And a little too hard.

I look up to see who body checked me with the strength of a ducking freight train, and I can't say I'm surprised to see it was Darren Hayes.

This day keeps getting better and better.

Even with his helmet on, I can see the way he's looking at me—like I ran over his cat—and I realize he didn't do it just to get the ball.

Motherfucker.

Now I understand why he was called "Burlow's guard dog" by two of our freshmen when I accidentally overheard their conversation a few days ago. We had classes together and because they decided to sit right next to me, I had to listen to them gossiping about all of our older teammates. You can't blame them for being curious, but I really wish I wasn't there to witness.

I quickly get up, ignoring the pain in my left arm. It doesn't hurt much more than any other regular body check would, so I'll let it slide.

I shift my focus back to the game and more specifically, to Monroe, who's taking a shot on the goal.

With Everly guarding the other squad's net, the chances of us scoring aren't high because he's like a damn wall, but if we managed to get two in, who's to say we won't get a third?

Time slows down for a few seconds. Monroe goes for the upper left corner, which is a smart move, considering this is Everly's weaker side—still not weak by any means, but his moves seem more hesitant.

I automatically hold my breath, while my eyes follow the trajectory of the ball.

Three yards.

Two yards.