The Winning Shot

CHAPTER FOUR

EVERLY

By the time I get to my dorm, I'm running on fumes. I feel exhausted, and just physically, but mentally. Especially mentally.

I had to spend one hour with Xander, but it felt like five. Half of which I spent trying to convince him not to dismiss me, a third rambling about some nonsense, and for the rest of the time, I was fighting tooth and nail to get him to tell me something about himself. Anything. All I got? His fucking middle name. I guess it's better than nothing, but definitely doesn't deserve to be called 'progress'. He's stubborn as a mule, although in this case, it may be an offense to mules.

Fuck my life, and fuck me.

And fuck him.

I lie on my bed, unable to move. I've been staring at the ceiling for about ten minutes now, replaying our very chaotic conversation in my head again and again.

Something he said is still bothering me, no matter how hard I try to repress it. That thing about how, as a goalie, I shouldn't care about the rest of the team. It's likely I misinterpreted his words, but my gut tells me that they were every bit the insult I took them to be—he doesn't see me as an equally important player. I shouldn't care what he thinks of me, and a year ago, I probably wouldn't, but now I can't help it. Because I worked so hard on being less self-centered that I forgot how to ignore trifling opinions.

And while my motivations aren't as altruistic as they seem—I won't deny I'm only doing it for the sake of the team—I still genuinely care about him, just like I care about any other of my teammates. He's a loner, which is not a bad thing, unless you're so terrified to step out of your comfort zone that you end up jeopardizing things you care about—because there's no denying he loves the game—just to stay in your little safe bubble.

I want to work with him, I really do. It's him who doesn't want to work with me. So unless he learns how to compromise, it's going to be a long and bumpy road that most likely ends on a cliff.

***

"All right, that's clearly not working. Let's try a different approach." I pause to think, trying to ignore the way Xander's drilling a hole in my skull with his piercing stare. "Okay, how about a bet, huh? Eleven shots on the goal. If I save more than you score, you have to tell me the most embarrassing thing that happened to you. If it's the other way around," I hesitate, knowing I'll regret it. "Your choice. Please, don't betray my trust."

For a long minute, Xander just looks at me, his face devoid of emotion, but eyes speak the truth. He thinks it's a trap, which is understandable, but not exactly a confidence booster.

The more time passes in silence, the more anxious I get. They say patience is a virtue, but I wouldn't know.

"So... Do we have a deal?"

Better say 'yes' because I'm running out of options.

"Deal." He sighs heavily, but surprisingly enough, he doesn't roll his eyes. Now that's progress.

I help him line up the balls, then return to the goal.

I should feel confident about the score, after all, I'm a goalkeeper. He's a midfielder, and it shows in how he plays that he would be no use in attack.

I've got this. I've got this. I... Maybe I don't, actually, but what was the saying? Fake it till you make it? Sounds about right.

"Ready?" Xander scoops the first ball from the ground and makes a shot immediately after, not waiting for my answer

Fucker wanted to surprise me, but he forgot that his every move is two times slower in my eyes. That's how most goalies' reflexes work—if we do our job right and are squared to the ball, we get ourselves more time to analyze the angle, distance and force to predict the possible trajectory.