cliché (phan)

one

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"Alright, Howell. You're in."

I stood up from the bench, furrowing my eyebrows at the man in front of me. "Really?"

"Yes, now get in the game. We're losing by two points, I expect you to fix that."

"I will, coach."

I tightened my cleats, immediately feeling safer. I turned to see my mother, waving. But my father? He wasn't here.

My smile faltered and I turned away, rushing into the field to replace the boy who just got out.

I formed into my place as offense, looking past the opponents and catching the goalie in my vision.

He had sweaty black hair from what I could see, his blue eyes squinted from the sunlight, his teeth on his bottom lip as he tossed the ball back in.

Wait.

Was he throwing the ball to me?

I scrambled to catch it with my feet, kicking the ball and turning to chase it- only to crash into another body and fall backwards. The opponents dragged it along as my back collided with the ground, and I groaned in pain. The other team scored once again and the whistle blew.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath, struggling to stand up.

"Howell, don't make me regret this!"

I adjusted my jersey before getting back into position, ignoring Coach Will's glare.

The ball reappeared in the middle, and the game went on. We ended up losing, and once Coach Will was done scolding us we went to the locker rooms to change.

I found the goalie, his number being 09.

"Hey, Lester!" I snarled, yanking my jersey off. He turned to raise an eyebrow at me. "Why the hell did you throw it to me? There was plenty of other people open!"

He tilted his head. "Cause you're offense. It's kind of my job to throw to those players."

"So? There's no way I could've got that."

"Maybe because you were staring so much."

I heated over, my fists clenching. "What?"

The boy chuckled. "I'm not oblivious, Howell. I saw you eye-fucking me."

"Was not!"

"Was to. Next time you should probably keep your gaze locked on that ball, and not mine."

"Fine! Maybe I will!" I pouted, crossing my arms. He began laughing, and I furrowed my eyebrows. "What's so funny?"

"It's just cute when you're angry," he responded, slipping off his shirt. I heated over more, causing the boy to laugh harder. "I'm Phil."

He extended his hand and I took it grumpily. "Dan."

And then he was off, with his towel and soap, to the showers. I went to my locker and threw my dirty clothes in a bag, showering, then getting dressed. Phil came back out to change. The whole time, however, I noticed 09 staring at me in the corner of my eye.

I smirked, looking up at him. "Now who's the one who won't stop staring."

"Oh please, Heart Eyes Howell."

I scoffed. "How clever of you, Love eyes Lester."

He rolled his eyes playfully. "You're something."

"What's that supposed to mean, doucheface?" I sputtered, slipping my backpack on and furrowing my eyebrows.

"Whatever you want it to."

And then he was gone, leaving me with my lips parted and heart pounding.

I sighed, walking out the building to meet my mum at the car. She pat my head.

"Sorry about the game, sweetie."

"It's fine."

We got in the car and I clipped my seatbelt, the engine starting.

"And I'm sorry your dad couldn't be here, he had to work."

"As usual," I muttered. She exhaled, not saying anything else.

We pulled into the driveway and I hopped out, running upstairs to my room and flopping down on my bed.

My ceilings and walls were covered in band posters and soccer players, two windows letting sunlight crack through.

Heart Eyes Howell. I rolled my eyes. Hilarious.

Who was Phil Lester, and why hadn't I noticed him before? He was the goalie, I was offense. He had black hair, I had chestnut. He had blue eyes, I had brown.

We were complete opposites.

I sat up, setting my soccer ball down on the desk and exhaling. Unzipping my backpack, I dug around, blinking when I felt a sheet of paper crumple in my hand.

I pulled my fist out and opened it to see a small piece of paper in the palm of my hand, writing in pen scribbled onto it.

A number, along with a note.

bet you're gonna stare at me next game, too. - #09

Phil Lester gave me his number.

I looked up, feeling my lips curl at the sides and my cheeks heating. Slamming the piece of paper down, I walked into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, getting into my pajamas.

Climbing into bed I snuggled into the sheets, exhaling against my pillow and staring at the wall.

He thinks I'm incapable of not staring at him. Ha, we'll see about that, Lester. The only one that'll be staring is you.

I am going to the be the best offensive player this school has ever had. I am going to make my teammates proud, my coach proud, and my parents. No matter what it takes, I will be the MVP in the yearbook, and 09 is not going to take that away from me.

Well, number nine, you're on.