Score •• louis a.u.

chapter 39

I'm sick.

I'm sick and it's the day of the championship game. If I was ever going to become a serial killer today would be the day that started it all. My dad refused to let me leave my flat, saying if I walked outside in the 10 degree Celsius weather, he would put my ass in bed so fast I'd barely have time to cough. So I am stuck watching the freaking game on the telly, grumbling to myself and cursing whenever something went wrong. I'd much rather be doing the grumbling and cursing in the stands no matter the temperature.

I had called Louis as soon as I woke up but he hadn't answered and if I'm being honest, I was annoyed. I was annoyed at this whole situation because if it wasn't for stupid John and stupid Rick Felding then I would be standing right next to my favorite players.

I grumble for the thousandth time and angrily shove myself back against the couch. On the screen, I can't tell who is who and have to rely on the bloody broadcasters who can't seem to keep the conversation strictly on the game.

No, Brian, I don't fucking care about your kids and their problems.

God.

We're-I mean-Louis' team is playing some Northern team. Probably Lancaster or something. I watch as our-I mean-Louis' team takes control of the ball and rushes it down the pitch. I bite my lip as the broadcasters finally get their shit together and start saying the names of the players who have the ball. They say Louis' name and I give a little shout of joy. He passes it to Ryan who then finds Scott. They're stalling, staying on the wings looking for a way to give it up the center. Angel comes flying into the middle, his right arm raised. Wait a minute.

Wait one bloody minute.

Angel is midfield?

Angel doesn't play midfielder. Immediately, I'm up and off the couch, running into my room and grabbing my phone off the night table. I dial my dad's number and impatiently wait while it rings. On the third ring he answers and I'm met with loud roaring from the crowd.

"Dad, I know you're at the game so don't even deny it. I just need you to go down to the player's box and tell John to get his bloody head out of his ass and to put Angel back in left center forward where he belongs," I demand, cutting right to the chase.

"Trey, you know I can't do that. First of all, I'm not the coach of the team. John can put his players wherever the hell he wants. And second of all, I'm not about to be arrested for walking onto the pitch without authority."

"But dad!" I whine, my voice cracking horribly. This leads to wrenching coughs that sound like I'm dying by throwing up gravel.

"No Trey! I can't do it and I'm sorry. You're going to have to deal with not having a say anymore." With that, he hangs up. I stare open-mouthed at my phone. It almost sounded like he blamed me for getting kicked off a team again.

Fantastic.

So I call the one person I promised myself I would never speak to again. Satan himself.

The very bringer of Death.

John Crutherds.

"Hello?" He asks as he answers his phone. On the TV, I see the other team bringing up the ball and shooting it toward the net. Thank God Josh is there.

"John, it's me, Trey."

There's a moment of silence on the other end. I can hear Rick screaming at the boys to stop walking and I curl my fist in anger. His very presence irks me.

I almost think John isn't going to answer me but then he says, "Oh. What can I do for you Trey?"

"I need you to switch Angel to left center forward and have Dave go midfield. You're killing yourselves out there. Angel isn't used to starting with the ball and he's bringing down the entire team. Dave is stronger anyway and he can be more physical. Let Angel lead up the field."