Kings and Crowns [under editing/being rewritten]

Begin: Oliver

Oliver 

The bench was abnormally cold this morning. It stung where I sat, the thin fabric of my green football shorts doing little to protect me from the tireless chill. I shifted uncomfortably quite a few times, trying to warm the lower and upper half of myself without looking like an idiot. I rubbed my hands together while my eyes were focused entirely on the spot ahead of me. 

Horizontal from my line of vision, the team moved around the wet field, courtesy of last night's wicked downpour. Matt Lindy, my best friend and the captain, called everyone into a small circle. I scrambled up, running out onto the middle of the field to join them. I situated myself between Sean and Mikhail, my mate since he and I were in primary school. He swung his arm around my shoulder, making a smile form on my lips. 

"Alright, so," he said, his voice laced in a tiredness I was used to hearing. Being the captain wasn't an easy job, but Matt did it wonderfully. "The game against Patterson is next week and we're not even close to ready. They're an aggressive team, we know that, and they play their best every time. So you know what we've got to do? We have to work and play and be ten times more aggressive than Patterson is and could ever be. We want to beat 'em, yeah? Then we've got to step it up!" 

"Fuck Patterson!" Sean yelled, throwing his hand into the middle of the group. "Everyone in." 

I laughed, placing my hand atop Mikhail's, whispering, "so damn lucky coach isn't here." 

"Like coach would give a bloody fuck," he said, chuckling and in turn, making me turn bright red. My mother was continuously scolding me for cursing and I had the slightly tendency to forget her rules did not matter out in the real world - especially where the team was concerned. "The man just wants a trophy for the school." 

On Sean's count, we chanted our team's cheesy (and somewhat funny) cheer, our loud voices mingling with the foggy British air. Eventually, everything died away and we were left to ourselves again. I didn't get a chance to speak with Matt, who was too busy talking to another member of the team. I didn't let it bother me too much. I had to realize sooner or later that Matt was the most important person on this team and without him, we would be utterly lost. I waved to him as Mikhail and I started heading towards the locker room, in the hopes that he may wave back. But he never did. 

● ● ●

The residence building where Mikhail and I's dorms was situated was the ugliest place on campus. Between the school's cafeteria and the preposterously expensive Harold Jenson Residence, Hunter Residence was continuously gasping for air. Even while going to the same school, there was an heirarchy of sorts that loomed over us. 

In the Harold Jenson Residence were all the wealthy, upper-class kids. They were the ones whose parents or years of familial wealth bought them a place in this school instead of their grades. Where we worked our arses off, they slipped a couple pounds under Chancellor Damien's desk at the beginning of term. 

To be honest, I hated most of the people there. 

"What are ya thinking so hard about, Ol?" Mikhail asked, pushing the door open to our residence building. There was a building line in front of the bathrooms, making me groan. His gaze drifted from me to the line, a laugh escaping him. "Two months into school, mate, and you're still annoyed with the morning routine?" 

I shrugged, walking past him to my room. "It's just irritating, ya know? I need a shower and I probably won't get one until this afternoon." 

"What time is it right now?" 

I fumbled with my keys at the door. "I don't know. When does practice normally end?" 

"Nine thirty."