(A/N: This is an individual story, I have stolen nothing.)
Tatum’s P.O.V.
“WINNFIELD BEARKATS! WINNFIELD BEARKATS! WINNFIELD BEARKATS! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” Our team said the famous chant at the end of the game against Beverly Hills High, 14-10. Which my forward-self got four of. My face had sweat stained on it (eww) and my blonde ponytail was pulled up, but barely hanging on. My blue and yellow jersey, soccer shorts, knee high yellow socks, and blue cleets were covered in dirt and caked with sweat. I was quite the hot mess.
“Great game! Our MVP!” Coach Stallion clapped towards me, and I stood up in the middle of the small locker-room. Everyone surrounded me, sitting by their lockers.
“WE GOT THIS! WE WANTED IT AND WE GOT! GOOOOOO WINNFIELD!” Everyone cheered as loud as they could as I fist-pumped several times.
I was so happy: we are now the champions of the state of California in girls’ soccer. BEST SENIOR YEAR EVER!
I couldn’t wait to tell mr.i_got_styles20
Let me explain…
Styles (as I have so rightly named him) is absolutely perfect. He’s a guy, says he’s between the age of 18-20 and sings. Oh, and to make matters better for myself: he says that I’m his dream girl: sporty, and from my profile picture (me in mid-air kicking a soccer ball) I’m beautiful. My face in that picture was more like I-will-kill-anyone-and-everyone. He also says in his country (England. London if you want to get technical), that is football and that I’m the hottest soccer/football player he has ever met.
EEEEP!
I was gathering my bright green Adidas bag with the rest of my gear, the warm-up clothes, and the things I wore over here before I changed. I turned sharply to see Coach Stallion and a tall, bald, and awkwardly thin man in a penguin suit (or tuxedo, if you call it that). The man had giant-rimmed glasses and was holding a packet with nothing on the front. It was one of those orange-yellow things that teachers put important documents into. Uh oh, what did I do?
“Tatum, this is Mr. Bengilow. Mr. Bengilow, this is Tatum Edwards.” I reached my hand out and smiled, pushing a stray hair behind my ear and leaning over awkwardly because my bag has a lot of crap in it. Just sayin!
“Hi! Hello, so nice to meet you! Is everything alright?”
Mr.Ben—whatever his name is—and Coach S. smiled.
“No, Tatum, I believe everything is right for you.” Oh, God. Coach said this in a sneer. He knew I was about to get something.
Not before school ends! I graduate in two days! I CAN’T have ANYTHING happen to me!
This is when Styles would IM me: Karma sucks.
Exactly, Styles, exactly.
“Sir? I’m confused.” I said and the two men smiled, evilly.
“Tatum, there is a prestigious soccer camp at Oxford University over your summer break, hmm? It is two months time, and each week people will get cut if they do not meet expectations. In America, I suppose you could say I’m scouting you.” The man was a Brit, that much I could tell and he became less awkward just because he smiled.
He handed me the packet.
I held it like it was the frieken Holy Grail.
Is this a scholarship?
“You are one of the four chosen at this school to come to London to train. I can’t guarantee that Mr. Bengilow will give you a scholarship to Oxford, but here is where you can make it or break it.” Coach said and smiled.
