1
Dacen
“Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.” Mom pulls up to the high school stadium entrance and puts the car in park.
“Hey! Watch the hair,” I exclaim as she reaches over to ruffle it and pat my cheek. I make a show of pulling away and flipping down the passenger visor to survey the damage. Turning my head side to side, I smooth down a few errant strands. When I look over, my lips twitch and quirk up on one side. “I know it’s about to get messed up at tryouts anyway, but first impressions are important.”
“Yes, Dacen and perfectly styled hair is the key to making a great first impression on soccer coaches. You and that hair.” She shakes her head a little.
This will not only be my first impression on the soccer coach, but also on every other guy at tryouts, and I have no idea what to expect from them. In the week since we officially moved to Georgia, I’m still coming to terms with the fact that the South is like an entirely foreign planet compared to New York. The food is different, a lot of the words people use are different, and they have a helluva different sense of personal space. It’s not so bad here, I guess. Just, well, different. I’m not a huge fan of change, so it’s an adjustment. I like the structure and familiarity of the known, being organized, and planning ahead.
Soccer is familiar though. It’s been a part of my life since I could barely walk. Soccer is the reason why, instead of enjoying this beautiful day poolside or lounging on a couch in an air-conditioned room as most teenagers do during the summer, I find myself in front of my new high school, preparing to sweat it out on the field.
“Baby?” Mom’s voice pulls me back into the here and now.
Tryouts for the fall soccer season begin today. I glance at my watch. I’ve got about ten minutes, but I like to be early and scope things out. And on that note, I need to get moving. I reach into the backseat and grab my duffle bag, then lean over to kiss Mom’s cheek as I twist around to face the front again.
“You love me and my hair, Mom.”
“That I do, Dacen. Now get going.” She shoos me from the car and when I open the door and step outside, I’m hit with a wall of heat. I close the door behind me and the side window goes down as I hoist my bag over my shoulder.
“Good luck, sweetie.”
“Thanks. I’ll take all the luck I can get.”
Every time I mention to someone here that I play soccer and am trying out for the team, I hear all about the current varsity team and how “those boys grew up together on Knoxton Field” and are “the best high school soccer team this side of the Mississippi.” I just nod politely each time someone brings it up now and look for an opening for a quick exit. It’s been stressing me the hell out. I’m an excellent striker, but everyone’s made it sound like I’m about to take up the gauntlet against the ultimate knight or something.
“Ha,” I mutter under my breath. This is the home of the Knights, after all.
“You do your best and you’ll blow them away, baby.”
Mom waves and honks the horn once as she pulls away from the curb. I watch the retreating car for a moment and then turn to face what could be the determining factor in how my senior year of high school shapes up. Squaring my shoulders and standing tall, I jog up a set of concrete stairs toward the field. Rounding the corner around a brick concession stand, the stadium entrance comes fully into view. When I say the word stadium, I use it very loosely. There’s a tiny set of bleachers on the away side of the field and a larger set on the home side, but even that is still small. A metal chain link fence separates the stands from the track that surrounds the field.
At the end of the field closest to me, there’s a group of guys in football pads holding their helmets, with sweat dripping down their faces as they listen to their coach. My gaze sweeps over them and I bite back a smile. Some of them are definitely not unfortunate looking. At the other end of the field, another group is congregated, mostly girls, some stretching and others doing warm-up jumps, back handsprings, and other tumblings. This school is so small they have one field to share for all these sports. It’s not at all what I’m used to. A little knot twists in the pit of my stomach.
There’s a big metal bin of soccer balls near the center edge of the field, and the sight of the black pentagons and white hexagons eases the tension in my stomach. I stay toward the back of the group of guys sitting on the track. Although contrary to my nature, I keep my head down, mouth closed, and just focus on stretching after I get my cleats on. Ignoring the multiple sets of eyes on me, I check my laces to make sure they’re tight and then stand up to stretch my quad muscles.
A guy with a head of dark almost inky hair immediately catches my attention. He’s just joined the group, standing beside another guy with a mop of unruly blond hair. Their backs are to me and my eyes trail down his strong shoulders, torso, and legs as they begin to stretch. Blondie smirks and gestures toward the cheerleaders, saying something quietly, and the subsequent chuckle from the dark-haired hottie sends a shiver down my spine. I look down a moment and switch legs, pulling my left foot to my butt until I feel the light burn of my quad loosening up.
The skin at the back of my neck prickles and when I drop my foot and look up, my eyes widen. A pair of eyes the color of gunmetal and just as lethal stare me down, boring a hole straight through me. They’re situated on a handsome face that is still handsome despite his pinched eyebrows and the lips turned down into a deep frown. But that in and of itself is not what’s startling. It’s not the eyes themselves, it’s the owner of those eyes. I blink a few times to clear my vision, but nope, it’s still him.
Ryne Sutton.
The wingback of all wingbacks. Five feet eleven inches of tan, sculpted, muscular glory, all glaring at me right now. Seriously, karma? What did I do to you? How is it possible his town is where we moved? His school is where I’ll be for the next year. It’s at least eighty-five degrees outside already, yet a shiver races down my spine.
He’s as striking as I remember. My kryptonite is forearms and his are killer. Sexy as sin with all sorts of sinewy hotness leading up to firm biceps, the lines and curves of which are clearly visible even through the fabric of his dark blue Adidas t-shirt. When you take a step back and check out his body as a whole entity—which I’m totally not doing, by the way—what you find are broad, strong shoulders, a fit, trim torso, and a narrow waist and hips followed by powerful legs no athletic shorts or shin guards can hide. Bringing the whole package together, physically at least, is his obnoxiously handsome face. Those eyes of his pierce me, daring me to hold his gaze while also demanding I look away. He’s freshly shaven, and his jaw and cheeks have a soft, smooth look that begs to be touched. Ryne’s a mixture of babyface and sharp, angry edges. The ferocity in his expression is almost savage, and I poke the beast when I give him a quick two-fingered wave, a salute of sorts. Ryne’s eyes narrow into tiny slits and his glower deepens.
Blondie, still standing next to him, gives me a once-over and then leans over and whispers something to Ryne. Ryne shakes his head minutely and quickly reels his savagery back in, returning to normal levels of moody just as the coaching staff starts to make their way down the track. He shifts positions, turning his back and summarily dismissing me.
My head is reeling as if I’ve just spun in circles over and over and come to an abrupt halt. As the group of coaches and assistants steps up in front of everyone, I sneak one more glance at Ryne. He hasn’t turned again, so I’ve got a great view of the back of his head and wish I had a soccer ball in hand to ping him with. My shoulders lift and fall with a heavy sigh, and then I tune in as Coach King, the head coach, begins introductions and gives a rundown of the next few days.
In the back of my mind, I can’t shake the feeling this is only the first day of what is to become my personal year of hell, otherwise known as senior year at Knoxton Falls High School.
2
Ryne
What. The Actual. Fuck. Why is Dacen Becker here?
