The morning sun shines over the frost-covered grass of McAllister’s private football pitch. Ares digs one of his boots into the turf, testing his weight with movements that reveal a little too clearly that he’s not just a great athlete. This isn’t just a game. Nothing with him ever is. The ball drops between the men while I’m on the sidelines beside their women, watching Ares’ first move.
We are all sitting on white iron chairs beneath a pergola, with fancy cocktails already in hand, though I’ve barely touched mine.
The rest of the men get into position. “First one to five?” McAllister calls, trying to sound more relaxed than he really is.
Ares lunges while the others scramble to mirror his movement, but he’s faster, his foot connects with the ball while using his body as a shield between McAllister and his prize. The rest of the men are close behind as he heads toward the goal.
One of the silver-haired guys, Benedict—just like the eggs—appreciates his speed, and I can tell Ares overdid it a little. “You move well,” he says more in masked jealousy than in praise.
“Exceptional reflexes,” McAllister responds with the same mixed feelings in his voice.
Ares drives the ball forward, aware of their scrutiny, but focuses on the goal more. You can’t take the spirit of a winner away from him. No matter how hard you try. This time, he slides into McAllister’s pathway more gently than I know he’s got in him. McAllister makes a charge, feints left, then cuts right, but Ares anticipates, stealing the ball with too much ease for the rest of the men not to feel at a disadvantage.
He smiles almost ironically as he moves to the opposite direction.
The women beside me abandon any pretense of conversation, all their attention is now fixed on the game. Or more likely, on my man.
They’ve been scrolling through their phones all morning, some of them even tried to initiate conversations with me, showing different social media posts or memes, or even showing me the new Instagram exaggerated filters, as if their faces aren’t enough.I understand a milliliter or two put to good use, but these ladies went for the whole bottle.
One leans forward, her chin propped in her hand, tracking Ares’ moves with a gaze that betrays she’s undressing him in her mind. Another whispers behind her hand to her companion, both chuckling right after.
I’m doing my best not to kill them right now, but I can’t promise anyone that some of them won’t have an accident before this getaway is over.
I try to return my gaze to Ares and focus on him and only him. He plays in a calculated, very restrained way, trying not to go too quickly and kill anyone in the process. The others struggle to match his steps, their bodies engaged in a fight of advance and retreat, neither willing to yield ground.
The ball becomes just an excuse. What matters now is the push and pull, the silent mutual challenge between men with too much testosterone.
I’m officially sick.
Ares scores first, slipping the ball past McAllister with a move that leaves the man momentarily flat-footed. His eyes narrow, that envy and jealousy surfacing again. “Lucky shot,” McAllister says, but the pride in his voice only betrays the dismissal.
The game intensifies. They trade goals, neither gaining sufficient advantage. 2-1. 2-2. 3-2.
I know that wouldn’t be the case if Ares were actually trying. But he’s holding back. I can see in the way he pulls his tackles just short of his true strength.
The score reaches 4-4. The final point hangs in the balance, and Ares has possession of the ball, driving toward the goal.
McAllister mirrors his movements, searching for an opening. Ares feints, McAllister commits, and suddenly Ares is past. Nothing between him and victory now, but an open field. Instead of taking the easy shot, he hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable to anyone but me. Just enough time for McAllister to recover and to slide in with a desperate tackle that sends them both tumbling onto the grass.
They land in a tangle of limbs, Ares’ body partially covering McAllister’s, and I know his weight is carefully distributed or he would’ve crushed the man by now.
McAllister’s face is inches from his, breathless and more than a little shocked.
“Excellent match!” McAllister’s voice covers his anger as he strides across the pitch, applauding with a little too much enthusiasm to be genuine. “A draw seems fitting between such evenly matched opponents.”
Yeah, in your fucking dreams…
Ares rises with ease, like all the effort was nothing to him, then looks at McAllister almost with pity for the way the man is fabulating.
“Lunch awaits on the terrace,” McAllister continues, gesturing toward the house where staff is arranging tables. “We are all famished after such a challenging game.”
The terrace offers a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains, the high peaks disappearing into the clouds.
I play with my grilled salmon and microgreens, listening to McAllister, who commands the attention of his guests with his hunting stories, each more elaborate and more disgusting than the last.
“I tracked the melanistic jaguar for three days through the Amazon,” he says, his pride on full display. “Locals swore it was a ghost jaguar. Said it killed a dozen men before me,” he pauses for effect, looking at his captive audience. “What they don’t understand is that every creature has a weakness. Find it, and even the best can fall.”
His eyes find Ares across the table, and the challenge is unmistakable. Beside him, the egg-named man nods, his gaze sliding to me so intensely that it turns my blood cold.
