Page 40 of He Hate Me

About halfway through, I see Mello sitting on the sidelines, looking frustrated. His ankle has a ways to go before it’s healed, so he can't join in. I call a timeout and jog over to him.

"How's it going, man?" I ask.

He shrugs. "It sucks just watching."

I nod. "I know. But you'll be back out there soon."

We're quiet for a minute, both of us watching the other guys practice tricks and shots.

"So what's up with you and Deja, anyway?" Mello asks suddenly.

I tense up. My relationship with her isn't something I want to discuss. "What do you mean?"

"I see the way you look at each other. And how she pushes your buttons. There's something going on."

I force a laugh, going for casual. "Yeah, we don't really get along. She’s just obsessed with being popular. It’s annoying.”

“What is all this, then?” Mello asks, gesturing with his hand. “We’re hanging out with Rich Douchebags of Briarwood for shits and giggles?”

“I’m just trying to get to know the guys on the A squad. My new teammates.”

“And here I was thinking us transfers were going to stick together.” It wasn’t said bitterly, but Mello’s tone is dry. I felt a pang of guilt. I would have preferred to stick with Mello as well; we’ve known each other since middle school. But he had no idea about my relationship with Anton or my real reason for trying to get closer to these guys.

“I’m still your friend, man,” I say. “But I’m probably the weakest guy out there. I need all the help I can get.”

I can see that Mello doesn’t buy my bullshit, but I can’t let him know what’s really going on.

“Come on, Keane,” Rourke calls out, “let’s go!”

We kick the ball back and forth. There's no real strategy to our game, just a bunch of guys messing around and trying to one-up each other. Rourke juggles the ball on his knees, showing off.

"Quit hot-dogging and pass the ball, Rourke!" Javi shouts.

Rourke smirks and lobs it over to Javi, who traps it neatly on his chest before dribbling it towards the goal. I run alongside trying to steal the ball, but Javi is too quick. He feints left, then fires the ball into the top corner of the goal.

"Yeah! Suck on that, Keane!" Javi gloats as we bump fists.

"Lucky shot," I say with a grin.

We play for another hour or so until the sunlight begins to fade. My limbs feel loose and warm, the thrill of movement keeping me energized. For a little while out here, running and yelling with my teammates, everything else faded away. I almost forgot why I’m there till the game wraps up and Rourke comes over, slapping me on the back. His blond hair is dark with sweat.

“This was a good idea, Keane,” he says. “Sometimes I forget how much I love soccer until I get to play without Coach breathing down my neck.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. “It’s a great way to blow off steam.”

“Not the only way, though,” Rourke says. “Wanna come hang out at my place. Or do you have to get foster daddy’s permission?”

I don’t correct him. I don’t think there’s that big of a difference between a foster parent and a guardian, not in practice. “It’s cool as long as I’m home before curfew.”

“You have a curfew?” He seems amused. “Aren’t you a senior?”

“As long as you live under my roof…”

“I get it. Is that why it’s so hard to get Deja over to my place.”

I raise my hands in the universal gesture of, “I’m not touching that.”

“Doesn’t she like me?”