Page 11 of Set Play

1:30 PM.

Fuck!

I have to be out the door within the next thirty minutes if I don’t want to miss our two thirty call time. Coach takes game days very seriously and not even I, as captain, will be given any leniency if I’m late. Thankfully, I packed my game bag last night, so after getting dressed, I’m almost ready to go.

If only I could find my lucky game socks.

They were the only things I couldn’t find yesterday, but I know they are somewhere in this damn room. It takes five minutes of digging through my closet, but I finally find them, toss them in the bag, and do a last-minute walkthrough of my game day list before zipping it.

Warm-up shirt? Check. Rain cleats? Check.

Compression shorts? Check. Shin guards? Check.

Water, electrolyte packs, phone, wallet, keys? Check to all.

With a sigh of relief, I dash into the elevator, making it to my Audi Q8 with five minutes to spare before the clock reads 2:00 PM.

Sweat drips from my hair, falling into my eyes under the intense beams of the stadium lights. I use the current substitution stoppage to scan the stands, seeing that nearly every seat is occupied and almost no one remains seated right now. The energy that radiates from the crowd undulates from excitement and anxiety.

Same, guys. Same.

It’s the first home game of the season, and the league set a great match for us. We’re playing our biggest intra-conference rival, CF Québec City.

Ironic that we play them on Valentine’s Day.

The lavender jerseys of their few traveling fans stand out starkly against the sea of steel blue and charcoal grey of the home crowd. Only the keepers and referees stand out more, but unlike those fans, that’s by design.

Looking around the field, it’s clear that both teams are exhausted. No one is moving as swiftly as we were at the start of the game, but with ten minutes remaining in regulation, no one is ready to step off the field. Glancing up at the scoreboard, my stomach twists at the fact that we are currently trailing two to one.

When my eyes return to the field, they instantly lock onto the one CFQC player I’ve been trying to avoid as much as possible.

Henri Clément.

With him in the goal and me being an offensive midfielder, it’s almost a guarantee that we will end up in close proximity, but so far, I’ve managed to pass the scoring opportunities off to Eli or one of the forwards.

But alas, it seems my luck has run out, because one of Québec’s defenders kicks the ball out behind the goal, giving the Storm our first corner kick of the game.

Now I’m standing next to Henri, preparing for Cillian to rocket the ball in with that big ass foot of his, and doing my best to ignore the insults that Henri tosses my way. Of course, they are said too quietly for others to hear, ensuring that no one realizes that he’s the antagonistic one.

I don’t understand why he has such a problem with me when he was the one who started shit. And to be honest, I’ve never been able to figure out why either.

Henri’s hated me since college when I tried to talk to him after our first matchup junior year. All I wanted to do was congratulate him on an impressive save he made, and he looked down on me as if I were worth less than the dirt stuck on his cleat.

And things have only gotten worse since then.

I’ve tried talking to him a few more times, but after being ignored repeatedly, I let my annoyance get the better of me. Thinking it was safe, I vented to my family and then-girlfriend about Henri being a childish dickhead.

Turns out I was wrong. Jade went straight to the press with the conversation. Needless to say, that story blew up in my face.

When he throws yet another insult at me, I grit my teeth and put a little more force into my challenge as our shoulders collide. The move forces us both to take a step apart, accidentally putting me right in front of the ball.

Whoops. I mean, I’ll take it though.

Quickly securing possession, I scan for an open passing lane but come up empty. Shit. My options are to take the shot or lose the ball. When my eyes find Henri again, I try to read him. I’ve played against him enough to know his tells.

Will he feign left or right? Does he think I’ll aim high or low?

He shifts to his left foot as I pull back to take the shot, bringing a smug smile to my lips. He’s trying to make me believe that he thinks I’ll aim to the right, but I know that he tends to wait and reverse his lunge to block the shot.