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“Ronan,” I warn. He’s treating it as fun and games, but Chris is volatile as shit right now.
And most of the time, really.
Aiden clutches Ronan’s arm while Xander pushes him from the other side.
“Just to be clear,” Xander, a striker and a little wanker, throws over his shoulder. “This has been long overdue, Chris. You don’t deserve a place on the team since the summer.”
Aiden offers me a knowing look before he, Xander, Ronan, and Cole stalk to the locker rooms.
They’re nicknamed the four horsemen because whenever they’re on the field, they bring conquest, war, famine, and eventually death.
I call them the four fuckers.
Aiden, Xander, and Cole snatched their positions from the seniors. Ronan is the last to join.
The rest of the second-year players follow Aiden and his band of thieves. I might be the captain, but if they had to choose, they’ll probably take the ‘young’ King’s side.
Chris continues lunging forward like a train losing its course. Zach and Alex, two seniors, try to pull him back, but it’s like he’s on RedBull — or fucking drugs judging from his performance.
I swing my fist and punch him in the chest. He stops with stupefaction written all over his face. The rest of the senior players and the freshmen watch for my reaction, unblinking.
“What the fuck was that for?” Chris spits out.
“For losing your place.”
“It was Coach, he —”
I get in his face. “Did Coach play with your legs? Did he let Aiden score the first and lose the ball to Xander so he can score the second? Did he leave the defence like a pathetic deserted land?”
“Well, no, but —”
“No buts, Chris.” I point a finger a
t his chest. “You’ve been playing like shit since the quarterfinal game and during summer camp. If you don’t snatch your place back from Ronan, you’re out. For. Fucking. Good. I don’t need half-wits on my team.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but I’m not listening anymore. The rest of the players part as I make my way to the showers.
Christopher and I are friends. Maybe not exactly friends, but colleagues. We both liked the high of alcohol, cigarettes and girls.
We’ve been rebels against our last names and families.
I loathe my uncle and he hates his uptight father who’s the metropolitan police’s deputy commissioner. Chris and I found each other on detention when we were juniors and bonded.
If there’s trouble, we shit all over it. Both of us live for that disapproving look on our guardians’ faces.
We even bet on whether his father or my uncle will pay the largest cheque to the school to cover all the trouble we cause year in and year out.
But Chris has been spiralling out of control. He’s been a knee too deep in the excitement part, he doesn’t even play decently anymore.
Football isn’t only a game for me. It’s not a high of the moment and a pumping of adrenaline. It isn’t the roaring of the crowd or the chants.
It’s a state of mind.
It’s the only fucking thing I own in a life that’s shackled by Uncle’s chains.
Football is the only thing I’m doing for myself and no one will fucking take it away from me.
For that, I need to take care of a certain princess problem that’s two months overdue.
