10

Spencer

It’s always hectic before a match, but nothing compares to the sheer panic that sweeps through me when I realize that Luke is gone.

Like up-and-left, poofed out of thin air kind of gone. Nowhere to be found. Coach Davis paces up and down the side of the pitch, a scowl under his moustache, barking orders at the team as they go through warm-ups. But I can’t focus on soccer right now.

Crowds of people have started filing into the stadium and finding their seats. Some of them are holding signs with the Harper Harriers mascot, a Northern harrier, but most of them are sporting the colors for their home team. The familiar rush of game day crackles like the air before a lightning storm and goosebumps litter my skin.

My watch says it’s forty minutes before kick-off. Still no Luke.

Assistant Coach Miller stands beside me, her arms crossed over her uniform. “Coach is putting in Adams if Luke doesn’t show up.”

Fucking Vincent Adams. He struts back and forth across the pitch, his red hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Coiffed to perfection, as if his looks matter more than winning the damn game.

Like I’m one to talk. My own attacking midfielder isn’t even here.

“He’ll show up,” I say to Miller, sounding more confident than I feel.

I can’t believe Luke would give up his precious win like this. But I’ll be damned if I give up on him. Ignoring Miller’s warning hisses, I jog over to the pitch entrance to wait for him. Because he’ll be here.

It’s almost fifteen minutes before kick-off and I’m just about to give up when I see him.

Luke.

He runs towards me, holding up something white in his hands that doesn’t even register. All that matters is that he’s here.

Everything else melts away at the sight of him. My annoyance and irritation, the weird tension between us, even the sense of loss at being without my cleats.

I reach out to him automatically. We collide in a tangle of limbs, crashing against each other hard enough to wind me. But I don’t care.

My hands have a mind of their own, roaming over his back, up his neck, down his hips. Checking he’s okay and all in one piece. That he’s right in front of me. I can’t stop myself from burying my face into his neck, closing my eyes, and inhaling the soothing smell of vanilla.

When I’m satiated, I pull back enough for him to move. He holds up my lucky cleats by the laces, a wry smile on his gorgeous face.

“Found them,” he says breathlessly. “Sorry it took so long.”

“You perfect, beautiful thing. Where the fuck did you find them?”

He shrugs. “At the beach.”

At the beach. This man is unbelievable. We stand like that for a moment, drinking each other in, before the sounds of the stadium slowly filter in. Luke ducks his head, shielding those large doe eyes from me. We’re still holding onto each other.

Clearing my throat, I let go of him and take the offered cleats gently.

“You almost risked putting Vincent Adams on to get me my cleats?”

“It’s nothing, really.” He scuffs the ground with the toe of his shoe. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said a few days ago. None of this is more important than how I feel about you.”

Even though we’re indoors, the words feel like sunshine on my skin. I want to ask him how he feels about me, hear those soft lips say my name, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Miller waving at us.

“We’ll talk about this after,” I say firmly, cupping his cheek. His mouth parts, pink tongue catching on his bottom lip, and heat pools in my stomach. “Right now, we’ve got a game to win.”

We exchange tentative smiles, and something inside of me settles comfortably into place. Ten minutes later, when we walk onto the pitch, it’s side-by-side. Right where we belong.

The cheer that greets us is deafening.

*

Blood rushes past my ears, drowning out the mess of screaming fans in the crowds. My breath cuts through my chest, ragged and shallow.

The Buccaneers are one hell of a team. Quick, sharp, and deadly. But the Dream Team is back in action, with no traces of the awkwardness from the past few days. Luke predicts my movements with precise accuracy and sets me up for goals I could never achieve on my own.

By the final few minutes, the game is tied at two-all. My legs are killing me, pushed harder than I’ve ever been before, but I feel alive. The marker on me is lagging, and I have a clear view of Luke racing down the pitch, the ball in front of him.

He looks amazing, forcefully threading between two Buccaneer defenders, eyes searching for an opening. Making sure my marker’s distracted, I peel away into an open position. Luke must sense it because without looking, he sends the ball arcing perfectly towards me.

But just as he does, a stray leg kicks out, clearly aiming for the ball. Except the ball’s long gone. Instead, the foot catches Luke’s cleat and he pitches forward.

Time slows to a crawl. My heartbeat is an unsteady rhythm, punctuated by the thud of the ball landing n front of me. Then the thud of Luke crashing to the ground, arms out to soften his fall.

Panic sweeps through me and I take a step forward, ready to rush to Luke’s side, when our right winger gestures in front of me.

The ball. Fuck.

Ten seconds left, and my Buccaneer marker barrels towards me. I move on instinct, powering to the goal and taking the ball with me. The left corner of the box is free. Not waiting for the defenders, I take the shot.

The Buccaneer goalie dives for it, but it’s too late. The net ripples with the force of the goal.

An ear-splitting shrill cuts through the haze in my mind, and the world rushes back in all at once.

We’ve done it.

The Harriers have won the CSSC semi-finals.

My teammates swarm me, hands clapping my back and ruffling my hair. I take the praise half-heartedly before I manage to slip out of their grip, racing towards the crumpled form of Luke on the astroturf.

All I want to know is if he’s okay. The win can wait.