21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Wes

“Alright boys, listen up!”

The team huddles forward as Cody puts his team leader skills into action.

“There are a lot of expectations going around. Expectations of the rookies, expectations of me, and most importantly, expectations of this team. The Tigers have brought home fiveconsecutive championship banners ranking us as the longest undefeated team since this university was established.”

Whether Cap’s strategy is to add pressure before the game or lessen it is still undecided. Stay tuned.

“As soon as you put on that jersey today, you became a Tiger. You became an undefeated champion.” Annnd first strategy it is.

Pressure cooker, we meet again.

“Undefeated. Champion.” Placing an emphasis on each word, Cody manages to unload fifty years of school spirit onto us. Just a little extra weight to help plow down our opponents.

“It’s time to get your asses out on that field and play the way I know you can play. Time to make our school proud, boys. What are we?”

“UNDEFEATED CHAMPIONS!” Chants rise up and we break the huddle with Taber Tiger’s famous roar. The intimidation factor has never been higher.

We run onto the field, Cody leading the pack as the surprisingly full bleachers erupts into cheers. Taber is a small university by any standard, but the show of support can’t help but boost a guy’s morale.

As rehearsed, the team splits into two lines, all of us turning to face the thundering bleachers. One by one, the two guys at the opposing ends set off a chain reaction of backflips, each of us finishing in a superhero landing – one knee on the ground, the other bent, head majestically bowed – and finish off with the last guys facing each other, one wearing orange and black, the other a makeshift silver jersey. The two seniors battle it out, with a not-so-subtle depiction of the metallic guy getting thrown to the ground while the Tiger stands up in victory.

The crowd goes wild.

Every Taber supporter from the age of nine to seventy-five jump to their feet, stomping and clapping their approval. The energy is so intense I can feel it vibrate through the grass and into my bent knee.

Rising to give the spectators a bow, I scan my gaze across the orange tidal wave. A particularly unpleasant sign catches my attention in the crowd – Jesus, did the guy have to add so much blood? – but even that disturbing image doesn’t stop me searching for one particular person.

Like a needle in a haystack, or a pin in a tub of orange paint; the improbability of my search is almost comical. But like any great riddle solver, I know exactly how to find what I’m looking for: the irresistible pull of my magnet.

Otherwise known as my grey-eyed siren.

I know the moment Trip feels my stare because even from my field position I see a splotch of red stain her cheeks. She turns away from her conversation with Stella and sends a hesitant wave my way. Taking the wave as my cue, I respond with an outstanding air kiss. And for once my reward isn’t a scowl.

It’s a smile that steals my breath from three rows away.

“WESLEY!” A grin hits my face as I turn in the direction of vocal cords that can only belong to my sister.

I spy Lacey frantically waving from the corner of the first row. Her aggressive arm movements nearly have her toppling out of the bleachers in an effort to capture my attention. The combination of Lacey’s tall stature and lanky arms gives her a much larger flailing range, much to the delight of the nearby spectators, I’m sure.

I chuckle and wave back, spotting Nico doing the same from his position down the field. If there is one person my best friend loves more than me, it is my younger sister. If Nico didn’t swing for the other team, I have no doubt those two would be married right now. Because hey, the only thing better than having one dramatic Williams in your life is having two.

As the crowd starts to die down, we shuffle aside so the Sabers can have a little bit of the spotlight. Since they aren’t the home team and therefore have a smaller fan section, they stick to their typical pre-game routine: running out with plastic sabers hanging off their jerseys and showing off some fancy swordplay for the crowd.

A shrill whistle pierces the air, and the teams scatter to begin warming up. I partner up with Hunter and we begin rallying with the occasional passing drill to help loosen up our muscles. Cody wanders over and pulls me aside.

“Thanks for your help the other day. The strategies we drew up may start Taber off with a win this year.”

“What do you mean may? Our strategies are going tobring home the V today.”

Cody laughs, slapping my back, “Don’t ever lose your confidence, Wes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cap.”

The easy humour fades from Cody’s face as something catches his eye over my shoulder. Turning, I look to see silver jerseys moving intricately across the field, performing some sort of group running drill. Immediately, I zero in on the object of my captain’s concern.

Vector Vin. The guy who single-handily put Taber’s fourth year goalie in the emergency room last year. After the shot was made. Meaning, the lumbering Saber went back for the kill after the ball was passed off to our defence.

The dude takes lacrosse to a whole new level of contact. Not to mention sets anger management therapy back hundreds of years.

That being said, watching the white-blond hair streaking in the wind, it’s hard to not be impressed. Vector has got to be at least 6’3 and closing in on 220lbs but he moves like a ballerina. Well, a ballerina with murderous intent.

Effortlessly catching the ball, Cody and I watch as Vector spins and passes the ball off to another player. No hesitation, no fumble.

If it weren’t for his impulsive aggressiveness, the guy would be the best lacrosse player in the league. It’s almost ironic that his most famous trait is the same one that’s holding him back. His uncontrollable temper is a loose cannon, one that not only puts everyone on the field in danger, but also diminishes the precision of his shots. When the red haze of anger sets in, Vector’s technique gets pushed to the side for raw aggression.

In other words, the more mistakes Vector makes, the more aggressive he gets. And the more aggressive he gets, the more mistakes he makes.

Picture Bruce Banner wearing a silver jersey, sporting long white-blonde hair, and holding a lacrosse stick. Now picture what would happen if the green monster got loose and there are no Avengers to calm him down.

Oh shit, indeed.

“Should we be worried?” The fact I am asking about my teammates’ safety and not a potential loss attests to a larger issue at hand.

“Rumour is Vector had to undergo counselling after the Coaldale incident.”

I am not a squeamish guy, but the photos of that injury had me running for the closest washroom. Apparently it took over a year for the defenseman to be able to run again, let alone play lacrosse.

“Whether that’s true or not, I have no idea. Don’t let Vector get into your head, but make sure you keep a cautious eye out.”

Easier said than done when your position’s sole purpose is scoring. Even if I wanted to, chances are I’ll be facing the wrong direction if Vector decides to take down one of our defensemen or goalie.

I shoot a panicked look at Nico, who is putting on the last of his protective padding. Catching my glance, Cody is quick to reassure me, “I’ll watch out for him. No Saber is injuring any of my Tigers this year.”

Realistically, I know one guy can’t protect every player on the field, but looking at my captain right now, I feel better knowing he’ll do his best to make the statement true.

Lou

“Remind me again, what’s the half circle for?”

Stella sighs and leans back to let her brother explain the game for the umpteenth time.

“That’s the crease. The goalie and his teammates may enter the circle, but the opposing players cannot.”

“Ooh, so they have to shoot from outside the crease?” The legendary Mighty Mo shoots me a killer smile and I feel a blush warm my face. “Exactly.”

Stella’s brother is not at all what I was expecting. My roommate’s frame is so tiny, it only made sense to picture a taller, broader version of her. That assumption was wrong to a comical degree.

Mighty is the only word I can think to describe the legendary Mo. Tall even for a guy, with shoulders almost as wide as Cody’s, Mo looks more like a warrior than an athlete. I expected his eyes to be demin coloured similar to Stella’s but that prediction also proved to be incorrect. Where Stella’s eyes dance with dark blue undertones, Mo’s irises are more like a frozen lake in the wintertime. Cold and pale. With the slightest glint of mischief.

The styled light brown hair is closer to what I was expecting. The shade matches Stella’s eyebrows perfectly, so now I’ve uncovered the colour hidden under the platinum. Unlike his sister, however, Mo keeps his hair relatively short with the trim sides leading into a slicked wave. Both of them are perfectly maintained in drastically different ways.

Approaching Stella’s brother in the bleachers was probably one of the most intimidating experiences of my life. The guy has the scariest resting bitch face I have ever seen, and if I hadn’t witnessed the way Mo’s demeanour changed upon seeing his younger sister, I definitely would have turned and ran. Rookie number twelve be damned.

Mo’s commanding presence takes some getting used to but otherwise he’s been nothing but lovely to me since we sat down. Apparently, his love for his sister extends to those sheloves as well, so we were able to get by the RBF quickly without incident.

I turn my attention back to the field and try to focus. I can’t even seethe ball being passed around - the only indication of its existence are the swarms of players that follow the invisible puck around.

Wait. Is there a difference between a ball and a puck?

“PLOW HIM DOWN, CODY!” Stella launches to her feet and screams the encouragement past three rows of spectators. If I had to describe my roommate with one word, subtle would definitely be it.

Cody for his part, either has superhuman hearing or is feeling extra aggressive, because next thing I know our team captain bodychecks the incoming silver player and sends the poor guy flying, giving our team the chance to swoop up the ball and haul it back to the opposing side.

“That’s my boy.” Mo nods his approval while Stella rolls her eyes.

“You’re his friend not his father.”

I shift uncomfortably on the wooden bench as Mo’s pale gaze brushes mine.

“I was Cody’s mentor and his nominator for team captain. As far as I’m concerned, there is no distinction.” Now there’s a friendship definition you don’t hear every day. If Mo threw on a cape and a voice muffling mask, we could have a cinematic moment in the making:

Cody, I am your father.

Crap. Even my thoughts are starting to sound like Wes.

“God Mo, do you always have to be so condescending? Do us all a favour and pull that stick out of your ass.” Stella scoffs and suddenly I’m wholly invested in the lacrosse game.

The only thing more awkward than couples bickering? Siblings fighting.

“How can Ibe the one with the stick up my ass when you haven’t touchedalcohol since mom died?” Stella freezes beside me and I do my best to drag everyone’s attention back to the field, “Oh look, it’s Wes!”

My intervening comment gets ignored as Stella’s stricken expression darkens, “That’s different and you know it.”

A shot of hurt goes through me at the realization my roommate has been holding out on me.

Mo immediately softens, “You’re right Stel, I didn’t mean to…” his apology gets drowned out by the sudden cheer erupting from the bleachers around us.

In unison, we all look to the field where Wes is sprinting past silver jerseys along the left sideline. Suddenly, he pivots mid-sprint, neatly catching the ball flying overhead, and in one motion hurls it towards the net. The seconds between the ball escaping the netting of Wes’ stick and its trajectory toward the net seems to go in slow motion. The ball neatly bounces off the goalie’s glove and into the net and the sea of orange exhales a collective breathe. Temporarily forgetting Stella’s secret, I get swept away in the pulsing energy of the crowd as Tiger fans leap to their feet and roar their approval.

“TWELVE! TWELVE! TWELVE!” Starting from the front row and working its way back, the chant echoes from every Tiger supporter in the stands.

I have never been a girl who lusts after jocks but watching Wes rejoice with his teammates, sweat-soaked dark hair peeking out from under his helmet, I’m starting to understand why varsity athletes get all the hype. I mean, on top of the obvious six-packs.

With one shot, one goal, everyone is part of the team. Wes may have been the one who took the shot, but the win was for every Tiger present.

One player, one team, one school.

I think my daisy chain is finally starting to grow some roots.