Chapter 2

: Brandon

T his ref doesn’t know what she’s doing. I can’t believe she gave me my second yellow and had me sent off.

Okay, I did totally kick him, but he deserved it. Trevyon has been throwing jabs and pushing me all match. That’s not what put me over the edge though.

He deserved a spike to the nuts for what he said.

If only I hadn’t already drawn a yellow card, I’d still be in the game.

That first yellow was a bullshit call. It wasn’t a handball at all.

Okay, maybe a little, but the refs never call something that barely grazes the outside of the arm as it goes by. Leave it to the lady ref. That’s really why I got in her face. She shouldn’t have called it.

Now, here I am, sitting in the locker room, thumb up my ass, with nothing to do. I won’t get to start the next game either. It sucks enough that there’s a month break before the next match due to the Global Games, and now it’ll be even longer for me.

I want to punch something—or someone—but I don’t want to end up with a broken hand. Again.

I make a colossal mistake by pulling out my phone.

Dad: Way to go. How many reds this season?

If there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s ignore a text from my dad.

Me: 4

His reply is immediate.

Dad: I don’t know why they keep you on the team.

Thanks, Dad.

I mean, I ask myself that all the time. It wouldn’t shock me at all to get called into Coach Janssen’s office as soon as we get back to Boston.

I don’t expect to get called over at halftime. In the past when I’ve been set off, staff simply ignored me.

Yeah, it’s totally better that way.

“Do I even need to ask?” Coach Janssen tents his fingers under his chin.

“It wasn’t a handball in the first place.”

“Technically, it was. I watched the replay.”

I cock my head. “Oh, come on. You know that shouldn’t have been called.”

Coach raises an eyebrow slightly. “That’s up for debate. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“He was up my ass all half. Shoving, throwing elbows. He stepped on me at least once. So I gave it back.” I don’t bother mentioning the comments muttered under Trevyon Wallis-Smalls’s breath throughout the opening minutes of the game. Bringing that up and letting Coach know I reacted to it is not going to help my cause. Nobody cares about my sob story, so I’m not going to mention it.

“That’s not what I’m talking about either.”

I shrug, clueless. Sure, I threw my shirt when I got off the field and stomped off like a petulant child, but what else did he expect me to do? It’s bullshit. And it’s not like I’m the only one who does something like that.

“I’m talking about Andi Nichols.”

That name means nothing to me. “Who’s Andy Nichols?” All I can think of is the kid from Toy Story , but that would be weird for Coach to bring up now. “I don’t know him.”

“No, but you know her . She’s the head ref for the game.”

Oh.

“She made a bad call, and I let her know.”

Coach sits back, folding his arms over his chest. “Are you a member of USSLRA?”

I shake my head, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the pit growing in my stomach.

Coach continues. “Have you been trained by USSLRA?”

“Obviously not, since I’m a player and not a ref.” My mouth doesn’t know when to quit. It should, but it has a mind of its own.

“Then stop thinking you have jurisdiction over the pitch and shut your damn mouth.”

Bjorn Janssen is one of the most laid-back people I’ve ever met, and he rarely cusses. Oh fuck. He’s going to fire me right here and now. I have to do something. I say the first thing that pops into my head. Naturally. “I am your leading scorer.”

“But you can’t score when you’re suspended. You need to get your act together, or you won’t have a place here.”

I can only imagine what my ever-supportive dad would have to say about me getting fired for my mouth. For once, I stay quiet. Instead, I purse my lips together and nod.

“I don’t want to let you go, Brandon, but you’re backing me into a corner. Bob Miller doesn’t like paying you to sit on the bench because you can’t control your mouth.”

“I speak the truth as I see it.”

Coach scrubs his hand over his face. “That’s what I’m talking about. You need to focus a little less on speaking your truth and a little more on thinking about your public image. No more screwups. You’re good, but nobody’s irreplaceable. Consider yourself on probation for the rest of the season.”

His words hit like spikes to the shin.

Without shin guards.

Coach stands and walks around me, leaving me all alone in the tiny office of the guest locker room. I don’t move until the locker room is empty. It’s not like I can go back out on the field, even to watch from the bench.

I want to take a long, hot shower, but these locker rooms are utter crap. They’re small and dirty and painted the brightest shade of pink this side of a bottle of Pepto Bismol. You’d think teams would want to show off their state-of-the-art facilities to their guests, but not the Baltimore Terrors.

Oh no, they want their opponents to be as uncomfortable as possible. They also want to use a little psychological warfare too, by insinuating the opposing team are girls.

Dumb asses.

I could wait for the team and take the bus back to the hotel, but considering we have a month’s break starting when this game ends, I might just start my vacation early. My teammates certainly won’t miss me, especially since I left them shorthanded.

I order an Uber and leave the stadium mid-game. No one’s even going to notice I’m gone.