by McKinley May
Shit hit the fan.
Nobody’s sure what went down exactly—rumors about substance abuse and drug addiction peppered the papers—but they managed to hush it up fairly well. Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty damn bad.
Not only was he out of contention for his spot on the National Team, he also had his full soccer scholarship to UCLA revoked. This caused him to get blackballed by a lot of other colleges who didn’t want to put up with his shit. He got super lucky when Windhaven decided to give him a chance, offering him a position under the condition he get his act together.
During this entire debacle, he also earned his horrific media reputation. He flat-out refused to speak to the press the majority of the time. On the rare occasions he would agree to an interview, he’d usually end up storming out three questions in or blowing up at the reporter like a petulant child.
So yeah, he’s not exactly the first to cross my mind when I think of athletes I’d like to interview. Definitely closer to last on my list.
In fact, I’d go so far as to say he wouldn’t be on my list at all.
Maybe I can convince her to switch the piece?
I gather myself and begin my attempts at persuasion. “Um, what about Blake Woodson, the captain of the football team? He’s an amazing pro-style quarterback and actually has a real possibility of being drafted in the—”
Dani cuts me off. “Rayne, did football go the playoffs last year?” Her tone is condescending as hell, and I utter a disgruntled breath.
“Well, no, but—”
Cut off again. “Right now the school is focused on the soccer team. After the boys’ trip to the College Cup last year, students on campus are much more interested in reading about them than any other sport.”
I try to plead my case once again. “Fair enough, but maybe we could feature a different player. How about Cameron Collins? He’s one of the best college goalies in the country.”
Dani glares at me through her glasses, visibly irked I’m fighting her on this. “Steel Blue is who the people want, and he’s exactly who you’re going to cover.”
Ugh.
Steel Blue.
I’d almost forgotten about his ridiculous nickname. Rumor has it his eyes are a dreamy, metallic-blue color that make every horny college girl instantly melt in his presence. Just one glance into those azure pools and you’re a goner.
Psh. Please.
“Their coach was adamant that Vaughn be the player we focus on for this piece, so it’s settled. You’ll be spending some time with him for the next few months until the story runs in November.”
“But—”
“It’s not up for further discussion. If you want, I can move you to the comics section and let Brandon take over sports.” The corner of her mouth twists up in an evil smirk, and she knows she’s got me backed into a corner. I haven’t exactly been quiet about how important the internship is to me, and she’s more than aware I’d do practically anything to keep this position.
I grit my teeth and try to contort my facial features into a look that says I’m cool with this. Yup, totally cool that my future now rests in the hands of Windhaven’s bad boy.
With the way my eyes are involuntarily twitching and the awkward positioning of my mouth, I probably look more “demented and deranged” than “calm and collected”.
Through the corner of my vision, I see a blonde freshman in a Bronco’s jersey gazing up at me with a hopeful expression. He’s awaiting my response with bated breath, like he actually thinks there’s a chance I’m going to hand him the section on a silver platter.
Kid is definitely new around here.
Not today, Brandon, I think as I reluctantly accept my defeat.
“Vaughn Steel article, coming up.”
2
TWEET! TWEET! TWEET!
The repetitious whistle blowing is driving me batshit crazy.
And I know I’m not the only one as I glance over at the soured expressions of my teammates, all of us on our backs doing synchronized sit-ups to the obnoxious shrill blows.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s barely seven am on the second day of classes, or maybe it’s because we were out until three in the morning doing shots at Sigma Pi’s Back to School Bash, but it’s painfully obvious no one’s in the mood for sunrise conditioning today.
I glance to my left at Weston Paine, one of my best friends and the top defender on the team. Usually the guy lives for core work, even staying late to do extra crunches and planks to perfect his “blue ribbon abs”—his description, abso-fucking-lutely not mine. But today his brown hair is drenched in sweat, and he’s struggling to make it through this set.
Even Diego Mendoza, the team party animal who can down an entire bottle of Jack and perform like Ronaldo the next morning, is looking fifty shades of green right about now.
Yeah, I think it’s safe to say everyone went a little too hard last night.
“Ten more!” Assistant Coach Jones calls out. He paces in front of us, a soccer ball tucked under his skinny arm and his way-too-high pants held up by suspenders Steve Urkel style.
Although he looks like he’d be better-suited to being the leader of the chess club or the head engineer on the robotics team, the guy is a total hardass when it comes to getting our team into shape. Believe me, the two-a-days all summer were no fucking joke. I spent more time in an ice bath than I did my own bed thanks to him.
Even though everyone’s feeling like complete crap this morning, we know it’s time to get our shit together. Preseason games start this weekend and not only do we have high expectations for ourselves, the rest of the school does, too.
Last year we kicked some serious ass. A perfect 23-0 season followed by an appearance at the College Cup championship game shot Windhaven straight to the top of the soccer world for the first time in over a decade. After multiple rebuilding years, we’re finally back and a serious force to be reckoned with. Last season was a testament to that.
But that’s not to say the year didn’t end in bitter disappointment. Losing the final game in penalty kicks was the absolute worst way to go down.
Shit. It really fucking sucked.
I don’t care what they say, “runner-up” has got to be the shittiest title in existence. Nothing’s more infuriating than getting so close to winning it all just to watch it slip from your grasp.
And then to get a freakin’ medal congratulating us for almost winning, as if that’s good enough, as if that’s something to be proud of?
Nah. Fuck that shit. I’m a firm believer that if you’re not first, you’re last. And despite our undefeated season, we came up short last year. And that’s just not gonna cut it.
Damn.
The wound of losing is still so fresh I hate even thinking about it. The memories bring forth a jolt of anger and I grind out the final sit-ups with determination, my core muscles burning in response.
Coach Jones counts down the last three crunches, and the whistle drops from Head Coach Hanson's mouth as the torture finally comes to an end. Everyone collapses into the grass, limbs sprawled out and chests heaving up and down as we catch our breath. A small frown crosses over Coach Hanson’s face.
“Look, boys. I know classes have started back up. I know about this Back to School thingy last night, but let’s get one thing straight. If you’re going to be champions this year, it’s time to start training like champions.” His expression hardens, voice taking on a rough tone. “Get serious. Get prepared. Get angry. You want this bad, right?”
Everyone perks up, grunting in approval.
“Then show me you want it! I get it. It’s college, and I know you’re going to be partying and drinking no matter what. But keep it under control and be smart about it. No drinking for twenty-four hours before games, keep the partying to a minimum,” Coach instructs, eyeing Diego with that last comment.
Weston nudges me with his cleat, and I shoot him an amused glance. While we’ll definitely tone it down a few notches on the drinking,
the partying isn’t gonna be slowing down anytime soon.
Coach continues his speech. “You know the rule: Semester begins, play time ends. Get some stretching in and hit the showers. See y’all tonight at practice.”
Conversation breaks out as the two coaches walk away. I tug off my soaked-with-sweat shirt, dying to feel a cool breeze on my bare skin. Instead, all I feel is the sticky, humid air that plagues the south this time of year. You’d think this early in the morning it wouldn’t feel like a damn wet sauna, but the summer heat is draining long before the sun comes up.
As I’m wiping the sweat from my brow, Cameron slaps me on the back. I have to look up to see the tired expression on his face. I’m over six feet, but Cameron is pushing six six and built like a brick house. He makes guarding the goal look as simple as tying your shoe. The guy’s a frickin’ beast.
“Man, that was killer.” His gray eyes are bloodshot, complemented by dark circles underneath. He yawns and rubs his temples. “You’d think Coach would’ve gone easy on us today. I was hoping we’d be in the weight room all morning, not doing fucking sprint drills.”
“I know, dude,” I say as we both start stretching our hamstrings. “Jones is trying to punish us. How the hell did they get wind of the Sigma Pi party anyway? Fucking weird.”
Cameron shrugs and lies down in the grass. “Spies, man. They have spies everywhere, watching our every move, ready to jump in and stop us before we commit some team sin or something.” He groans in pain and closes his eyes. “Kinda wish one of those spies had intervened after that tenth shot of whiskey last night.”
“The spies probably aren’t paid enough to confront you, Cam. Ever try to tell a drunk giant he’s had enough? Not the easiest task.”
He manages a small chuckle and attempts to open his eyes. Another agonized groan escapes his mouth as he squints into the sunlight. “Coach is right, though. I’m definitely taking it easy for the rest of the semester. Shit, I’m never fucking drinking again.”
I shake my head and grin. If that’s not the most common sentence spoken by college students in history, than I don’t know what the hell is.
“Dude, you’ve been saying that every weekend since freshman year.”
“This time I’m serious.”
“Followed by that.”
“I swear, Blue.”
I give him a knowing look as we follow the rest of the team towards the locker room.
As we’re walking, Cam elbows me and points towards the edge of the practice field fence. “Watch your back. The Goal Girls got themselves another crazy one.”
Ah, shit. Not again.
The Goal Girls are a “group of enthusiastic young women devoted to supporting Windhaven Warrior’s Men’s Soccer Team”, according to their website.
Here’s a more accurate description: They’re cleat-chasers.
And fucking dedicated ones at that. These girls show up everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
Practices? Wouldn’t miss ‘em.
Conditioning? Always there bright and early, ready to watch us suffer.
Away games? I’m convinced they have some sort of sponsor with the amount of dough they must spend on travel expenses.
Don’t get me wrong, there are a small handful of them who are truly fans of the game, involved with the organization solely because they love soccer.
But the majority of the girls are here because they want to snag a future pro player and the luxurious lifestyle that comes with a professional paycheck.
They try to keep their intentions subtle, but it’s pretty damn obvious what they’re after most of the time. Also doesn’t help that one of the girls made a list of the team and our likely potential salaries that circulated around last season. A “guide” to which players they should go after.
Yeah, it’s fucked up.
To say I’m not a big fan is putting it lightly.
I turn, the rising sun blinding me before I eventually spot the twenty or so girls decked out in Warrior gear, holding up signs and waving blue and silver pompoms. A short girl on the far end raises her poster board in the air, and I squint to make out the words.
“Steel Blue, My Love For You Is True. Marry Me? Jesus Christ, man.”
I roll my eyes as Cameron doubles over laughing at my new, not-so-subtle stalker. I start to turn away before she catches us staring when Cam’s laughter gets even more obnoxious.
“Oh shit, Casanova’s going in for the kill.”
I whip back around to see Weston making a beeline straight for the girl. She slowly lowers the sign as he speaks to her, her face lighting up at whatever bullshit game he’s spitting today.
I can tell by the way he’s casually leaning against the fence and the nonstop giggling on her end that he’s laying on his signature charm, the one that leaves women tongue-tied and hypnotized. The guy has fucked every single Goal Girl there is, and it looks like he doesn’t even discriminate against the ones that may have a few screws loose.
Diego limps up and joins the viewing party. He follows our gaze, shaking his head when he spots Weston.
“What the fuck, man? Paine ever not trying to score? All I’m thinking about right now is a hot shower and a breakfast burrito, and this dude’s over here trying to get a morning lay. Horny bastard.”
He states this as if our entire team isn’t made up of playboys. Hell, we all fuck around. When you have girls throwing themselves at you every time you turn a corner, it’s fucking hard not to.
But Weston definitely takes advantage of that more than the rest of us.
Way more.
“He’s going for the shirt,” Cam commentates as he brings his hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckle in amusement.
Weston grabs the back collar of his Warriors practice tee, slowing peeling it off before draping it over his tan shoulder. The girl’s jaw drops wide open as she stares shamelessly at his abdomen, his blue ribbon muscles obviously achieving their intended effect. When we see him gesture for her to cop a feel, we crack up laughing. Because, seriously, who the fuck does that?
Watching Weston in action never gets old.
“No way she’s gonna take him up on that. No friggin’ way,” Diego insists.
But the girl smiles and carelessly tosses the sign proclaiming her love for me to the concrete below. She reaches out both hands, running them up and down Weston’s torso with a look on her face that can only be described as pure elation.
Diego groans in disbelief as Cam turns to me. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Blue. I think she’s moved on.”
“That was fast.” I grin as the three of us make our way towards the locker room. “Weston’s a goddamn animal.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and ravenous for a breakfast sandwich from the Campus Café. I’m about to exit the locker room when I hear Coach Hanson’s voice behind me.
“Steel, let’s chat for a sec before you go.”
As I follow him past the rows of lockers, I rack my brain for anything I did wrong recently. It’s only the second day of school; there’s no way I already fucked up enough to get into trouble.
Unless he’s pissed about the party last night, which is a definite possibility. Yeah...that’s gotta be it. We all looked like horse shit this morning, and as one of the team captains, it’s kinda on me to keep things in check. Responsibility and accountability and what not.
We squeeze inside his closet-sized office, and I take a seat in the desk chair across from him. He reaches into a container filled with grape lollipops, pulling one out and unwrapping it before sticking it in his mouth. Swear to God, he's always sucking on one of those things. It's difficult to take him seriously when he's screaming at you with a mouth as purple as fucking Barney.
I’m preparing my apology for letting things get out of control last night when he leans back in his chair and begins to speak.
“I’ll cut straight to the chase here. The school paper is doing some big story on the team this semester, and they want to foc
us the piece on one of our star players.” He leans forward, pulling the sucker out of his mouth with a loud pop and pointing it at me. “Volunteered you for the job.”
Oookay. Not at all what I was expecting him to say. I listen as he continues.
“Now, I’m fully aware you don’t have the greatest history when it comes to the media. I think this would be a good opportunity for you to redeem yourself. With your professional soccer career around the corner, it’s important to show potential teams you won’t be a liability when it comes to the press, yeah? Think you can handle this?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Yeah, I guess so. Just about soccer, right?”
He gives a small nod, obviously knowing what I’m getting at. “Strictly about the team and your future. Already told them you won't be speaking about certain topics in your past.”
Although Coach doesn’t know the whole story of what happened in high school, he understands and respects the fact that I don’t wanna talk about it. The past is the past, and keeping that part of my life out of the limelight isn’t something I’m willing to compromise on.
But other than that, I’m an open book. Despite what they say, I’m completely fine with interviews when the questions are focused on the sport, not some gossip column type of shit prying into my life. If this piece won’t have any of that, then I’m totally down with it.
Plus, Coach is right; I really could use some good press, even if it’s something as lame as a feature in the school paper. Hell, I didn’t even know we had a school paper.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
He smiles and hands me a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. “Here’s the number for the reporter. Can’t quite remember what the editor said the girl’s name was, but it was something weird. Call her up and get this thing going.”
