Page 7 of Broken Rivalry

I slump onto the wooden bench, the cool metal of the locker a slight relief against my back. His tirade continues. A verbal assault that matches the physical one we’ve just endured on the field. His finger jabs in my direction. “Hawthorne! Did you lose your coordination ability? You were probably the worst midfield I’ve ever seen.”

I bite back a retort, my lips pressing into a thin line. Even on my worst day, my skills on the field are unmatched, and he knows it. The exaggeration is another tactic in his motivational arsenal.

Peters shakes his head, and I wince, already knowing that the poor freshman will regret this.

“Have something to say, Peters?” Coach turns toward him, his hands on his hips, making his belly even more predominant. “You didn’t tell me you were from Europe; if I’d known, I would have reconsidered your place as starting fullback.”

Peters frowns, clearly not catching Coach’s sarcasm. “I’m from Kansas City.”

“Are you sure? Because that defense was like fucking Edam cheese! Holes everywhere.”

Peters opens his mouth for whatever stupid reply is about to come out, but the tension is broken by Cole’s snort of amusement.

“I think you mean Emmentaler, Coach. Way more holes in that.” Cole steps in as the masochist savior he is.

Coach’s head whips around, his eyes narrowing on the culprit. “You find that funny, Westbrook, huh?”

Cole, never one to back down from a challenge, meets Coach’s gaze head-on. “Oh, come on, Coach, take a breather. It’s only the first practice. Give us time.”

The locker room plunges into silence, the air thick with anticipation. We stare, a collective holding of breath, as Coach’s face transitions through various shades of the color spectrum, settling on a vibrant purple.

“Time? Is that what you want, Westbrook?” He advances on Cole, his stance aggressive, his finger now a weapon aimed at Cole’s chest. “Do you think you understand what gets a team to the top because daddy dearest owns Arsenal?”

He gestures dramatically to the framed photos on the wall, a testament to past victories. “This team was state champion five years running, and it’s not by giving anyone time.”

His glare shifts to Liam, the weight of his disappointment now bestowed on our captain. “You’re the captain. Control your own team!”

Liam’s eyes meet mine, a silent message transmitted. I’m in for it, and not only from Coach.

As Coach storms out, the tension dissipates, replaced by a mixture of relief and residual anxiety. Cole, undeterred by the confrontation, grins, his humor a balm to our frayed nerves. “Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

A chorus of laughter erupts, the sound echoing off the metal lockers, a cathartic release after the storm. I can’t help but join in. The absurdity of the situation overshadowing the exhaustion and the looming punishment.

Liam, though, remains stoic, his expression unreadable as he addresses the team. “Alright, let’s not give Coach any more reasons to have an aneurysm. We hit the field again in twenty for some extra drills. Let’s show him what we’re made of.”

Groans fill the room, but they are tinged with a renewed determination. We are a team, united in victory and defeat, in grueling practices, and Coach’s colorful outbursts. Together, we’ll face the challenges, push our limits, and prove our worth, not just to Coach but to ourselves.

And as I finally step under the warm stream of the shower, the water cascading over my aching body, I can’t help but smile. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the looming extra practice, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As I exit the shower, toweling off, Liam approaches, his expression serious. “Ethan,” he says, his British accent making even the sternest reprimand sound sophisticated, “get your head out of your ass. I don’t care if you need to get your crappy energy drink directly intravenously. You are the best midfield we have, and this was fucking crap! I don’t care what’s happening in your life. The rule is clear: you leave your problems at the door when you step onto this field, and you do not let anything, most of all girl drama, affect your game. If you want that information about Poppy Lockwood, you need to be on your game. No more distractions. Got it?”

I purse my lips, annoyed at being reprimanded as a naughty kid, but fuck, he’s right, and I know it.

I nod, clenching my fist, the image of Poppy seared in my mind. The field is calling, and I’m ready to answer, leaving no room for distractions.

Chapter 4

Poppy

The pizzeria, with its warm, amber lighting and rustic wooden tables, is nearly empty. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound breaking the silence, so different from the lively bustle during peak hours. I tug at the hem of my bright-blue polyester uniform shirt, its stiffness chafing against my skin, and heave a resigned sigh.

“It’s one slice for three dollars, two for five,” I say, leaning across the counter to the jock standing in front of me.

“Okay, cool, cool,” the tall, dark-haired guy says, looking back up at the board.

I glance at the clock, the minutes dragging on like hours. Kill me now, please! I think, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling me down.

He’s one of the basketball players of Silverbrook, not that I follow the sport, or any sport for that matter, but he’s wearing his varsity jacket.

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