Page 23 of Crossed Lines

Training, or what’s left of it, is a total disaster.

The main problem is located right slap-bang between me and Luke. When he has possession of the ball, he passes to anyone who isn’t me. I can’t predict where he’ll be from the stony expression on his face or understand what play he’s going for.

It’s like we’re out of sync instead of being two sides of the same coin.

In the locker room, the team’s synergy has gone to shit. We dress in silence, a strange tension settling over us like a blanket. Every few minutes someone will strike up a conversation, but the ice emanating from both me and Luke freezes every attempt at warmth.

We’re not subtle, judging by the strange glances everyone gives us. But what do they want me to do? Luke refuses to even look at me, let alone talk. When Coach walks in, the disappointment is clear on his face. Nobody can blame him. The match is in two days, and I scored exactly one fucking goal.

Somehow, I have to fix this.

Luke, as always, is the last to be done in the showers. I corner him at his locker when everyone has left, my footsteps echoingin the silence. He averts his gaze, focused intently on packing his gym bag.

“Are we okay?” I say, leaning a hip against the locker and crossing my arms.

“We’re fine.”

“Liar. You were practically allergic to me out there.”

He shrugs and stuffs his jersey in beside his cleats before standing up. “I was trying something new.”

“Does the whole lying thing fit into that as well, or is this just for fun?”

I don’t mean to argue, but like everything between us, we descend into bickering. Luke groans and tugs on his curls.

“Shut up, Spence. This whole mess started as a bet.”

“Yeah, and it’s a little more than that now.” Right? I couldn’t have imagined the way he looked at me on the beach. Like I was the one who commanded the waves to move.

“I told myself I wouldn’t be distracted,” Luke says, shaking his head. “Things have gone too far.”

“We made one mistake—”

“That could cost us everything.” He turns pleading eyes to me, large and round like a doe’s, and the sharp words on my tongue soften and melt away. “Please, Spence. Let’s not have this conversation now, not when we have a match to win.”

“Why is it always about winning with you?”

I regret the words almost as soon as they leave my lips. The look on his face tugs at my heart, and I reach out to curl a hand around his neck before catching myself. A switch seems to flip in him and his expression shutters like an old camera lens.

“Wait, Luke—”

But he grabs his bag, tips me a nod that could mean anything, and leaves for recovery.

That’s the last time I see him for the next few hours. He skips out on our gym session, disappearing into fuck knows where and leaving me all alone.

I try to burn away the frustration coursing through me at the gym but, if anything, it makes my racing heart and thumping headache worse. Not to mention I have to dodge annoying attempts at comfort from my teammates.

They’re just worried. Usually, I’d be all for letting my problems out with the guys who are almost like brothers to me. But this feels too raw. Too personal.

After a while, I get sick of it and head for the showers. There are a few other soccer players, mostly from the substitute team, but I ignore them, strip down, and tuck myself into a corner. Whenever someone tries to talk, I answer with noncommittal grunts. I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.

They eventually get the message and slink away, their tails tucked between their legs. I’m being an asshole, but right now I’m not good company. They’ll thank me later.

Hot water scorches my skin, washing away most of the anger until all that’s left is an empty feeling, like a wrung-out towel. Whatever. If Luke wants to pretend what we’ve been doing means nothing, then that’s fine with me.

Finishing up my shower, I tug on a pair of soft gray sweatpants and grab my shit before leaving the gym.

Fuck, I need a drink.

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