Page 85 of We'll Meet Again

And showing up was needed. Chelsea was only up 1-0, but going to halftime goalless wasn’t ideal. If they could equalize before the break, it would keep the morale up when they went to the locker room. Unfortunately, Chelsea had possession. One of their forwards found some space and made a break for it, hurtling toward the goal.

Ethan surged towards him, support coming up the side in the form of Peter. Ethan’s attempt to dispossess the Chelsea man was nearly successful, but the latter gained a touch of speed and held Ethan back with his arm. However, that opened him right up to Peter, who slid to tackle him.

The tackle was so hard and fast, not only did Peter catch the Chelsea forward’s legs, but Ethan’s as well, sending them both toppling onto the pitch. Ethan hit the ground first, and the Chelsea forward fell on top of him, smashing into his chest and knocking the wind out of him. A grunt burst from him when he caught an additional elbow to the gut as the Chelsea player started to get up. The sound of the whistle was faint as Ethan tried to draw breath.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” the Chelsea player said. “You alright, mate?”

Ethan gulped for air. “Yeah, I’m good. Not your fault.”

The referee arrived, blowing her whistle again and showing a yellow card to Peter, who gaped at her in what could only be false astonishment. When Ethan felt Jordan’s arms lifting him up, he realized where they were. Inside the penalty box. This would be a penalty kick for Chelsea. While he didn’t doubt Jordan’s ability, it was never an easy pill to swallow. Especially when there was no need to make that foul.

Peter was towering over the ref to argue his case, but she held her ground with a firm look. “You didn’t play the ball, O’Riley, it’s a yellow.”

“Have VAR look at it,” Peter insisted. “I definitely played the ball!”

“Back off or I’ll book you again for dissent.”

“Is this a fucking joke?”

“Here we go,” Ethan groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Something to say, cowboy?” Peter rounded on Ethan.

“Just let Rachel do her job, man,” Ethan said. He learned her name when she called their match against West Ham United. “And maybe in the second half you won’t give away any more points.”

“Fuck you,” Peter spat.

“See, this is why you didn’t get the position you wanted.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Ethan regretted saying them. But a small part of him felt like it was justified. Not only was Peter much more argumentative with women referees, he was clearly in the wrong here, and he needed to be put in his place. He marched over to Ethan and only stopped when their noses were within inches of each other. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Ethan squared his shoulders. “Isaid, this is why you didn’t get the position you wanted, you conceited little-”

“Hey!” Rachel stepped between them, a hand on each of their chests. “Both of you settle down. O’Riley, the booking stands. Knight, I don’t need your protection.”

Ethan opened his mouth to apologize, but didn’t get the words out before Peter shoved Rachel out of the way. She didn’t fall, only stumbled, but that was enough for Ethan to see red. He grabbed Peter’s shirt.

“Hey!” he bellowed. “Don’t you dare put your hands on her!”

Both teams had rushed over, though the Chelsea guys quickly realized it was an in-house dispute and hung back. Rachel once again tried to put distance between them, but her stature and frame were too petite for the two hardened athletes she was trying to control. Ethan felt the weight of Jordan’s glove on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

Peter’s lip curled into a sneer. “Funny, I thought it’d bring back rather fond memories of home. It was a trailer park, wasn’t it?”

“Take it easy, both of you,” Rachel interjected.

“Let it go, Ethan,” Jordan added.

“Oi, are we taking this penalty or what?” wondered one of the Chelsea players.

Ethan and Peter were zeroed in on one another, animosity sparking between their gazes. Ethan tried to control his breathing, to force himself into calm, but the smug look on Peter’s face was impossible to ignore.

Ethan frowned. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I think I do,” Peter continued. “So was it your father who made you so sensitive? Or perhaps your mother had someone different every nigh-”

Peter didn’t finish the sentence before Ethan sank his fist into his teammate’s nose. He felt a sickeningcrackbeneath his knuckles. Blood burst from Peter’s face as he careened backward with a cry, clutching at his now-crooked nose. The kindling had burst into flames, and white hot rage coursed through Ethan’s veins. He didn’t care how it looked. He didn’t care when Rachel held up a red card and blew her whistle. He struggled against his teammates as they tried to pull them apart. The pitch and the crowd faded away as Peter lunged towards him.

Ethan saw Peter’s fist from a mile away, dodging it easily, and on instinct alone, punched him again, this time catching his cheekbone. Peter’s head snapped back, but Ethan yanked him toward himself so they were only centimeters apart again.

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