Page 1 of Offside Rule

ONE

XAVIER

“Isaac, finish it off!” I heard the coach shout to his son from the edge of the field.

My feet were glued to the green grass in the center, itching for a free kick, but the plan was ripped from me the moment Alejandro’s voice covered the grunts and footsteps of my teammates.

I swept my eyes back to the edge of the field where our coach was standing, his face red and dripping sweat from his forehead to his chin. He raised his wrist to wipe the sweat from his deep wrinkles, and the anticipation built.

He’s got to be kidding me.

The rest of the team stopped mid-play, waiting for me to make a decision. Truth was, I didn’t have much of a choice. At important championships, I could always override the coach’s word as long as it brought us a positive result, but when we were training? Yeah. He was ready to chop my head off if I disobeyed.

Santa Bay United was going for the win this year in a completely new formula, but the more I trained, the more I realized we didn’t stand a chance. We were a solid team—good enough to make it to the Euro finals this season with a good chance to win—but despite what some people assumed aboutfootball, a team needed more than a couple of good players to fight for first place.

A good coach was crucial.

It wasn’t our team’s fault if we lost, as most of the current members were the best players in Spain. All but one.Isaac.

That was our coach’s fault.

As our gazes collided, Coach pushed his chest forward with a look that was meant to intimidate me, but that son of a bitch was the last person on Earth who could make me feel small.

I shook my head. He was so obsessed with seeing his son actually put the ball through the net that he kept forgetting that the lack of training would cause the rest of the team to suck as badly as his son in a real match.

Finally, I stepped back. There was no point in fighting him about it, anyway. He wasn’t going to budge.

Isaac took my place, and I walked away, standing close to my teammates in the box.

My hands dropped to my waist as my foot bounced on the artificial grass. He was going to miss, I knew that. Isaac always missed, and still the favoritism never seemed to stop.

I didn’t get it. Wasn’t the ultimate goal to win? Or was it about who took the shot? Coach was supposed to know better. After all, he was a legend in football twenty years ago, but it seemed he cared more about passing on his legacy than creating the ultimate team.

“He’s going to miss,” I murmured to myself, and our striker, Vane, looked at me.

“Bet he will.” His lips pursed with a disappointed look as I pictured the ball going anywhere else but where it was supposed to.

Isaac took a few steps behind the ball, clutched the hem of his shirt between his fingers, and dragged it across his wet forehead. His eyes slid to his father before his throat bobbedwith a massive swallow. I knew he was sick of it too, and the only reason he played by his father’s rules was because he wanted to make him proud, but he should’ve stopped going along with it a long time ago. Especially now that we had something so important at stake—winning a trophy, making Spain proud, and proving to everyone that a young team could still play.

I lost sight of the concerned expression on his face when he turned around, ready to shoot, but even without seeing his face, I knew.

The guys were standing in a defensive line in front of the net, and no matter how much footwork he did before kicking the ball, it flew straight into them and rolled onto the ground.

“Goddamn it,” Isaac spat out, gripping the front of his hair.

My hands fisted at my sides, knuckles white. I wasn’t mad that he had missed this strike, I was mad that he’d missedeverysingle chance he’d had and was still getting more shots than any of the rest of us.

“Idiot,” Vane muttered under his breath.

“Again,” Coach pushed Isaac, and despite the defeated look on his son’s face, he still didn’t let it go. “I said. Go. Again,” he raised his voice, stressing each word.

I wasn’t going to stick around to watch the team’s training session turn into private training.

“Does anyone feel like playing cards while Isaac learns how to shoot?” I asked, turning to make my way off the field.

My skin prickled with uneasiness. I knew I was being rude to him, but after months of shit piling up higher than the Eiffel Tower, I couldn’t keep my frustration locked in anymore.

The men laughed, and even though I wasn’t the captain of the team—because being the coach’s son came with undeserved title perks—they considered me one.

---