Page 4 of The Prospect

“It’s okay…I’m okay.” Suddenly, I feel tongue-tied in his presence as I resort to picking up my pace and quickly shoving everything back into my box without a care.

“Hey!” Daniel reaches for my drawing before I can, taking a careful second to assess it. “Did you…draw this?” he asks.

I swallow, unsure of what to say. Instead, I nod faintly. I’m not naturally a shy person, yet I can’t help but feel so nervous around him. It’s a foreign feeling.

“Wow.” There’s a bright smile on Daniel’s face as he gently places it back into my grasp. “You’re really good at drawing. Do you uh—think you could draw something for me maybe?”

His request alone is enough to make me feel butterflies—unleashing without a care—without an explanation.

“Really?” I ask, still dumbstruck. “You want me to…draw you something?” I kick the grass beneath my shoe before gazing back up at him.

“Yeah.” He nods confidently as he grasps the ball and tucks it underneath his arm. “Maybe a picture of me playing football? Does that sound okay?”

“Okay.” I nod, fixating on his round cheeks and gentle gaze. “But only if you draw me something in return,” I propose. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Daniel smiles before he looks back over his shoulder. “Well, I better get back,” he tells me, gesturing toward the group who are impatiently waiting for the ball, heckling him from a distance. “But hey, before I go, I just want you to know that I’m sorry again. Not just about knocking your stuff over, but for interrupting your introduction earlier. I really didn’t mean to throw you off track.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” I anxiously clutch the box in my grasp, attempting to flash him a reassuring smile as I tuck some loose strands of hair behind my ear. “Thank you for apologizing though. I appreciate it.”

“You got it.” He nods, stepping back.

“Wait…Daniel?” I stop him.

He turns on his heel. “Yeah?”

“Usually football players have their last name on the back of their shirts. What’s uh—yours?”

He smiles before looking up in thought and staring back over. “Mix together yellow and blue and then you’ll make…”

Green.

Daniel Green.

I pinch the inside of my cheek between my teeth, an idea propelling my mind. “How does Greenie sound instead?”

He starts to laugh. “Haze and Greenie, huh?” He pairs our nicknames together. “I think I quite like that.”

I watch as Green drops the ball to his feet and kicks it off ahead, running after it almost immediately, leaving me in a trance-like state as I peer back down at my drawing and the charming prince it’s missing.

“I like it too.” I reach back for my colors. “I like it too.”

TWO

G R E E N

PRESENT DAY

“Areyou going to just hog the ball all to yourself, or are you actually going to pass it?” I heckle Christopher Hart, our center midfielder from the defensive line.

All practice long, anytime I’ve looked his way, he’s had the ball tucked securely within the breadth of his shoe and has been unwilling to pass it off.

As a defenseman, you don’t want to have the ball much, because if you do, the opposition is in your neck of the woods. The “get it the fuck out there!” territory as our Coach—Warren Park, likes to call it from the sidelines.

But this isn’t a game, this is practice, and if Hart continues to hold the ball hostage, how in the hell are any of us supposed to improve on our own footwork?

“Oh, give it a rest, Green,” Hart counters. “You’re just mad because you wish you had such finesse with your technique. I bet you’ve never seen someone with moves like this.” Hart cockily does some basic level footwork with the ball before he kicks it up into his hands and shoots me a glare.

Hart and I have spent the last five years on this team together at each other's throats. We’re friends, sure, but we’re also the number one person in each other's lives who possesses the infinite ability to drive each other completely mad. I’ll admit, I like to take the piss out of him sometimes. The guy has a short fuse and even funnier reactions, but in turn, he pushes my buttons right back.

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