Page 6 of The Prospect

I can only be so mad. That was the objective of the drill, after all, and given that Wilks never ceases to miss a shot when he does get an opportunity, I’m happy.

Crawfield Football Club has done a complete one-eighty in the past two years. What once was a club that needed “fixing up” has now become a household name. Last season, we got promoted, and this season, we’re on track for it to happen again.

It’s a good feeling—fulfilling. I never thought football was going to be my path in life. Sure, I was obsessed with it every waking second as a kid, but it was never something I thought I’dbe able to do as a profession. It was always a hobby, and hell, when I got to the end of GCSE exams, I thought uni was going to be my pathway in life, that was until Hazel Collins, my best friend for as long as I can remember, signed me up without my knowledge to an open football try-out here in Crawley. I guess you can say the rest is history.

“That’s it, practice is over,” Coach announces, gesturing for us to make our way off of the field. “Good work today, lads. Wilks, great shot. Hart, nice pass. I like to see how you’re analyzing the field for open opportunities and Green…” He makes his way over to me. “Where’s the umph, lad? You’ve got that aggression in you, but I’m not seeing it? What’s going on? You easily could’ve defended against Wilks. You made it too easy for him.”

Before I can explain, Hart’s nosy arse snarkily chimes in, “It’s probably ‘cause he hasn’t had any action in a while, Coach. He’s gone into total zombie mode.”

The rest of the team laughs but is eventually quieted by Wilks as he jumps to defense.

“Knock it off.” He smacks Hart up the back of the head as I drop my explanation and instead embarrassingly accept Coach’s not-so-private constructive feedback.

I know my game is off—it has been for a while. I’m too deep in my mind…in my thoughts. Maybe Hart’s right. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been with someone. Is that the problem? Is that what’s wrong with me? My pathetic singleness has decided to torment all aspects of my life?

Christ.

“Just…” Coach pulls me out of the spiral that is my mind. “Try to get out of your head, Green. I know what you’re capable of. We all do.” He gestures toward the group before patting me on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Coach,” I tell him, taking his advice as a way to boost me up and not bring me down. I have a tendency to take everything to heart and then spend all night long ruminating on it.

It’s awful.

I hate the way my mind works.

“So, where exactly are you off to?” Hart asks Wilks as we reach the changing room, one by one, chucking off our boots and tossing them into our respective corners.

“Tonight’s date night, fellas,” he reveals. “It’s Chels’ and I’s six-month anniversary. I’m taking her out on a special date.”

“Damn.” Hart nods, impressed. “You know, I’ve known you for four years, Wilks, and you haven’t once taken me out on aspecial date,” he teases with a shake of his head. “I’m actually offended.”

“I guess you’re just not my type.” Wilks is the type to always go along with a joke no matter what.

“No?” Hart protests. “Blonde, adorable, irresistibly charming.” He recites a list of traits both he and Chelsie seemingly have in common as he peels off his jersey and flexes his biceps.

I look away in disgust.

“Look at what you’re missing out on, Wilks. It’s a downright shame.”

Wilks playful rolls his eyes as he places a hand against his chest. “Oh no, how will I go on?” He mockfully insinuates that he’s in pain.

Hart reaches for a towel and slings it over his shoulder. “Beats me, but that’s alright. I’ve actually got a date myself tonight anyway…”

“Is that right?” Wilks seems impressed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me, what is this one, number 4,587?”

I snort in laughter. Usually, I’m always quick to join in on any “locker room” banter but right now, I’m not in the mood. Instead, I’ll just instigate.

“Oh, piss off. Both of you.” Hart makes a bee-line toward the showers, shooting both Wilks and me a glare before he’s out of sight.

I don’t know how Hart does it. Obviously, 4,587 is a dramatic overkill on how many dates Hart’s been on this year, but I bet it’s not far off. The guy’s a bloody chick magnet anywhere we go.

The difference between Hart and me? I don’t jump into bed with someone without even knowing their name. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to get to know a person before I go there. I need to like someone, and not just like the way they look or act or how experienced they might be behind closed doors. All of that is superficial to the real thing I want to like—their heart.

“Oi, you alright, Green?” Wilks catches my solemn stare that lingers on the ground. I look up to see that he’s impatiently standing over me, likely questioning why I’m the only one left in the changing room who has barely even slid off their socks.

“Yeah.” I shake myself out of it. “I’m fine.”

Wilks flashes me a narrowed look, unwilling to let up. “What?” I ask. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

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