Page 1 of Hits Different

Chapter 1

Something Glorious

Brandon

I take a deep breath and place the ball on the penalty spot.

The crowd is loud, but that doesn’t matter. The opposing team’s goalie, a lean badass named Dmitry Volchok, already has more than one reason to hate me and I’m desperate to give him another.

He’s edging out of his box, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The ref blows her whistle, and with insulting ease, I fire the ball straight into the far left corner of the net with a decisivewhoosh.

GOAL!

The crowd roars, and Volchok rips off his gloves and slams them to the ground. We lock eyes and I shoot him a wink. My reward is a snarl and a barrage of NSFW language that is dashed away by the noise from the crowd.

He’s got a temper, as I’ve been reminded several times throughout the tournament, but I’m too pumped up to care.

I leap into the crowd with an almighty howl that our fans eagerly reciprocate. What can I say? We’re not calledThe Wolvesfor nothing. From across the field, rival fans return fire with roars. Their dancing Bear mascot gives me a comical thumbs down.

I make sure to grab Freddie in my celebration. He’s been feeding me all match, and if the scouts are watching me then I’m going to make damn sure my boy gets noticed too. That’s part of being a good teammate.

I love this. I live for it.

It’s all I’ve got.

There’s a few thousand people in the stands. College soccer doesn’t attract the same kind of attention as football or hockey, but tournaments like this are a great way to get noticed. We’re a fun, energetic team which means sponsors like us, and we’ve got a decent social media following because girls like us too.

All of that attention equals butts on seats.

A shiny championship trophy is the perfect way to finish my junior year before we tour Europe for the summer. Realistically, my body could use a break to rest up, but that means going home and that’s not an option.

My stomach does a somersault, the same one it does any time I think about home, but I can’t focus on that right now because there’s ninety seconds before half time and we’re still down by one.

I’m a striker but my position is merely a formality because I spend every game covering as much of the pitch as physically possible. The Tribune’s Player of the Month profile described me asthe human embodiment of frenetic energy, which I took as a win and Coach took as another excuse to tell me calm the hell down.

I try not to believe my own hype, but I kept that newspaper cutting. I cropped out the picture of my parents that accompanied it, and the words ‘scandal’ and ‘secrets’ that follow us around. I’m going to turn pro one day.I have to.

That’s why I can’t follow Coach’s advice.

I have to prove myself. To everyone, all the time. It’s the only way to guarantee I keep my spot. No matter how invisible the differences between my teammates and I might be, sometimes they’re all I can see.

I’m marking Number 19, who’s doing an admirable job of shielding the ball, but he’s got no chance. I spent last night in the hotel bar chatting him up, learning that he rolled his ankle in training, so there’s no way he’s going to be able to outpace me if I take a sharp right, and—what-do-ya-know—I've left him in the dust.

The ball has flown to the other end of the pitch, affording me a quick second to catch my breath. I pull my shirt up to wipe the sweat from my brow, and I’m close enough to the sidelines to hear more than a few wolf whistles.

I catch eyes with a gorgeous brunette four rows back. She blows me a kiss, but I pretend not to notice. There’s no sign language equivalent that I could return to indicate I’m far more interested in her surfer-dude looking boyfriend. At least, not one that I could do with children present.

The whistle blows and I glance at the scoreboard as we trudge into the locker room.

2-2.

Not good enough.

I start chugging water, peeling off my shirt and tossing it into the laundry bag. Reuben, the captain, does the same but it misses wildly. “I got it”, I say to Hector, who’s in charge of keeping our kits in order. I scoop it off the floor and drop it in his bag. He matches my smile, and we bump fists.

Next to me, Billy practically collapses onto the bench, head in his hands.

I don’t need to ask what’s on his mind. This is his last championship before graduation, and despite being one of the best goalkeepers in the league, he hasn’t received an offer from any professional club.

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