EVERLY

By the time I get to my dorm, I'm running on fumes. I feel exhausted, and just physically, but mentally. Especially mentally.

I had to spend one hour with Xander, but it felt like five. Half of which I spent trying to convince him not to dismiss me, a third rambling about some nonsense, and for the rest of the time, I was fighting tooth and nail to get him to tell me something about himself. Anything. All I got? His fucking middle name. I guess it's better than nothing, but definitely doesn't deserve to be called 'progress'. He's stubborn as a mule, although in this case, it may be an offense to mules.

Fuck my life, and fuck me.

And fuck him.

I lie on my bed, unable to move. I've been staring at the ceiling for about ten minutes now, replaying our very chaotic conversation in my head again and again.

Something he said is still bothering me, no matter how hard I try to repress it. That thing about how, as a goalie, I shouldn't care about the rest of the team. It's likely I misinterpreted his words, but my gut tells me that they were every bit the insult I took them to be—he doesn't see me as an equally important player. I shouldn't care what he thinks of me, and a year ago, I probably wouldn't, but now I can't help it. Because I worked so hard on being less self-centered that I forgot how to ignore trifling opinions.

And while my motivations aren't as altruistic as they seem—I won't deny I'm only doing it for the sake of the team—I still genuinely care about him, just like I care about any other of my teammates. He's a loner, which is not a bad thing, unless you're so terrified to step out of your comfort zone that you end up jeopardizing things you care about—because there's no denying he loves the game—just to stay in your little safe bubble.

I want to work with him, I really do. It's him who doesn't want to work with me. So unless he learns how to compromise, it's going to be a long and bumpy road that most likely ends on a cliff.

***

"All right, that's clearly not working. Let's try a different approach." I pause to think, trying to ignore the way Xander's drilling a hole in my skull with his piercing stare. "Okay, how about a bet, huh? Eleven shots on the goal. If I save more than you score, you have to tell me the most embarrassing thing that happened to you. If it's the other way around," I hesitate, knowing I'll regret it. "Your choice. Please, don't betray my trust."

For a long minute, Xander just looks at me, his face devoid of emotion, but eyes speak the truth. He thinks it's a trap, which is understandable, but not exactly a confidence booster.

The more time passes in silence, the more anxious I get. They say patience is a virtue, but I wouldn't know.

"So... Do we have a deal?"

Better say 'yes' because I'm running out of options.

"Deal." He sighs heavily, but surprisingly enough, he doesn't roll his eyes. Now that's progress.

I help him line up the balls, then return to the goal.

I should feel confident about the score, after all, I'm a goalkeeper. He's a midfielder, and it shows in how he plays that he would be no use in attack.

I've got this. I've got this. I... Maybe I don't, actually, but what was the saying? Fake it till you make it? Sounds about right.

"Ready?" Xander scoops the first ball from the ground and makes a shot immediately after, not waiting for my answer

Fucker wanted to surprise me, but he forgot that his every move is two times slower in my eyes. That's how most goalies' reflexes work—if we do our job right and are squared to the ball, we get ourselves more time to analyze the angle, distance and force to predict the possible trajectory.

"At least make me work for it." I need a challenge, and a little provocation is always the best way to make an athlete try harder. Our constant need to win is enough to get philosophers at least a few sleepless nights.

Xander makes another shot, and even though he doesn't score, it's only a matter of milliseconds and inches. He almost gets the ball in, and this almost makes all the difference.
On round three, I can see determination on his face, which only gives me the very much needed adrenaline rush.

Angle. Distance. Force. Aaand...
"2-1," Xander shouts, finally allowing himself to smile and not in this annoyingly fake way.

I could get used to this view.

"Well, look at that," I mutter, but the words aren't meant for anyone besides me.

"Let's make it 2-2, shall we?"

And we sure do. Then—maybe five, maybe ten minutes later—we're suddenly tied 5-5. Xander's getting ready to shoot and win, but I've been ready to make this save since the moment I suggested the bet.

The ball leaves the net. The ball breaks through the air. The ball gets closer and closer. The ball...misses my crosse by a hair.

"Holy shit," is all I say, filled with disbelief and something resembling pride in suspiciously equal amounts.

Guess I'm about to eat my words about him not lacking the skills? Deservedly, I suppose, considering how salty I got when he said something similar about me yesterday.

I'm a man of my word, so I guess I should honor my promise.

"Now, hangman, do your work," I whine dramatically, lowering my head like the yardbird I am.

"I wasn't planning on killing you, but if you're so eager, I'm sure I can get that orchestrated."

"You can't exactly blame me, can you?" I ask, trying to keep my tone half-serious, half-playful, but I majorly fail on the first part. "Making a bet with such an ominous creature ought to fill a man with dread."

At this point, even I have no idea what I'm rambling about. I swear I get dumber around him or something. Is that possible?

"Do you have an off switch?" Xander's question sounds very serious, but the smirk on his face is a highly reliable indicator that he's actually at least a little amused with my weirdness. Counting this as a win.

As for the answer, I could respond with so many dirty jokes that it'd be impossible to choose one, but I'm quickly reminded about this one thing called boundaries and decide to go with the safest option.

"Probably. Although no one has found it yet." I shrug. "You can always be the first."

Xander's eyes widen as if he's not sure whether he heard me properly. Or maybe the double meaning caught him off guard.

"Anyway, I suppose it's time for you to choose my punishment. And I'm starting to regret constantly pissing you off."

"Nah, I had to deal with much more annoying people than you. In fact, you didn't even make the top five."

I feel the sudden and quickly gone spark of anger in my chest.

What the—

"I should up my game then. It's unacceptable."

Xander laughs at my words, but it doesn't last long. Sadly.

"It is. Frankly, I'm disappointed." Xander sighs heavily, shaking his head. "And to think I considered showing you mercy on your sentence."

Okay, I see how it is. He enjoys annoying me as much as I enjoy annoying him.

Can't say I'm complaining, though. Maybe we'll get along just fine now that we survived the tsunami wave of mutual hostility.

"You still can."

Xander stays silent for a few seconds, pretending he's seriously considering my request just to mess with me.

"Very well, you just have to answer one question, and then you'll be able to consider yourself a free man."

Wait, that's it? Why do I feel like I'm walking into a trap? A deadly one nonetheless, the Saw kind.

"What a wasted opportunity. You could've just asked me, you know? Unlike you, I'm an open book."

Lies, filthy lies!

"Mhm, we'll see about that. Something tells me you won't be very eager to answer this one." His tone suddenly loses all trace of playfulness and is now deadly serious.

It can't be a good sign, right?

My brain instantly goes into overthinking mode. Did I do something? Does he know about—

"Shoot." The word barely carries any sound, but that's about all you'll get from me.

Get your shit together, Ev.

"What did Coach mean when he told me the others will be easier to deal with once I learn how to get along with you? Specifically you? What's up with that?" he asks like he already knows the answer. Like he's trying to catch me red-handed lying.

Fuck.

All the memories from the past few years come rushing back, laughing in my face and calling me every name under the sun. The voice is all too familiar. It's mine. Laced with venom and self-hatred.

Every terrible thing I've done back then is clear in my mind, and I feel sick. Sick because of who I was.

I kept this monster caged for so long, and I'm not going to let him out now. Especially not with Xander around, seeing as he is the one person I should at least try to get along with.

So how the hell do I explain it to him without...well, without telling the truth? But I also don't want to lie to him. Mainly because I'm afraid he'll see right through me.

"Nothing's up. He just doesn't like me."

Close enough.

Xander doesn't look convinced. His stare is piercing and makes me all kinds of uncomfortable.

"Why would he? Everyone seems to be fond of you." The fucker scoffs, which would have been my breaking point a year ago, but now it barely affects me.

See? Progress.

I'm a completely different person. Call me fake. Call me whatever you want. I'll call it becoming my own person instead of being the product of my environment.

My father wanted a mini version of himself, and he got it. Until I woke up and saw all the damage I had done.

Coach Davis saw it too—before any of the guys on the team could—and helped me find myself in all the fake bullshit that surrounded me back then.

"They like me, so what?" I have to bite my tongue to prevent the next words from coming out because they're the match we need to start a fire here.

"But Coach doesn't? You just said so." Xander cocks a brow, and suddenly it all clicks.

He knows I'm hiding something. I doubt he's the only one, but he's the first who's ever tried to provoke me and make me snap.

Fine. Game on.

"Last season, we had a little or...not so little misunderstanding about my recovery process after an injury. I was cleared to play, but he refused to put me back on the first line. I was angry, which made him angry." And while every single word I've just said is true, the next ones are a big fat lie. "That's the whole story."

These blue eyes are staring at me with such intensity that it makes my knees feel weak. The sun—at least as much of it as can be seen through the clouds—only makes his stare more intimidating.

Under different circumstances, a more suitable word would be beautiful because, fuck, they're gorgeous. But as long as their owner is who he is, I consider "intimidating" the only correct description.

Silence settles between us. Time slows down with every passing second, making me more and more anxious, which is new. I should be getting angry—that used to be my default—or annoyed, or... I don't even know anymore.

Xander's expression tells me absolutely nothing. He's like a fucking statue, and it scares the hell out of me because there's no way to predict his reaction.

Can we just go back to ten minutes ago, when we were just bantering and none of this heaviness of my past sins burdened me?

Xander sighs heavily, as if he's been holding his breath for hours. "I believe you," he says, filling me with worry that I accidentally said something that was supposed to stay only a thought. "Let's drop the subject."

The worry is immediately replaced with relief.

"So I'm a free man then?" I risk resolving the tension with humor, which can bring either terrible or excellent results. No in-betweens.

My question is left unanswered for a good moment, making me regret saying anything.

But when a gentle smile lights up Xander's face, I can't help smiling too, even though I'm more than ever certain Darren's right—there's no way we can get through this unharmed. However you wish to interpret this word.