EVERLY

I stare at the door long after Xander has disappeared behind it.

What the fuck was that?

Apparently, the saying that being nice doesn't pay off is true. I'd have to be a selfish jerk to just walk past my teammate, who looked like he had seen a ghost or something and was probably on the verge of a freaking panic attack, and I refuse to be that person. Again.

This whole break-the-cycle talk I had with my therapist over a year ago still echoes in my head, especially the part about not letting anyone ruin the progress I've made.

If he wants to bite my head off because I dared to care about his well-being, then so be it.

"Damn, what did you say to him?" I hear Darren's voice on my left. He sounds genuinely surprised, although I'm not exactly sure why. He of all people should know I have a natural talent to offend people, barely saying anything.

Yet another reason why I should think twice before speaking.

"Hell, if I know," I murmur, still not taking my eyes off the locker room door, like the damn thing holds all the answers.

Daren steps in front of me and shoots me that confused-and-surprised-in-a-negative-way look that I've grown to hate because that's what people call disappointment when they don't want to use that word. And I can't stand the thought of disappointing the only person who actually believes I can change and become the best version of myself. Or at least a better one. One that isn't a self-absorbed asshole.

"Just say whatever you're thinking." My tone is a weird mix of pleading and accusing.

I brace for the worst, knowing brutal honesty is basically my best friend's hallmark.

"Why do you automatically assume I'll criticize you? I know you're trying, and from what I've seen, it looks like Spade was in a shitty mood before even coming here."

"Sometimes I forget you have eyes in the back of your head."

"Growing up in Berclair will do that to a person."

Great job, dumbass. That's how you boost your teammate's morale before practice. By bringing up a sore subject.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't..."

"Please, don't..." he cuts me off, his voice is soft and calm, not fitting the situation in the slightest. "Can we go get changed, or are you planning on pissing off Coach too?"

Yeah, a rebuke for being late is the last thing I need right now.

"Of course I am. I told you that this season, I'm aiming for the record of pissing off the most people in the shortest amount of time," I deadpan, then I go past him and to the locker room.

Somehow, I manage to put on all my practice gear and get ready just in time, gaining only a frustrated sigh from Coach Davis but not a single word, which coming from him is basically an endorsement.

He acts harshly and is definitely the tough-love kind of coach, but he doesn't cross boundaries like so many others in his profession do. Even in pro leagues, there are slurs tossed around by the coaching staff, which does nothing but make players feel degraded. Davis respects us, which is the main reason we respect him.

I step on the field, zoning in and letting go of every thought that isn't lacrosse. Or at least trying to, because then something—or rather someone—else picks my attention.

"Should we have a talk about punctuality, Spade?"

I turn around to find Xander running toward the field and Coach with his 'disappointed dad' expression.

"Won't happen again, I swear."

"I know it won't; this is my first and last warning." His tone indicates he's deadly serious, which is kind of surprising considering it's Xander's first slip-up. Unless it's not first... "Now, get your ass on the field!"

Xander does as he's told, but when he passes me, I stop him by yelling, "You do realize being late is the quickest way to get yourself a permanent spot on his blacklist, right?"

Xander comes to a sudden halt and looks at me, visibly confused. "What?"

"He has zero tolerance for unpunctuality. Next time you're late, he won't let it slide, and trust me, you don't want to suffer his punishment."

A gentle smirk lights up Xander's face, but those distractingly blue eyes stay distant, like his thoughts are somewhere else. "Speaking from experience?"

"Unfortunately. He's creative when he's trying to prove his point."

"I'll...keep that in mind," he says cautiously, then walks away to join the rest of the team on the field.

***

Since Xander was a late recruit, I haven't got the chance to watch him play until now. When Coach told us how good of a player Spade is and how he'll improve our stats, I honestly thought he was exaggerating, especially after I saw the way Xander was acting around us. Usually, players with his skill set are overconfident and tend to strut, but Xander never does. In fact, he hardly ever talks to anyone on the team, and most of the time, he just looks scared. Or angry. This morning, it was definitely the latter, and I'm still trying to figure out what I said or did that offended him.

But his weird behavior aside, he really is every inch the perfect player Davis was making him out to be. Yes, perfect. Fast. Slick. Devilishly talented. He has no problems communicating with others on the field, which is hard to believe because it took me weeks to really click with the team on the field.

Coach's whistle brings me to the current moment and away from my thoughts.

I tighten my grip around the handle of my crosse and try to focus on the drill. "Try" being the key word here. For some dumb reason, my eyes, instead of following the ball, follow one certain midfielder, degrading me from a decent goalie to a truly terrible one.

But I can't help myself. Watching Xander play and seeing him transform from a terrified animal into a bloodthirsty beast is a surreal experience. I'd even say it's addictive.

So much so that I let three goals in just because I was paying more attention to him than to the net behind my back.

Fuck.

"Burlow!" Coach yells, his tone filled with anger. "Do me a favor and pull your head out of your ass! You play like my grandma!"

"Yes, Coach!"

Okay, this has to end, or I'll spend the entire season on the bench.

He's just your teammate, so get over it and play.

Last season, I set BU's record for saves in this drill, and now? Am I really going to let myself ruin it?

I take a deep breath. Then another one. Suddenly the crosse feels a lot heavier in my hand; the air around us turns from chill to ice-cold, but that's exactly what I need right now. Finally, all the distracting thoughts leave my head.

The ball—that's all that matters; everything else is irrelevant.

Three shots on goal and three saves later, I feel like myself again. A mix of adrenaline and endorphins buzzes in my veins, intoxicating me like the strongest drug known to humanity.

I'm more than ever sure that this is what I was born for. Lacrosse is my oxygen—maybe even an obsession, but I don't care. The only important thing is the fact that after the hell I went through last season and months of intense physiotherapy—and regular therapy as well because I was a fucking mess—I'm able to play again. I'll be eternally grateful to the lacrosse gods for not taking the game from me. I doubt I'd survive it.

***

The last whistle goes off, announcing the end of practice. Suddenly, all the adrenaline I've been drowning in for the past two hours disappears, turning my body into a useless sack of bones and muscles. There's a slight chance I pushed my limits too far if the pain in my shoulder is any indication.

What is wrong with me today, for God's sake?!

I either screw up like a newbie or play like an irresponsible and reckless brat who seems to have forgotten he was facing the end of his career—before it even really started—mere months ago. Who seems to have forgotten how painfully his stomach twisted when the doctor told him that while he'll recover, there's very little chance he'll regain full strength in his arm.

All that because of one unfortunate bodycheck. This motherfucker from Lafayette and his temper could have cost me my future, and for him, it was a few minutes of penalty.

"Burlow," Coach's voice startles me. "What the hell was that?" He waves his hand toward the field. "I told you to keep it light, didn't I?

"You did, but..."

"No, there's no 'but'. I saw you today; that was your maximum, and now you're paying for your stupidity." He points at my arm.

I frown in confusion, wondering how he figured it out.

"I've seen this face before. You're not fooling anyone." Davis sighs heavily, making my stomach twist into a painful knot.

"You told me to do better. I did."

His stare is like a dagger sharp enough to cut through bones.

"No. I told you to focus. You allowed three goals in a row because your head was like three states from here. And you know damn well what I meant, you just had to prove yourself something, am I right?"

I think I'm gonna be sick.

"You need more time to adjust, that's all. Both of you do, actually."

"Both of us?" My confusion grows, but then my eyes find Xander's, and suddenly, everything becomes clear as day. At least when it comes to Coach's intentions.

"Coach, with all due respect, is this really necessary?" Xander's tone is calm, but the way he clenches his jaw sells him out. He's pissed, as if being forced to spend time with me was the worst punishment.

"If you think you can be part of the team only on the field but not off it, then it is necessary. You have trouble fitting in, so here's your solution." He motions at me with a sharp look in his eyes, which makes it very clear that I should keep quiet. "You learn how to get along with him, you'll learn how to get along with everyone. Trust me, he's...peculiar."

Rude, but accurate. Although I'm doing my very best to make it a little less accurate. Am I making any progress? The jury's still out.

I move my gaze from Coach to Xander, only to find him already staring at me with the same annoyance as a few minutes ago but also a bit of curiosity, which is surprising to say the least.

"Starting tomorrow, it's one extra hour after every practice until the first game. I believe you'll do well without me babysitting you this whole time, but I'll be in my office if you need anything. Are we clear?"

"Clear," we say simultaneously.

"Good. Now, get out of my sight."

We do as we're told, however instead of heading to the locker room, Xander disappears behind the corner of the building. I stood there for a good moment, battling my thoughts on whether I should go after him or just mind my own business. Eventually, my nosiness wins.

I follow my teammate's footsteps, and it's not long until I find Xander sitting on the curb by the back exit. He keeps his face buried in his hands and breathes heavily. Loud enough for me to hear from a few feet away.

Seeing him so vulnerable, so...helpless is like a gut punch. I'd much rather hear him yell at me.

"Everything okay?" My voice comes out raspy, as if it's tired from screaming. Only it's been days since I even slightly raised my voice, unless you count all those 'Yes, Coach' yelled during practice.

Xander startles, not expecting company. He looks up at me with heartbreaking sadness and fear in his eyes, which makes me angry, but not at him—at myself. Because, for some reason, he's afraid of me.

"Please, leave me alone." Not an ounce of energy in his tone, only aloofness.

"I will. But not until you explain why Coach's idea upset you so much."

"It didn't."

Terrible poker face, dude.

"Then what?"

"Then nothing. I'm just overwhelmed."

Well, that I get more than anyone else, but I know there's something else going on. I'm so certain I'll let someone cut my right arm off if I'm wrong. And that's a lot, coming from a lacrosse player.

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that you have to spend more time with me than necessary?" I ask, trying my best not to sound self-absorbed, but his scowl suggests I'm not very convincing.

"Stay here for one more minute, and it will have everything to do with the fact I have to spend more time with you."

And the anger is back. I'd say it's a relief, but that would be a bad color on me, wouldn't it?

"Fine. Message received." I turn around and head to the locker room as fast as possible.

Most of my teammates have already left, but some are still here, changing after practice or showering. Although, one is still here despite being ready to go.

When my eyes meet Darren's from across the room, I can already sense his anger. Cold, gnawing fear overfills me as those annoying voices in my head start to repeat all the things I dread to hear from my best friend.

I disappointed him with what I did today on the field. He would never say it out loud, but every time I screw up, I see the spark in his eyes dim. And it never fails to shatter my heart.

"Ev..."

"I know," I interrupt him, not ready to have my mood completely ruined.

"I want to have you on the goal this season."

"You think I don't?"

"Well..." He stands up and steps closer to me. "Do you?"

My jaw hits the floor with a bang loud enough to be heard in California.

Is he fucking serious?!

"Because right now, you're doing everything in your power to get reinjured and benched."

"Coach already gave me this talk, I don't need a recap."

"I'm just concerned. Nothing more, nothing less. Lacrosse means a lot to you, so forgive me if I'm worried you'll lose it forever because of your recklessness."

Losing lacrosse forever sounds like a death sentence. Just hearing the words and considering it a possibility makes my heart pound and head spin.

"Yeah, Davis isn't happy either. So he's making me stay an extra hour after practice to...readjust, as he put it. And he's pairing me with Xander, of all people."

Darren's brows pop up in surprise.

"What? Why?"

"Killing two birds with one stone. Spade has trouble fitting in, so he figured that if he learns how to get along with me, it'll make things easier with the rest of the team."

"Ouch."

"Yep. I doubt he thought this through because it looks like his mildly out of sync team will get very out of sync, considering I can't have one civilized conversation with the guy." I sigh, suddenly feeling the weight of the world over me. "It's going to be a disaster."

"With the two of you involved? Definitely," he says with such seriousness that it's impossible to mistake his words for a joke.

To be fair, I knew he wouldn't try to make me feel better or bore me with some "the Devil is not so black as he is painted" bullshit. You know, always the realist. His hunches are always right, so I trust them completely, although this time, I really hope he's wrong.