Page 12 of Set Play

I send up a quick dedication to mi mamá y mi papá, hoping that this isn’t the one time he changes tactics, and let it fly. The ball soars toward the right side of the net, but I don’t get to see if it goes in or not.

A CFQC defender comes out of nowhere, shoving me in the back and forcing me to the ground. I’d like to think it was an accident, but I don’t need to speak French to understand the hatred in the words the defender spits at me.

Yeah, that shit was intentional.

The crowd erupts, celebrating the goal, but upon realizing what happened, the cheers quickly switch to boos and jeers. Lukas runs over to help me up, which I accept with a grateful dip of my chin. His eyes burn with anger, but I grab him before he can move for the defender, nodding to where the referee is holding up a yellow card for the CFQC player.

Awarded a penalty kick, I’m once again left face to face with Henri. I line up, watching with hidden amusement as Henri’s face flushes with frustration and he shifts to his right foot.

Thinking of the last goal, I decide to throw him off by aiming left, leaning into his ploy. Partially. Most players aim for the bottom ninety for penalty kicks, making him lunge low. So, when I take the shot, I target the upper ninety.

It feels like the whole stadium holds a collective breath as the seconds pass in seemingly slow motion.

Not even sound breaks the spell of the moment.

As expected, Henri switches his lunge and stays low, but he’s a tall fucker, so he still almost blocks the shot. The ball just barely skims the tip of his glove before it flies into the net.

Time and sound rush back in as my teammates swarm me.

Holy shit. I just secured the lead!

Resisting the urge to smirk at the CFQC players, I start to turn back toward midfield to line up for kickoff, but like that night in the bar, the sight of her standing behind the goal catches my attention. I raise a hand to protect my eyes from the obnoxious LEDs. I’m convinced that I am seeing things when my eyes collide with angry green ones, sending ripples of excitement and confusion through me.

Holy shit, she’s here. But why is she looking at me like I just offended her family?

She crosses her arms, jutting out her hip and drawing my eyes down to her lavender shirt. That’s not a Storm jersey…it’s a Québec City jersey. Specifically, it’s their fucking goalkeeper’s jersey.

Why the actual fuck is my girl wearing Henri Clément’s jersey to my game?

1. Non = No

Chapter 8

Mateo

When the referee blows the final whistle, the score remains three to two. Fans pour from the stands as the teams shake hands and head to our respective locker rooms. Before I follow my team, I cast another glance behind me, searching for a sign of Élise, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

Maybe I imagined it.

Turning back to head in, I’m shocked to see that my team is gone, replaced by the last person I want to see. Henri Clément. The sight of him glaring at me from the mouth of the player’s tunnel sends me back six years.

I brush my hair back and tug my bag higher up onto my shoulder, running to catch up to the figure storming away from the field like it’s on fire. “Hey! Keep, wait up a second!”

His shoulders rise and fall with several deep breaths before he finally turns to face me. Once I’m within a few feet of him, I stop, offering a hand in greeting. “Hey man. I’m Mat—”

“I know who you are.” He stares down at my hand, curling his lip in…distaste? “What do you want, Reyes?”

My hand drops back to my side at the vitriol in his tone. What the hell? I know losing sucks, but I didn’t even score tonight. Hell, the closest I even got to the goal was midfield. Coach Hansen wanted me to play sweeper to ‘diversify my field knowledge.’ I’m so stunned by the hatred pulsing off him that words escape me. “Uh, well…I—”

His eyes roll so far back that I worry they will get stuck. “Seriously?” he scoffs. “Why bother stopping me to talk if you didn’t even know what to say?” He waits, watching as I flounder to recover my footing in this train wreck.

“If it weren’t for soccer, would you even be at this university? No way is someone as eloquent as you here for an education. Wait, let me guess, you round out the team’s diversity?”

I’m silent as he continues hurling insults. He starts to turn away but stops to deliver one last scathing remark. “Or maybe your English is just so bad that it takes you forever to form a thought. Maybe that’s how you’re here…a scholarship for minorities that can’t afford it.”

As a Mexican American, I’ve heard plenty of racist stereotypes and ‘jokes,’ but hearing them come from someone I respected leaves me shellshocked. He turns his back on me with a derisive scoff and starts to walk away.

Henri only manages a few steps before I finally regain control of my tongue. My hand whips out to grab hold of his shoulder and forces him to face me. “Actually, pendejo,” I hiss, “I came to compliment you on one hell of a save in the second half and to see if you were going pro. It’s clear you have the skill to make it in the league.”