Unbelievers

Chapter 1.6

Louis hates Harry an extensive amount.

Yes, he realizes he spends an awful lot of his time thinking about how much he despises him, but he's just such a bother. He's currently shooting penalties at the keeper, and is netting them neatly in the corners every single time. Louis is standing on the other side of the pitch, shaking his head. They're not even supposed to be shooting penalties. Coach specifically told them to practice their technique on something they feel like they need to improve, and with the way Harry keeps casually scoring, Louis doubts he needs to practice shooting from the spot kick, eleven meters from the goal. Like, seriously? Fucking show-off.

Louis hates him.

He squares his shoulders after few minutes of scowling and juggling with a ball of his own, and saunters confidently over to where Harry's shooting at the goal.

"If you'd practice something you don't already know how to do, maybe we'll win a game or two," he says, crossing his arms with the football at his feet.

Harry's back stiffens, and he slowly turns around to arch a brow at him. "And what have you been practicing?"

"Things that will improve my game," he says, shooting out his jaw. "Penalties occur in three out of fifteen games, statistically. I doubt you'll need much more training. Why don't you go dribble some cones or something?"

"Are you really telling me what to do?" Harry asks, jaw clenching.

"No. Just giving you advice," he smirks. "You'll be needing it..." He gives Harry a meaningful onceover and a pointed look, turning around and strolling casually towards the bleachers.

And in one...two...

"What the fuck was that supposed to mean?" Harry growls, hand locking on Louis' shoulder just as Coach calls out, ending practice.

Louis turns around, firmly pulling Harry's hand off him. "I just meant that if you keep up with your rabbit exercises and only shooting penalties at Liam, then you might not spot on the team anymore," he shrugs.

"I'm the best player on the team. Stop talking a bunch of crap," Harry hisses. His wild, dark curls are pulled back in a pink little headband that looks ridiculous, and how he even expects Louis to take him seriously is beyond belief. Never mind the fact that he's right out lying to Louis' face.

"You're not the best player or the team," Louis spits. "You're the seventh. Might pass for sixth." He's a close second. Whatever.

"Why am I even having this conversation with you?" Harry says, shaking his head disbelievingly. He starts pacing towards the bleachers, and Louis strolls besides him, enjoying how annoyed he looks.

"Because you just can't stay away from me. I thought we established this, you're in love with me."

"You're so full of yourself, you know that? Shut the fuck up and leave me alone, will you?" Harry picks up his bag and throws it over his shoulder. Louis reaches for his as well, smirking as he follows Harry to the locker rooms.

"Not until you admit you have a huge, flaming crush on me. I don't blame you. I'm good-looking." It's decided. He's going to pester Harry until he doesn't want to be on the team anymore. Revenge in a very unpredicted manner. Good one, Louis.

"And how the fuck have you come to that conclusion?" Harry asks, shaking his head. "You're such a tit, you think everyone likes you. Open your fucking eyes."

Please. Louis knows everyone doesn't like him. That's what jealousy means. Duh.

"Open my eyes? If anyone should it's you. From this morning I'd think you're fucking blind," he sneers.