Unbelievers

Chapter 2.3

"Lads!" Coach exclaims, gathering them all around him during half time. Louis' blood is pumping, his knees are grassy and his forehead's sweaty, the adrenaline shooting through his body like a rocket. "You've got this, yeah? We're down by one, but if you keep this is up we'll catch up in no time. Liam, try to get the ball out as fast as you can, and Jonah we're going to move you up the field. Prioritize the offense, yeah?"

The rain is pouring down, drenching them, and Louis is furious. The opposing team is shit and yet they've succeeded a goal to them. It wasn't even a pretty goal, and if Stan hadn't fouled their midfielder they wouldn't have gotten that free kick. It was a cheap one as well, and Louis was opening his mouth at the referee in 0,1 seconds.

This isn't a good start of the season. The referee has kept a close eye on Louis after that, and he even threatened to give him a yellow card if he didn't keep his mouth closed for the rest of the game. Louis can't even give a friendly elbow in the ribs to one of the opposing players, and the frustration is making him sweat even worse. Coach is constantly yelling at him to go wider, to open spaces for the rest of his teammates, even though Louis knows if they'd all just keep their positions for once he would easily be able to dribble through the opposing team's defense.

"You've got this, Tommo!" Stan says fiercely, clapping him supportively on the shoulder, before Liam grips his neck and tells him to keep open so that he can get him the ball immediately from goal kick.

They get back out on the field soon after that, and Harry grabs Louis' shoulder harshly. "Pass me the fucking ball, fuckhead," he growls, and then jogs off to his spot for kickoff.

Louis fights off the urge to flip him one, and then the match is on in full force again. It's sweaty, rough and frustrating, and Louis uses his muscles to tackle anyone he can get close to. He's too heated and Harry keeps waving at him to pass, but he's in a bad position and Louis' head is spinning.

The second half is coming to a close what feels like forty minutes too soon, the desperation among the team almost tangible on the field. The blood is burning in Louis' veins.

"Wider, Louis!" the coach yells.

"Louis, over here!" Connor is screaming, and all Louis can think is "four minutes" and that there are two players in front of him that he needs to get past.

The ball is light and moves quickly at his feet due to the wet grass, and he moves with the speed and technique only someone with years of training could. He doesn't even think. Harry is waving at his right, vein almost popping in his neck, and Louis fakes left, going right. He passes his first opponent, his teammates calling for him in his periphery. The second player isn't attacking him like the first one. He's pensive and calculates Louis' moves, not blindly attacking. Louis' blood is stirring as his muscles work without thought. He does a quick step over, then fakes left, goes right, and then stops, bringing the player out of balance for a fraction of a second, just enough to be able to pass him on the left side.

The maneuver is impressive, but Louis barely hears the crowd cheering. He can tell Coach is screaming at him, pointing in a direction Louis doesn't have time to waste looking in, and he sees Harry waving his arm above his head. Louis doesn't pass him, though. He charges forward, voice in his head frantically yelling that they can't lose. He can see the other team's keeper readying himself to protect his goal, and he can Harry's looking absolutely livid in the corner of his eye.

Louis continues forward, ready to shoot, and then suddenly he's tackled.

He looses the ball.

It's a fair tackle. Louis is on his bum on the wet grass, and the referee doesn't even bat an eye. He feels his stomach sink, and he knows he's screwed up. It's just simply in the air that his teammates' insides are bubbling with annoyance and disappointment at his actions.

He looks up, immediately seeing the grim stare Harry's nailing him with. He shakes his head slowly and Louis feels like he's imploding. He gets back up on his feet, and his throat is thick and there's a lump in it, but he tries to breathe normally. It's not working, his chest feeling tight and heavy as it heaves in ragged movements. There's nothing but disappointment within him. He knows it's his fault, and the rest of the team know it too. He's just cost them the first win.

There's only a minute left of the game and Louis knows they're going to lose. The crowd seems to know it too, their cheers having died down and their posters lowered.

But then Louis sees it happen. Freddie steals the ball from the guy on the other team. It happens in a matter of seconds. The player succeeds the ball to Freddie, who sends it through the air, landing at Stan's feet. A quick maneuver, another pass, and then the ball is figuratively in Harry's hands. Harry shoots forward, rounding his defender and sends the ball shooting like lightning into the far end of the goal, into the net.

It's a tie. 1-1.

The game is over subsequently and Harry's in the bottom of a pile of muddy Donny players, and Louis' left staring.

They didn't lose, is the first thing he thinks.

Second, Harry made sure of that.

Third, Louis screwed up. He fucked up bad.

The crowd is cheering, Harry's being praised, the coach is shaking his head at Louis and it feels like something is burning a hole through his body, burning his flesh from the inside and rotting every piece of him.

The disappointment turns into anger.

He doesn't speak to anyone after the game. Niall gives him a sympathetic smile that he ignores. His sister and mother tell him a "good game" each from where they are standing, closely huddled under a yellow umbrella, which he completely neglects. He's soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead. He should feel cold, but he's so heated inside he could ignite.

None of the boys speak to him in the locker room. Only Liam claps him on the back, making Louis shrug the hand off without a word. The lads get into the showers, and Louis sits on the bench, staring at the muddy floor for minutes.

He can hear the boys singing in the showers, Harry's name being praised over and over again, and Louis' never felt quite like this before.

He's never been this disappointed in himself. Maybe it's how enormous the buildup for the game was, how high his expectations of himself were, that made everything feel so colossally disastrous now, but he knows there's so much more. Everything is riding on this. He doesn't have anything else. He doesn't know what he's going to do if this doesn't go his way – and that is terrifying.

Tears prickle in his eyes and he suddenly can't stand it anymore. He gets up from the bench, wiping at his eyes, pulling on his jacket and throwing his bag over his shoulder. He storms towards the door, ready to run away to the parking lot without another glance at a single person who witnessed the game tonight.

His eyes catch on something, though. Harry's bag is open, and his fancy car keys are on the top of the clothes in his bag, glinting a bit in the fluorescent lights. It's silly, and it's childish, but in the moment it feels justified.

In the go, without a second thought, Louis snatches the keys from the bag, and jogs through the rain to the car his family's waiting in.