Beacon in the Darkness

7. Ripples

"Mendes!"

Shawn's head snapped up at the sound of his name being called. Coach Mark caught his eye and motioned him forward. Shawn stood, adjusted his socks over his shin guards, and jogged over.

Coach caught his eye and slapped a hand on his shoulder. Shawn winced at the contact but forced himself not to pull away. "Center forward. Offense first. Show 'em what you've got, kid." He tossed Shawn an orange mesh practice jersey.

Shawn promptly pulled it over his head, layering it on top of his white t-shirt, and ran out to take his spot at the center line. He toed the ball in front of him, looked to the left forward, gave a short nod, and waited for the coach's whistle.

He concentrated on loosening the muscles in his upper body, breathing deep and steady while focusing his gaze on the goal. Nothing else mattered except the direction the spongy grass beneath his cleated feet grew, the force and course of the wind as it blew across the field, and the proximity of his teammates to himself. All of these things added up into how easily the ball would move across the surface, how hard he needed to kick, and how much effort he'd have to put into getting it where he wanted it to go.

He watched the second string players in front of him. How they shifted and which foot they favored. Did they tend to lunge to the right or the left? How well protected was the goal? Did the defensive line tend to play the front half of the field, or did they hang back and hug the goal box? Would he best them with pure speed, or would it take a bit more footwork? Either way, he was sure he could handle it. If he wanted to start, he knew he'd have to prove himself, not only to the coaching staff but also to his teammates.

Being the new guy, especially coming in during his senior year and being favored as a starting forward, didn't win him any brownie points with the other guys. Those spots were earned, not given. And he was sure one of the guys out there at that moment had coveted the spot given to him. Someone none of them had played with before. Someone they didn't trust.

"Malik!"

Shawn turned toward Coach Mark's voice, catching movement behind him. Shifting his gaze, he watched as a medium height, dark-haired boy that had occupied a midfield spot behind him hurried over to the coach.

The boy stopped just in front of the portly, whistle-bound man. "Yeah Coach?"

The coach reached down, pulled a blue practice jersey from the duffle bag at his feet, and threw it at the boy. "Switch teams, Zayn. Since you're going to be my second for center forward, I want you to head off against Mendes."

Zayn ripped the orange jersey over his head and replaced it with the blue one before making his way back out to the field and taking his position opposite Shawn. He caught Shawn's eyes and narrowed his. Great. So, this was the guy who felt entitled to the position.

Shawn leaned forward over the ball, his arms hanging loose, and his breathing even. In his periphery, he saw the other two forwards, donning the same stance. The familiar rush surged through his veins as the whistle shrilled in the distance. At the sound, he plunged ahead, nudging the ball toward the left forward. Sprinting up the field a few feet, he whipped around, his eye on the ball at all times. He watched as his teammate passed back to midfield, and then up to the right forward who brought it up the sideline.