Bad.
Then the whistle blew, and the other team started with the ball. Back to the midfielder, then to the left wing. Klosav was right by my target.
Target.
That's what he was.
I stayed close to the goal as he moved up with Jeremy close by, shielding Dennis from me. I moved to the left to get a better view, and the ball crossed over. The other forward's header was right to my feet, and I tossed the ball back and forth with my toes as the defenders moved up the field, and Dennis continued closer to me—trying to put on some pressure.
I'll give him some fucking pressure.
Instead of picking up the ball when he neared, I kicked it off to Jeremy. Dennis turned his back to me at the same time the ref turned away as well. I stepped up a couple of yards and slammed my palm into his back.
He stumbled a little and glared back at me.
“What the fuck?” Dennis spun around and curled his lip at me.
“So sorry,” I snarked back.
He walked off.
The next time he was close, the ball was in the box and my hands were on it. I let my inertia carry me forward, dropped my shoulder, and nailed him in the chest.
“What's your problem?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“You're a bastard motherfucker,” I said simply as I tossed the ball over to midfield. “And by the time this game is done, you'll be leaving on a stretcher.”
“Fuck you.”
Play continued.
Second half. We were up one to nothing with fifteen minutes left in regulation time. I needed another fucking goal from my offense and was screaming at them to score. I had slammed into Dennis at least a dozen times, but I was careful to keep my eye on the ref, and none of the fouls were called. Dennis was seriously pissed, and their coach started yelling to the ref to watch me. Tony subbed in for Clint, and a free throw got the ball into the other team's box. Tony slammed it home, but the goalie tipped it off to the side. Paul headed in the resulting corner kick.
Two to nothing.
Four minutes left, and they were getting desperate.
Jeremy stumbled, and Dennis ended up with the breakaway. He dribbled the ball up the side and then toward goal, and it was just the two of us in the box. I ran up, full speed. I didn't even look at the ball as he chipped it over my right shoulder; I just dropped my head and collided with him. Once he was on the ground and under me, I brought my arm up high, and slammed my elbow into his balls.
He started screaming.
I hit him again.
And again.
“That's what you get you stupid motherfucker!” I screamed at him. Jeremy grabbed me by the arms and hauled me off of him, but I wrenched one arm away, which gave me enough room and leverage to kick his shin.
I heard the crack.
More screaming.
Red card in my face.
All worth it.
Shakespeare probably wasn't speaking to me anymore, but if he did, he might have said “that can such sweet use make of what they hate.” Somehow, the sweetness of this hatred seemed worth the cost.
Now, I wondered what my suspension would be.