× Mercury

One time I was set up on a blind date and as we sat and ate mediocre lasagna, we got into a heated debate about who had the best chance of winning the FIFA finals, he suddenly exclaimed, "Wait a second, you're a girl? And you like soccer?" Mind you, he didn't know I was actually on a soccer team, but regardless of that, he actually thought females didn't watch it. A study reflects that a little over half of women in the world watch soccer, so why was it so damn hard for males to understand that? Yes, we do watch/play soccer, and we manage to clean the house, bleed once a month, cook dinner, and have babies.

"That's the benefit to dating a soccer player, especially one that has a female on the team," Jamie was saying as she took a seat on the bench. "He doesn't ask any sexist questions." She paused for a moment. "Well, that's not soccer related, anyways."

I shook my head. "I can't imagine Jace asking anything sexist."

"He doesn't do it on purpose," Jamie clarified. "Just small things like asking why I wore so much makeup and how he preferred me 'natural'."

I laughed. "Boys don't understand what 'natural' is."

The two of us were currently in the women's locker room as I got ready for the upcoming game that starts in an hour and a half. We were playing against the Doncaster Rovers for the second time since I've joined the London Lions. Or better known as inside my team: That-One-Time-Mercury-Walked-into-the-Boy's-Locker-Room-and-Chewed-Horan-Out. Or simplified: When-Horan-Punched-Tomlinson-in-the-Face.

"Oh!" Jamie said suddenly. "I've been meaning to ask, what happened with Chloe last night? Is she okay?"

I signed, trying my hardest to forget about last night and the image of Niall in bed with someone else out of my head. "She's fine, at least I think" I told her. "Before I could get to her, James, the blonde guy on the team, had found her and got her out of that situation. She hasn't talked about it much with me, though."

"Well, I'm glad she's okay."

I was in the middle of tugging on my maroon jersey when I heard the locker room door open.

"Jillian, is that you?" I called, my voice bouncing off the medal lockers.

Earlier I had texted Jillian to bring me a burger from the bar after her shift because I didn't have any time to eat lunch. I was really hoping it was her because I was about to concave from starvation.

"Sorry, love," someone else said, stepping around the row of lockers to face Jamie and I.

Louis Tomlinson stood with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, looking around like he was in a museum and not inside a locker room. He was wearing a plain white shirt with his hair pushed back with a headband, his brown locks sticking up straight on his head.

"Who's this?" Jamie asked.

"A rival player," I explained. "What do you want, Tomlinson? Looking for another way to get under one of my teammate's skin like last time?"

Louis laughed and took a few steps closer. "As much as I like spiting Horan, I don't feel like getting punched again," he said with a sly smile. "Besides, I'd like to think the two of us are on better terms since our little chat at the coffee place last month."

"That 'little chat' wasn't necessary," I deadpanned. "You have no right of accusing me of something like that."

"What's going on?" Jamie asked? She usually wasn't one to get nosy, but clearly this was an exception.

"That Lynn loves Niall," Louis answered.

"That's not-"

"Oh, yeah, I know," Jamie agreed with a wink in my direction.

I ignored them and took my phone and earbuds and secluded myself from my rival and my best friend and sat in a cubby, blocking out the world with music.

But Louis obviously didn't get the hint that I wanted to be alone because he found me and stood with his arms crossed, watching me. I tried my best to pretend he wasn't there, but his piercing blue eyes seemed to burn right through me.

Angrily, I snatched the earbuds away and glared at him. "What?"

"Listen, back at the cafe, I was just saying shit because I think it's funny seeing you panic like that," he laughed. "Do you really think I give two shits about your feelings for each other? You two could be madly in love or hate each other's guts, but I just don't care."

That made a lot more sense now that I thought about it. Louis didn't know me at all, just what he might have read in the media and the small conversation we had before our last game. There was no way he could have seen through me and assumed I loved Niall. And now that I thought about that, I realized how stupid I was to fall into Louis words at the coffee place. Now it was almost comical.

"I do enjoy giving you a hard time, but that wasn't what I came here for," he clarified, looking serious. "I'm here to warn you."

I laughed. "Alright, humor me."

"On the bus ride here, one of my teammates was saying how he was planning on sabotaging you during the game today," Louis said, his voice stern. "He didn't say how, but he did say it was all planned out. Normally we're all talk when it comes to this, but Oliver is one to put his money where his mouth is."

I stared at him. "Why should I trust you? You weren't any better the last game we played together. Or do you need another black eye as a refresher on what happened?"

"You can trust me or not, that's your call," Louis explained. "But I like an even playing field. The history between Horan and I is different, the bad blood goes way back. You're just good at what you do and Oliver doesn't like that. It's not fair."

"Why don't you talk to your coach about it? Or better yet, to this Oliver guy," I questioned.

"Oliver is my coach's nephew so he's really not going to listen to what I have to say. He might even side with Oliver now that I think about it, which only makes this worse. And talking to Oliver is out of the question because he would go ahead and do it anyways. There's no reasoning with him, even if I bring up how stupid and risky the plan is. Warning you is the best I got."

I bit my bottom lip and looked at him. Louis has proven to me that he could be a good guy when it doesn't have anything to do with soccer, but he's shown the opposite when it does concern the sport. I don't have any reason to trust him, for all I knew, he would just be psyching me out to distract me, to make sure I'm too focused on whoever this Oliver guy is than on the actual game.

"Take my word or not, it's not going to affect me one way or another," Louis finished and started walking away. "His number is twenty one. Good luck out there, Mercury."

When I heard the locker room door shut, Jamie came from around the corner. "Don't trust him," she advised, obviously listening into our conversation. "He's a rival player, and no matter his reasoning, you should never trust him. That's just common sense."

"I don't trust him," I said.

"Good. I'm going to go get a snack and find my seat before the game. I'll see you after?"

"I'll meet you here."

"Break a leg," Jamie grinned before she walked away and out the door, leaving me alone with my music once again.

× × ×

A little over half time and number 21 still had to make any move toward me like Louis had warned. It was a good call not to believe him because so far we were up by two. But the time was still ticking.

I looked over at Niall who was standing right wing at the center line. The easiest way to sum us up was simply this: a hot mess. Everything from the very beginning by hating each other, to having this strange understanding, to sleeping with each other, and finally to whatever this was. Tristan and Isolde never had this puzzle of a life, or even Romeo and Juliet... granted they only knew each other for a day, but still.

The whistle blew and the game began.

Despite not giving me the time of day during halftime, Niall was quick to read my movements on the field, playing off my advances as I stole the ball away from an opponent and ran toward the goal. The second I was overwhelmed with players, Niall would be there, ready to continue where I left off. And when he had the ball, I made sure to do the same.

Just because the two of us had a... disagreement, doesn't mean we had to jeopardize the game.

The formation was 4-4-2, and the lack of players at the offense had Niall sprinting past the eighteen to get open for me to pass the ball. When I did, a Rover jogged up beside him seconds later and stole the ball away. Niall and I instantly fell back, hovering around the periphery of the defense in case we were needed. Once already, a quick Doncaster striker, like a blur in his black uniform, had tried to skirt around the outside of our defense and then cut in. He might have passed a beautiful cross to a fellow player within the goal box, but before he got the chance, Niall was there, swooping in and firing the ball away before the striker's quick feet could catch up and reclaim the play.

I've only played against the Doncaster Rovers one other time, and it was clear that the bad blood between Louis and Niall flowed through the whole team. Everyone was on edge and angry. It reminded me a lot of my team back home with North Carolina.

The game kept getting stopped by the whistle as the referees held up yellow cards left and right. But that was as far it would get, just yellow. No one dared to get red carded so close to the championship.

James passed me the ball and I didn't waste any time booking it across the field, dodging players as I went. Not even a moment later, an opposing player was beside me, his black shirt glistening in the shining sun. I didn't bother looking up to see who it was; it would only lose my concentration, and kept focus on the field in front of me and the checkered ball between my feet.

I continued forward, keeping the ball close and looking around to stay aware of my surroundings. But as much as I tried, the Rover wasn't budging and I was starting to lose control.

I had the play in my head perfectly. I would feint right, roll the ball, and then shoot around the guy while he was still caught off-guard. As the crowd would roar at the move, I would hold onto my burst of speed a few seconds longer, and then, with one long, sailing kick, sink the ball past Doncaster's keeper, who would be sprawled on the ground from a failed jump at blocking the shot.

But that didn't happen.

Before I could even fake right, the opposing player kicked out.

I couldn't hear or feel anything from then on, just the echoing of the sickening snap and the most unbearable pain that shot down my calf and to my ankle.

The next thing I knew, I collapsed to my knees, my forearms down against the turf and my head bowed in an unbearable pang of discomfort. The smell of mildew was strong but the roar of the crowd was minimal. There was too much blood rushing behind my ears to hear anything but my own shouts of agony.

Immediately, one of my teammates come over to see if I was okay, but the only thing I was able to get out was a rough cry.

I rolled onto my back and clutched my ankle, like putting pressure to it was going to ease all the pain away. The ache was like an icy wind choking the breath from my lungs, making a noose around my neck. It's savage, bitter blasts cut right to my bones and gripped my brain in its freezing claws.

The sun was high above, nearly blinding me. As much as I hated the gloomy weather of London, I never wanted an overcast sky more in my life. I felt like I was being mocked.

More teammates came over along with Medical Care and referees, but the only thing I had the thought to do was focus all my attention onto the agonizing burn. They were trying to talk to me, to get me to say something, but I simply couldn't do it.

"Lynn," someone said, but I only shook my head. "You have to tell us what's going on."

The pain took me not far away, but deep inside myself to some primitive place that knows how to cope. I've felt this pain once before, last year. The flashback to that North Carolina game came back to mind and a whole new wave of pain surged through me. My vision was blotched with violent colors that moved and merged without pattern or design. Faces morphed together and the stadium lights were blaring down on me like I was in a surgical room.

I shut my eyes tightly.

"Lynn," the voice said again. It was deep and calming, but did little to help. Then his hand was on my forehead, and it could have been my imagination, but I swore the throbbing subsided slightly.

Opening my eyes slowly, I looked up to see Niall staring down at me, worry across his face. Around him stood a few of my teammates, Coach, a referee, and a medic. But I wasn't looking at them; I was looking at the boy with blue eyes in front of me.

"Ni..."

His fingers ran along my hairline. "Can you tell me what hurts? Is it your ankle?"

I nodded. The second I moved, the pain shot through me again, and I curled into myself with a wince.

Then there was a rush of movement and I could distantly hear Coach and Jace talking to the referee, but Niall's hand stayed on my skin, reassuring me that he was still there.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew I was being strapped into a gurney and being wheeled off the turf. Coach was beside me, saying something that he would meet up with me the moment the game was finished, but I didn't catch anything else.

"Hey," the voice said again, though this time it sounded a million miles away through a tunnel. Then Niall was there again, his hand interlocking with mine. "It's going to be okay."

Taking a shaky breath, I nodded even if I didn't totally believe him. This happened before and I ended up being okay, but how many injuries did I have before it wasn't.

"Niall, I need you back on the field," Coach said on the other side of me.

Niall squeezed my hand, but I wouldn't let him go. I didn't know where I was going and I didn't want to go there alone.

"I'll come see you after the game, I promise," he smiled, removing his hand from mine. "Jamie will be there with you. You'll be okay."

Jamie?

I slowly turned my head and saw my redheaded friend standing beside Jace, smiling down at me. When did she get there?

Before I could ask, a shooting pain fired up once again, forcing me to close my eyes and groan in pain. And then as if the Gods were looking down at me and felt pity, black mist swirled at the edges of my mind, drawing me into sweet oblivion.