Chapter 3: The Mexican
The guys in red referred to him as the Mexican, but Carlos Viernes was more than that. As of about five seconds ago he had become the Mexican that had scored on them. And that didn't sit well with them.
Carlos could care less though. He was here to play soccer. It took a special breed to play soccer now, an intense soccer obsessed breed. It was five in the morning.
Carlos loved soccer. In his opinion it was the only sport worth playing. He was good at it too, damn good at it. It was, in his opinion, only a matter of time before he made the big leagues. Until then however, he was stuck playing games at five in the morning against a bunch of assholes to prove that he was a real soccer player.
Carlos's foot snuck out and stole the ball away from one of the guys in red. He moved back up the field dodging easily around the other players. It was as if he had an innate ability to see which way they were going to move, little voices in his head telling him the opposition's moves.
Carlos had never been on a school team. His family didn't have the money for a uniform or other paraphernalia. Both his mother and father were illegal aliens, with all that that entailed. The 'Five AM' league as it was known, however, didn't require any sort of uniform; it was really just a bunch of people from local neighborhoods that got together to play soccer.
Most actual teams looked down on the people in the Five AM league, seeing them as people without any real drive or skill. They never played against each other. The guys in red had dominated the leagues for three years now. They were an active part of the Five AM league, and undefeated for three years.
Carlos kicked the ball, another goal. Now the guys in red were mad. The game had only just begun and they were down by two. Carlos couldn't help but do a little dance and flash a smile at the guys in red's captain's sister on the sidelines. With a little luck he'd be doing some scoring of another kind later.
It came in from the side, a ball kicked so fast he barely had time to get his head out of the way. On the sidelines, hidden by a set of bleachers, Carlos caught sight of his partner Mushroomon balling his hand into a fist. Carlos shot him a disapproving glance. He was going to win this on his terms, no matter what they threw, or rather kicked, at him.
Carlos sped down towards his end of the field after the ball that had nearly taken his head off. In a move he was sure he'd never be able to duplicate or truly explain he leapt over the red guys head and landed kicking the ball between his legs. Carlos followed the ball through a moment later and rolled using his head to steal the ball away from a second guy in red. He came out of his roll running, the ball at his feet. Carlos surged up the field dodging neatly around everyone who got in his way and damn near everyone tried to. He was at the goal almost before he knew he had the ball, the goalie was likewise behind the events. Carlos' shot entered the goal unopposed.
Carlos had a smug grin on his face as he jogged back to his side. He was just giving the girl a quick wave when he heard a voice ring through his head as loudly and clearly as if someone had yelled it right in his ear. "I'M GOING TO TAKE THAT BASTARD'S HEAD OFF!"
Carlos dropped, but even with the forewarning he was barely fast enough to get out of the way in time. He felt the ball push a number of hairs on his head out of place as it went by. Whoever had kicked it, the captain he guessed, might well have taken his head off had it connected. Carlos hit the ground and was already ready to leap back up and let Mushroomon do whatever he felt was necessary to kid.
Then everything went dark.