Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Well, hello! What I gathered from your reviews: No one was fooled by the title and Edward is an ass. lol
Thanks to my lovely pre-readers Jaxy (Jax713) and Packy (_LittleLovely_) and my rock star beta Mel (mcc101180).
In case you don't know: In soccer, a yellow card is a warning from the ref, but if you get two in the same game, you automatically get a red card. The red card means you are expelled from the game without substitution, and as further sanction, you can't play the next game either. For serious offenses, the ref could give a straight red (without yellows first), which also means you're expelled from the game, but this time you miss the two following games.
Chapter 4. Quarterfinals.
I sit on the bench in front of my locker, still panting but somewhat calmed down — numb. Sweat is still dripping from my face and my hair as I bang my forehead repeatedly on the soccer ball I cradle in my hands.
I can't breathe through the cotton in my nostrils, and I also can't feel my right hand. I'm pretty sure I broke it this time, although I don't know if it was when I punched the post or the wall, when I pounded my fist against the turf, or when I banged it against my locker door.
My eyes peek up to glare at said locker door which is now mangled and spotted with blood.
I can't believe how this day turned out.
This morning I was feeling confident to face the Brits in the quarterfinal game, despite the fact I wasn't able to get much sleep. Even though I was exhausted and I would have had enough time to sleep, every time I closed my eyes, Miss Swan was clouding my mind.
Miss Swan and her judgmental smart mouth — Miss Swan and her perfect lips.
Miss Swan and her hateful stare — Miss Swan and her beautiful, bottomless, chocolate brown eyes.
Miss Swan, Miss Swan, Miss Swan…
I fucking hate Miss Swan.
Mostly, I was angry at myself for snapping that way at her in front of everyone — for letting her have that much power over me. I promised myself that the next time she had a mic in front of me, I would behave, or at least I was going to try my hardest to...
Once we arrived at the field and started to warm up, I managed to keep Miss Swan out of my head. What I couldn't stop thinking about was Seth and the fact that he wasn't playing — especially because I was fucking struggling to connect with Eric Yorkie, who was going to be coming on for Seth during the match. His passes were too long, or too short; either way, we just weren't communicating effectively.
It only got worse during the game.
I tried to carry my team on my shoulders — do everything by myself — but James Hunter, one of England's defender, was like a fucking tick stuck on my back. Merely two times I got through him, only to squander both chances. The first time, I kicked the ball directly at the keeper, making it easy for him to save. The second time, I put it harmlessly wide.
I was having no luck without Seth there.
I was frustrated. I was angry. I was tired. James was fucking fouling me left and right, but the blind ref wouldn't blow his whistle. The first half ended 0-0, and I marched angrily to the dressing room.
I stared at the floor as Waylon went on and on about our poor performance on the attack. Our defense, on the other hand, was tight, giving Emmett nothing to do for the forty-five minutes we had played.
England came out of halftime with their minds set to score, which meant we had to move back our lines and I had even less chances than before. James was fucking getting on my nerves — it seemed like "get Cullen angry" was England's strategy — and since the ref was apparently not going to call on anyone fouling me, James started hitting me harder.
When Eric finally put a nice cross through to me, I had James flanking me on my right side as I tried to outrun him. His only way to stop me, though, was with a deliberate elbow to my nose. I fell down, covering my face in pain, and when I looked at my hand, I saw red — literally. I couldn't feel it, since my face was numb, but I could taste the blood gushing into my mouth.
I jumped to my feet and slammed my hands on James' chest. "You fucking asshole!"
"Fuck off, Cullen!" James pushed me back, as the ref and some players ran to us. Jasper was holding me back as I stared at the ref's hand fishing in his pocket.
Red card his ass, c'mon!
I couldn't fucking believe it when his fingers pulled out a yellow card which he flashed to both me and James.
Are you fucking kidding me?
"Bleeding... out..." I think he said, pointing.
"Edward, calm down." Jasper pushed me away, trying to get me to walk off the field and get my bleeding under control so I could keep playing.
I couldn't see, couldn't hear, and couldn't feel past my anger. I wanted to stomp my cleats on James' face and kick his teeth down his throat. Maybe shoot the ref afterward. Clearly, the violent video games I usually played were not helping me channel my anger — they only gave me colorful ideas…
"Edward!" Jasper yelled in front of me, trying to get me to focus on him, although it was hard to hear him through the roar coming from my chest. I tried to center on his eyes, which were begging me to get my shit together.
I let him push me back and started walking to the side of the field where our team's medics were waiting. My eyes were on Waylon as he walked over to me, but when the medic started shoving cotton in my nose, my eyes shut closed in a wince.
"Fuck!" I breathed out through clenched teeth.
"Is it broken?" Waylon asked next to me.
"No," I answered before the medic could, pulling away from his hand and looking at Waylon.
"Either you calm down or I'll take you out, Edward."
"I can't," I hissed, my fists clenched at my sides.
He grabbed my chin, pulling my face up, and inspected my nose. "Forget he exists and focus on the game. You want to get even? Then score a goal. I can guarantee that will hurt him more."
Coach Clapp was also there, handing me a new shirt since mine was covered in blood. I changed shirts quickly and waited for the ref to let me back in.
The minutes ticked and it didn't get better. I missed two more chances, pounding my fist against the post over one, and punching the turf relentlessly over the other. I was exhausted — my little adventure out clubbing had taken its toll no matter how much I tried to deny it. I was frustrated and angry. I was trying my hardest but still was having the worst fucking game of my career.
I kept pushing though, ignoring the soreness of my muscles and my lack of breath. It was especially difficult to keep my breathing in check when I had blood-clotted cotton shoved up my nose. I couldn't give up on attack and started desperately looking for chances, moving out of my position.
Out of nowhere, and in a moment of luck, a corner kick transformed into a pretty messy situation inside the box. Eric headed the ball, which bounced on one of the defender's knees straight into the goal. We couldn't believe it, but somehow we scored.
There were only fifteen minutes on the clock, and we were up 1-0. I could have dropped back and helped out with the defense like Waylon wanted me to. Could have. Should have. But if I wanted to make up for all the misses during the game, I needed to score — I wanted to, desperately. Also, I really needed to get back at James.
Of course, we were both tired — he was getting sloppy and I was getting pissed off. The ref would have none of it, and he let James foul me hard about five times, until I couldn't possibly take it anymore, and then the ref finally blew the whistle when my elbow connected with James' nose.
When he showed a second yellow, followed by a red, only to me, my jaw hit the floor — figuratively. I pulled at my hair in despair as I turned to Waylon who was shaking his head, looking down. When my eyes met Jasper's, who had his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath, my stomach sunk. I was leaving my team with ten men to manage the Brits for at least ten more minutes.
Motherfucking ref!
I stifled a scream as I bit the neck of my shirt in frustration. I couldn't even look at James, who was still on the floor with blood gushing out of his nose, afraid I might just pounce on him. It was very tempting, and I was already close to losing it.
It felt as if time had frozen, and I was just standing there, my fingers gripping the neck of my shirt which was still trapped between my teeth. Jasper's hand shaking my shoulder brought me back to reality as the ref was signaling me to leave the field.
"It's okay," Jasper said, patting my back. "We've got this." He was panting. "We're almost there."
I didn't want or deserve his encouraging words, so I shrugged his hand off my shoulder and marched off the field with my head down. Coach Clapp handed me a sports drink bottle which I smashed on the wall.
I stayed in the tunnel, peeking at the game. England turned over to the attack, overwhelming our defense. As if that wasn't enough, the ref felt the need to add five minutes of injury time, which was when I pounded my fist on the wall.
When he whistled and signaled a penalty kick for England after a very doubtful foul with only one minute left on the clock, I thought my head was going to explode. I covered my eyes with my hands — I couldn't watch. If they scored, they would tie, and we would have to go to extra time... thirty more minutes, with one man down.
I peeked between my fingers, just as Emmett spit on his gloves and rubbed them together. He seemed collected — confident. I shut my eyes again in panic. I was having trouble breathing, and I had to use one hand on the wall for support. The stadium was silent for a second and then exploded in cheers. When I opened my eyes, I saw Emmett smiling, with the ball in his hands.
Oh thank fuck!
The relief that washed through me, for having gone through to semifinals, only lasted about a second, quickly being replaced by utter rage. I was still red-carded and now that meant I was going to miss the semifinal game.
That was when I went back to the dressing rooms, and as everyone celebrated, I destroyed my locker door and possibly broke my hand.
Jasper tried to talk to me but almost got punched in the face. Emmett came to me as well, but after congratulating him on his save, I not so kindly asked him to leave me the fuck alone. When Seth peeked his head behind the lockers, looking genuinely concerned, I wished I had the balls to use my broken hand and punch myself in my broken nose.
"Not now, kid." I had to dismiss him before he could get any closer. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but then turned around and left.
After spending more energy than I thought I had left, and running out of things to break, I sank on the bench where I've been for the past fifteen minutes, trying to get my breathing back in control — which is pretty fucking difficult considering I can't breathe through my nose.
I really wish I wouldn't have refused the medics' help. At least they would have taken this shit out of my nose already.
Fuck it…
I pull the two pieces of cotton from my nostrils and dry the remaining blood on my sleeve, moaning into my arm.
To try to avoid more bleeding, I lift my head, and wouldn't you guess who's right there on the TV screen transmitting live from outside the dressing rooms.
Fucking Miss Swan looking flawless.
I can't really make out what she is saying — the guys are still pretty loudly celebrating. But I can read the heading running under her image: "Edward Cullen almost ruins it for the US."
Against the painful protest of my right hand, my fingers clench around the ball I still have on my lap as a whole new wave of rage surges through me. In the next second, the ball is smashing the TV screen, and I am flying out the door.
T-minus two seconds before I completely lose it.
A/N: Oh boy… where do you think he's going?
Also, does this count as a cliffie? If it does, I'm sorry. Good news is you'll have chapter 5 on Thursday! yay?
Ronnie.