A/N: I wanna take this moment at the teetering tail-end of a long year to thank all of you guys, whether you've been with me from the very beginning or just for a day. You've all been mad patient and supportive, and I can't even tell you how mega grateful I am! Problem Child is far from over, and I hope we manage to stick it out together to the end of the line.
(See you in 2015! Party in the new year, like a turtle do.)
Mikey only tried out for soccer in the first place because his brothers wanted him to try out for something, and the school guidance counselor said that out of all the sports, soccer was the cheapest and the least demanding for parents. That pretty much made the decision for him- he barely looked at anything else on the list.
For all that, though, it turned out to be awesome.
The end of the first week of preseason, some time in late April way before the new school year had even started and Mikey was still a lowly eighth grader, was when Coach issued jersey numbers. He and the team captain- a gruff junior called Hob, but only by friends- pulled Mikey aside to explain why they gave him the number nine.
"You've got a lot of potential, Mike. You read the field, you position yourself for easy passes, and you make sure your teammates always know where you're at in relation to the ball. Those are all the qualities we look for in a striker," Coach had told him that day, handing over the yellow and white jersey with a big proud "HAMATO 9" on the back. "You're a bit small for a target man, but you're fast. With a little spit and polish, you could be our new secret weapon. Sound good?"
"Wait, wait, wait!" Mikey had said with wide eyes, waving both hands even as he clutched the jersey. "So you're saying... I made the team? Really?"
Hob had rolled his eyes, with a shove at Mikey's back that sent him staggering toward the turf where the rest of his new team waited, and replied, "We'll take that as a yes, Goldilocks."
The other two freshmen that made the cut both flaked out by day seven, making Mikey officially the youngest, and the smallest, and the butt of every "varsity baby" joke in the book. But he made pals with Woody, a sophomore to his freshman, almost instantly- they had a secret handshake established by the end of the second day- and the teasing Mikey endured was good-natured. Absolutely nothing like the hazing horror stories Raph could tell from his days on the football team. And it was so much fun starting his first year of high school with a dozen friends on top of two brothers, even if none of them were in his grade.
Practices ran the whole length of the summer, and Mikey learned a lot. Initially, all he really knew about forwards was that they moved the most in the game, and he thought that sounded pretty good. He came to realize pretty quickly that a striker's job- pretty much their whole purpose on the field- was to score, and that no matter how tricky a play, or how hard he fought for the ball, none of it meant anything if didn't put points on the board.
Mikey felt the burn of that responsibility for the first time after their first loss of the season. It was only a practice match, but the weight of the two point defeat sat in his bones and it must have shown on his face, because his teammates took one look at him and laughed.
"Jeez, you look like you're gonna cry! Don't worry, Goldie. We lose as a team."
Maybe if they hadn't been so understanding, he would have chickened out and offered the position to the way more experienced wingback instead. But Woody was more than happy to work with him on ball control, and Hob actually grinned when Mikey begged on his knees- literally, in front of everyone- for some extra 1v1 drills after practice.
After awhile that spit and polish paid off- midway through the last game of his first season, Mikey was used to making goals. He could read the opposing GK, search for a tell, and sink the ball past a weak point in the defense and straight through to the net. He was used to the crowd screaming his jersey number, he was even used to the rising chant of "Hamato, Hamato," from the home bleachers.
And, yeah, just maybe that last play had been sort of epic. Mikey had a huge lead up the field, and the Panthers' defense broke formation- the GK was alone in his throne, and Mikey's shot was the clearest it'd ever be. A quick glance over his shoulder proved Mikey's teammates were keeping their marks, and the Panthers had no hope of repositioning.
It was a window of opportunity that didn't crop up often, and- alone as he was in enemy territory- Mikey was gonna go all in.
The gasp that rose up from the crowd was all the warning he got when the opposing sweeper practically swung out of thin air and executed a slide tackle through the wet grass that Mikey had to admit was pretty awesome- and just this side of legal contact- even as it sent him sprawling forward.
But Mikey was good at just-this-side-of-legal, too, and caught himself on his hands in the mud without thinking, scissoring his legs up and over his head quickly, and cartwheeling forward neatly instead of faceplanting into the dirt with only a few seconds lost.
The onlookers cheered, the sweeper on the ground looked gobsmacked, and Mikey seized the ball back and sprinted to regain his ground- defense was catching up, and he made his shot the second it felt right.
The ball cut neatly over the goal line with absolutely no spin, and hit the lower left corner of the net just as the halftime whistle blew. He pumped a fist in the seconds before the stands erupted- Yes!
And then the whole home crowd was on its feet and roaring, and even with a headache that felt like a jackhammer between his ears, Mikey could flash a peace sign and shoot a smile at the stands. His wrists felt a little sore- he hadn't done any flips like that since the last time he'd practiced in the Hamato dojo nearly three years ago- but he did his job and got the Vikings a lead, and the new number on the scoreboard was a thing of beauty.
Woody grabbed him by the shoulder, hauling him into a one-armed hug and leading him off the field because the ref was giving their team the fisheye for that last showy goal. Mikey was buried under his team in seconds, all of them whooping and cheering and shoving toward the sidelines as one loud, obtrusive mass of muddy limbs.
"You're practically dancin' out there, Gold!"
"That's our Striker Miker!"
"Championship in the bag!"
"Cleats," Hob reminded them as they passed, and Mikey nodded cheerfully, plopping down on the bench next to the captain and wrestling his first shoe off. Somewhere behind him the parents who volunteered for canteen started unloading a cooler, and Mikey had half an hour to get his springing pulse back under control.
"You should see your face, you're red as a cherry," Woody told Mikey with a smile a mile wide as he sat down, and Mikey laughed, rubbing a dirty hand through his hair. It flopped back into his face, and Hob gave him a disgruntled look.
"Do somethin' about that mop, Goldilocks, or I will."
"And lose my namesake?" Mikey put a hand over his heart, playing wounded. "If I do that, you'd have nothing to call me but my name. The horror!"
"Oh, I'd think of somethin'," Hob reassured him dryly, handing over the scraper when he was done with it. Mikey stuck his tongue out and got to work on his shoe, digging the mud out from around the studs so his traction wouldn't be all messed up when the game started again. "All that hair's gotta be annoying. I didn't take you for the pretty boy type."
"I'm naturally pretty, Hob. I don't need the hair. And it's really hot in the summer! I wanted to get a buzzcut like Raphie, but Leo was like 'no way!' sooo."
"Mikey's the baby," Woody said to Hob with a sideways grin, like it was the only explanation necessary, and their captain rolled his eyes so hard Mikey was worried he'd sprain something. "Hey, I think my mam would have a hair-tie on her or something. I'll check."
He was gone for a few minutes, and Mikey was working on his second cleat, when two familiar arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind.
Grinning, he tugged his shoe back on and twisted in Leo's arms, hugging him back fiercely.
"Hey, big bro! How's your first-ever soccer game?"
"Incredible. I can't even tell you. Raph and Donnie were still talking about that last goal you made when I came down here." Leo's voice was warm and fond and proud all at once, and all for him, and Mikey burrowed into his favorite spot under Leo's chin and relished in it. A moment later, his big brother said gently, "How about you? How's your fever?"
Hob gave him a sharp look Mikey could see out of his periph, but he opted to ignore it.
How the heck did Leo know?
Sure, Mikey might have woken up that morning feeling like roadkill, but he hadn't said anything! He was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't get to play in the big game- and even if it made him the worst kind of spoiled brat, Mikey would rather be miserable later than miss out.
But Leo had him figured out, and he wasn't dragging him home?
He pulled back enough to stare up at his brother in something like surprise or awe or both, and Leo gave him an amused look back.
"What, you thought I wouldn't notice?" Leonardo pushed a hand through Mikey's damp curls, and added, "Raph's saving our seats, and Don's running to the bodega around the corner for some Tylenol to keep you on your feet. I know you don't think so, but we want you to play as badly as you do. Just... you get sick when you get sick, kiddo. If I let you do this, I want you staying home with me for the next couple days."
Leo didn't start his new job until Wednesday so it wouldn't be inconvenient at all... and staying home with him, just him and Mikey, sounded nothing short of awesome. So when Leo prompted, "Deal?" Mikey nodded without missing a beat, fingers curling into the fabric of his brother's jacket to match the dumb grin probably curling across his face.
"I'm back, and I got the goods," Woody said suddenly, appearing out of nowhere by Leo's left shoulder with a cloth headband in hand. It was blue, with yellow ducks, and Mikey blinked at it from the safe circle of Leo's arms.
Hob nodded, unflappable as ever, and said, "Hey, big bro- mind spinning Goldie around for us?"
Mikey was promptly turned around by the shoulders, because Leo was obviously a traitor, and Hob pulled the headband down over Mikey's head and then up again, settling it behind his ears just past his hairline, so efficiently Mikey had to wonder if there was a little sister in Hob's life somewhere.
At that point all three of them stood back to gauge his reaction- and from the looks of it, studiously supress inordinate amounts of laughter until he gave them a cue.
"Well, I dunno what it looks like, but girls have the right idea!" Mikey declared, a little surprised at how comfortable it felt to have all those wet curls pulled out of his face.
Leonardo leaned over to get a better look at him. His mouth was twisted up into a pleased, sideways smile, and the blue of his eyes was ridiculously soft.
"I love it," he announced, and Mikey saw headbands in his future.
