A/N - Thanks to everyone for your wonderful reviews. I can't say how much your support means to me. And on the note of support, I want to thank S.L.K.B., my wonderful support team. You guys have all been incredible.

Now, there are a couple reviews I want to address:

Nysha, you'd be surprised how much your review ties into this new chapter. I laughed out loud when I read your comments. Sorry it didn't turn out the same way.

Anitgone, the issues you mentioned will be touched on soon. You should get some answers to your questions in the next chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4

In war, there is no prize for the runner-up -- General Omar Bradley

Ryan sighed heavily as he pulled his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror on the bathroom wall. Exhaustion relentlessly nagged at his brain and he seriously doubted his ability to be effective in the upcoming games that were sure to be the most strenuous competitions he'd ever been a part of. The mere thought made his entire body ache and his chest contract. He couldn't think of anything he would like to do more than sleep.

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and wiggled his fingers in a feeble attempt to knead the aching tightness out of his muscles. He was beginning to wish he'd listened to Kirsten when she'd insisted he stay home for the weekend and regain his strength. Strength - the concept felt foreign to him.

The bathroom door flew open with a whoosh, interrupting Ryan's piteous thoughts and causing his breath to catch audibly in his throat. Johnson ambled into the room, headed for the far wall before he caught sight of Ryan and halted in his tracks.

Hate washed over Johnson's face. He shook his head and took a step toward Ryan, heaving his already tall frame a couple more inches in preparation for another physical showdown with his teammate..

Ryan lowered his eyes, willing to concede to the bully if it meant he could escape imminent confrontation and avoid having to endure a fight he didn't have the energy to sustain. He would need what he had on the field.

"I told you to stay out of my face," Johnson snarled, clenching his fists tightly at his sides while closing in on Ryan.

"Look, man, I don't want to fight you," Ryan responded tiredly, trying his hardest to appear completely uninterested in pursuing a rivalry that, in his opinion, had already gone too far. "I'm leaving." He moved toward the door, but a hand was pressed hard into his chest prevented him from reaching his goal.

Ryan reflexively swatted at the unwelcome contact, grabbing Johnson by the wrist and physically removing his hand. Ryan's breathing became increasingly erratic as Johnson moved to the left to block Ryan's path to the door.

"I don't want to fight you," Ryan repeated, his face flushing with anger that overpowered reason.

Johnson leaned in, causing Ryan to take a step back, pressing his lower back flush against the sink.

"You have no respect," Johnson spat in a low, grumbling voice. "You and your boyfriend, Ward, are both disrespectful, little punks."

Ryan squinted in sheer confusion. Johnson's childish accusations were giving him a headache. "What's your problem, man? I just want to get out of here…."

Johnson pulled closer, and Ryan felt extremely vulnerable at being pinned.

"That is exactly what I'm talking about." Johnson's statement was followed by a quick, powerful shove to the chest that caught Ryan off-guard.

Johnson's sudden assault caused Ryan to stumble backward, forcing his feet to slide out from underneath him. He gasped as his right side connected harshly with the corner of the sink, his body then proceeding to fall hard onto the floor.

"You better watch your back, Atwood. I'm not done with you." Johnson stormed out of abandoning his original mission. The door swung appreciably as a result of the Bully's rushed exit.

Ryan waited for the door to settle back into place before rolling onto his side. He grabbed at his bruised ribs with his left hand and several lethargic seconds passed before he was able to regain his breath. He moaned in pain as he pulled himself to his feet by way of the sink and waited for the burning pain to recede to a dull throb. When it did, he attempted to straighten. Cringing, he slowly rolled his shoulder forward to stretch out the affected area.

The bathroom door swung open, and Ryan, anticipating the worst, spun apprehensively. Much to his relief, Luke strolled in, a concerned expression crossing his face as his eyes settled on his distressed friend.

"You okay, man? You've been in here for, like… ever."

Ryan grimaced while nodding. "Yeah."

Luke appeared unconvinced and significantly confused. "Really? You look… well, you look like shit," he stated honestly with an apologetic smile.

Ryan forced himself to return the smile that contradicted every one of his current physical and emotional feelings, while meeting Luke's eyes, "Thanks again, buddy."

Luke's smile faded. "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine," Ryan stated assuredly, walking toward the bathroom door, followed closely by his concerned companion. He didn't see the point of telling Luke about his latest adventure with Johnson. Instead, he tried to block out the entire encounter, along with the sharp pain that radiated through his ribs with every new step. The day just kept getting better.

Luke picked at the rim of his Styrofoam cup, rolling the piece of white foam into a tiny ball before letting it sift through his fingers and float to the ground beneath the grandstands. He repeated the monotonous behavior several times before finally crushing the remains of the cup between his hands.

He was bored. Plain and simple.

The initial frustration of being an idle observer for the weekend had eventually dissipated into a dim cloak of depression. He would be the first to admit that any further emotional reaction to his situation would be uncalled for, especially when compared to all that he'd managed to survive. So, he decided to simply ride the wave and be a silent supporter for Ryan, whom he considered to be a sort of representative of 'their side'.

He sighed in defeat when he thought about just how small their side was. Two, maybe three, counting Johnny, who seemed content on his own. Regardless, the Luke and Ryan combined barely equaled one when their handicaps were tallied. Even prior to their first 'competitive' game, they'd had a rough start to what was sure to be a long season.

He turned his head to his right, watching Johnny, who appeared to be intently studying the game being played on the field in front of him. His eyes darted back and forth as he followed the ball. He remained completely oblivious to Luke's sudden attention.

Luke tilted his head to his left. Ryan had barely said two words since he'd left the bathroom, and he wondered if his friend was sick again and not letting on. For almost an entire quarter of a game, Ryan had remained hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands as he stared aimlessly at his shoes.

Luke opened his mouth, intending to say something completely meaningless to break the bleak silence. He couldn't think of anything to say - no encouraging words or feigned optimism - that could possibly aid in making his friend feel any better.

Guilt over being the one who'd insisted Ryan attend the tournament picked at his conscience, increasing with every dispute that his friend had become embroiled in on his behalf.

While Luke endured the constant mockery during the previous week's practices, he'd told himself that it would be different once Ryan joined the team. Somehow, Luke had convinced himself that once he had back-up, the problem would cease to exist. Instead, the situation had taken a drastic turn for the worst, and now his back-up, his friend, carried the burden and suffered the consequences of Luke's problems.

He'd decided not to warn Ryan about Johnson's asshole tendencies because he'd been so sure things would be different and that Johnson would eventually get bored and lay off by the time they reached the tournament. Besides, Ryan had been so sick and out of it when Luke stopped by the Cohens' after the last practice, that Luke hadn't seen any reason unnecessarily weigh Ryan down with petty problems.

Johnson's constant berating had been easier to deal with when he'd played for Pacific - Harbor's cross-county rivals. Luke only had to endure the jerk's insults for a single game and then it was over and done with. Now that they were on the same team, there was no escape, and it appeared that Johnson had no intention of backing off.

So, Luke sat on the bleachers overlooking the first field, sandwiched between the only two teammates that weren't too proud to be associated with him, and stared at his miserable friend who had, once again, come to his defense.

Ryan must have sensed Luke's eyes on him, because he slowly turned his head to cynically eye his observer.

Luke tried a smile, to which Ryan didn't respond. Instead, he turned away and resumed staring blankly at his feet.

"You sure you're alright?" Luke asked quietly, trying not to be overheard by anyone - including Johnny.

Ryan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his head bobbing in a nod that could have easily gone unnoticed.

"Look, man, he's all talk. Seriously, I've never actually seen him hurt anyone. Besides, if he tries anything, he'll have to answer to me. And even with one leg… hell, even with one hand, I know I could take him."

Ryan opened his eyes and turned back toward Luke, squinting in obvious confusion. "What? I don't care about him." Ryan's voice trailed to a whisper.

"Okay." Luke shrugged, pulling back a little. He'd just assumed that Ryan's silence this afternoon was related to his showdown with Johnson. "You just look a little…."

"What?" Ryan voice was kept quiet but was clearly agitated by Luke's prying.

"You just look… tired. And mad." Luke added the last part with a bit of a smile that caused Ryan to shake his head.

"I'm fine." Ryan stated louder, the irritated tone dissipating to exhaustion as Luke continued to interrogate.

Defeated, Luke shrugged, "You don't have to play."

Ryan turned, squinting again, puzzled by Luke's latest statement. "Uh, last time I checked, you weren't exactly ready to go."

"McGregor's played in the middle before and I know that O'Donnell can take his spot on the right side," Johnny spoke up.

Luke and Ryan turned their heads, both startled by Johnny's unexpected input.

"What? I can hear you." He shrugged with a small smile.

"It's fine. I'll play." Ryan's voice took on a pleading tone, begging Luke to drop the matter altogether. "I didn't come here for nothing."

He stole a quick glance at his watch and grabbed Luke's crutches from the seat below. "We gotta go," he said quietly, changing the subject abruptly. "We've got to get ready," he casually motioned to Johnny, while handing the crutches to Luke.

Johnny nodded, bouncing up and leading the way down the steps toward the field.

Luke shrugged, laboriously making his way down the uneven steps of the bleachers under the watchful eye of his only friend, who followed closely behind.

Sandy strolled aimlessly across the wide strip of lawn that separated the parking lot from the playing fields, constantly scanning the landscape in front of him for any sign of Ryan or Luke. He figured if he could find one, the other was sure to be close by.

Before yesterday, he'd been unaware of how close Ryan and Luke had become over the past few months. He'd noticed that they'd worked through the hate for each other that arose from Ryan's arrival to Newport, but he had no idea that they'd become such good friends. He supposed that because Ryan and Seth's shared interests were limited, it was good for Ryan to have someone who shared his interest in sports.

Sandy had managed to cut out of a meeting at the Lighthouse early and driven entirely too fast down the coast, hoping he hadn't missed the beginning of the first game.

He'd enjoyed himself the day before. Even at dinner, where both Luke and Ryan has been clearly exhausted and all but mute, he'd enjoyed every second. He'd told Kirsten and Seth all about the games and recounted the excitement for them the minute he got home.

Seth had responded by telling Sandy to take a deep breath while Kirsten had looked genuinely concerned when she'd found out Ryan had been forced to play. Sandy was too energized and proud to let their less than enthusiastic reception bring him down. 'Maybe I'm just happy to escape Newport,' he thought to himself.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh scent of the morning and stopped to decide which field to scout out first. Just off to his left, he spotted Luke, hopping on one leg from the bright red bleachers, tailed closely by Ryan, which came as no surprise.

Sandy approached the two boys, who were joined by another kid that he recognized but couldn't name if his life depended on it.

"Hey!" Sandy called out cheerfully.

Ryan nodded and gave a small half-smile in return.

"Hey, Mr. Cohen," Luke greeted, seemingly in better spirits than he'd been the night before.

"Luke, how's the ankle?"

"Oh, not too bad, thanks," he smiled, blushing slightly.

"Sandy, this is Johnny Prusek," Ryan introduced his teammate.

The boy shook Sandy's hand with a firm grasp that contradicted his slight frame.

"Nice to meet you, Johnny."

Johnny nodded respectfully.

"Well," Ryan broke in, "we were just heading to the field for our first game."

"I'll walk you there."

Ryan shrugged as he and Sandy followed Luke and Johnny, who were already several steps ahead in spite of Luke's current handicap.

"You get some sleep last night?"

Ryan's eyes remained focused on the grass as they walked. He nodded and whispered something that sounded like a cross between a sigh and 'yeah'.

Sandy eyed him closely, noticing he looked drained and moved stiffly. His observation was interrupted by Ryan's quiet voice.

"Do you have any Tylenol or Advil… or something?"

"What's wrong?" Sandy's voice was flooded with concern, not allowing Ryan the chance to answer before he bombarded him with questions and advice. "Did you hurt yourself yesterday? Are you feeling sick again? I don't think you should play if you're not feeling well, Ryan. I should have sided with Kirsten…."

"Whoa, Sandy." Ryan held his hands up defensively, appearing amused by the parental outburst. "I'm fine… just stiff. You know… first game I've played in a while."

"Really? That's it?" Sandy pried deeper, skeptical of Ryan's apparent justification for requesting the pain relievers. "Because Kirsten will have my head if I bring you home sick again."

Ryan laughed lightly, "Yeah, I know."

"All right then, as long as you know." Sandy smiled in spite of his concern. "I think I've got something in the car. Which field are you playing on?"

Ryan pointed directly ahead.

"Okay." Sandy patted Ryan on the back before turning toward the parking lot. "I'll be right back."

"This is it. It's crunch time." The coach paced back and forth in front of the team as he gave his version of the traditional pep talk. The players listened as they all engaged in various states of preparation. Some stretched, some triple-knotted their shoelaces; one of the younger kids nervously pulled at blades of grass. "We all have to work together… help each other." His voice rose, emphasizing the phrases. No one responded.

"Okay!" He clapped, trying to inspire enthusiasm in his young, unenthused players. "Let's get warmed up."

The majority of the players rose with minimal exuberance. The coach's eyes settled on Atwood, who was painstakingly gathering his feet underneath him, his face reflecting a considerable level of discomfort. Recognizing the kid's quiet struggle, he subtly meandered over - careful not to draw attention from the others.

"Atwood."

Atwood had finished pulling himself upright and his eyes jolted around, mimicking a knee-jerk reaction.

"Yeah?" he whispered, occasionally dropping his eyes from the coach's, as he brushed his hands together.

"Are you okay?"

Atwood turned and glanced back and all around. Finally, he set his jaw and made eye contact followed by a a slight nod.

"Ryan!"

The coach turned toward the anxious voice and watched as a winded man briskly jogged toward them.

"Here," he panted, holding out his closed fist.

The kid quietly thanked the visitor and accepted the offering, which he immediately popped into his mouth and swallowed dry.

"Hi, there, Sandy Cohen." The man offered his hand.

"Frank Stewart." The coach smiled, a rare occurrence, and shook hands with the visitor.

"Nice to meet you." Sandy turned his attention back to Ryan. "Okay, I'm gonna see if I can snag a good seat. Good luck out there!"

The coach watched with amusement as Sandy jogged toward the bleachers. He wished some of the man's enthusiasm would rub off on the team.

The coach shook his head and turned back toward Ryan, who was double-knotting his laces in preparation for the warm-up, or to keep himself busy - the coach wasn't sure which.

"Anyway," the coach started, continuing to shake his head as he tried to restore his train of thought, "I don't want you out there if you're not one hundred percent. Tell me right now if you're not gonna be able to last out there."

Ryan didn't appear startled by the coach's blunt statement, an observation that bothered the coach, who'd always counted on 'shock value' with these kids. Atwood was different.

The kid's tired eyes calmly met the coach's.

"I'll last," he stated simply, convincingly confident for a teenager.

"Alright then." The coach sighed and nodded sharply. "Get out there."

If there was one thing he'd learned about Atwood in the short time that he'd known him, it was that the kid had pride. For reasons he couldn't quite identify, he was under the assumption that he was the kind of kid that would play on his deathbed because it was built into his character. The entire concept was strangely comforting. Finally, someone on his team seemed to care.

Three outs. Three people had given him the option of sitting it out. Three different people had tried to reason with him in their own way. One person's mindless threats had forced him to take the field.

It was ridiculous, and Ryan knew it. He also knew that admitting defeat so early in what was sure to be a very long summer season, would be like tattooing a giant bulls-eye on his back. If he could prove that he wasn't going to give in to Johnson's constant berating and that it had no effect on him, he stood a chance of being left alone. He might actually be considered part of the team. Johnson would be encouraged to continue the bullying if he thought that his words and actions had contributed to or caused Ryan to ride the bench.

Ryan was tired. His chest, ribs and head hurt; and he was pretty sure that his brain was beginning to hurt. He would rough it out because he wasn't about to give Johnson the satisfaction of thinking he'd won. That wasn't the 'Ryan Atwood' way. He owed it to himself, and to Luke, who'd already sealed his own fate the day before. Ryan getting through the tournament would be their ticket to acceptance.

"Three lines! Three lines! C'mon, guys. Move!" The coach yelled from the sidelines.

Ryan rolled his shoulders trying to loosen some of the tension that had a death grip on his body as he aimlessly kicked a stray ball from foot to foot. The familiar shrill sound of the coach's whistle pierced the air.

"Let's go!" The coach frantically waved his arms toward the net, encouraging his players to intensify the warm-up.

Ryan ditched the ball and followed the troops, making a conscious effort to conserve energy in spite of the coach's prodding. He joined the middle line, unfocused and oblivious to the insults being exchanged among some of his older, more amicable teammates.

All too soon, Ryan found himself at the front of the line. Much to his displeasure, Johnson appeared to his right, in his peripheral vision. 'Great,' he thought.

Before he could analyze the match-up, the whistle blew, releasing the three players onto the ball. Ryan had often relied on his speed on the field, but it had never seemed so crucial. Johnson wasn't as fast as Prusek, but he wasn't slow by any means. Despite Ryan's best efforts, he found himself only a couple of strides in the lead as he closed in on the stationary ball.

He swiftly kicked the ball to the outside, away from Johnson, then chased it down, preparing to take a shot from an almost impossible angle. He lifted his head as he was about to drill the ball, and spotted Johnson barreling down on him, closing the gap between them with incredible speed.

Ryan considered turning away and letting his mammoth teammate think he'd won the inconsequential competition, but thought better of forfeiting at the last second. The millisecond of hesitation gave Johnson the edge he needed, and he bowled over Ryan, laying a weak shot on net.

Anticipating the contact, Ryan managed to minimize the impact by turning away. Johnson clipped his teammate's left side and sent him spinning to the ground, his smaller body no match for Johnson's two-hundred-pound-plus mass.

Sharp whistles and frantic yelling followed. Ryan tried to block everything out, fighting his body's objections and trying to appear completely unaffected as he jumped to his feet. He jogged back to the pack on the other side of the field, tracking down the ball on the way and kicking it toward Johnson, who had no trouble stopping it with one foot, glaring spitefully at Ryan.

"Atwood, go get yourself patched up."

Confused, Ryan sought out the coach with his eyes, but the gruff man had already moved on, scribbling down notes on his clipboard as he headed up the sideline.

"Your elbow, man," Johnny whispered, preparing for his own turn in the drill, a race from which he would undoubtedly emerge victorious.

Ryan followed Johnny's gaze to his left arm, and was suddenly aware of the warm, sticky fluid trickling down his forearm toward his hand. Stinging pain that he'd been completely oblivious to, accompanied the realization.

Ryan jogged lightly toward the medical tent, hopeful they could do some miracle patchwork to stop the bleeding and enable him to start the game. At this point, there was no chance in hell he'd let Johnson win so easily.

"Have a seat," the medic ordered, catching sight of Ryan's bloody arm and retrieving gauze patches from his kit.

Ryan complied, trying not to flinch as the medic's cold, gloved hands stemmed the bleeding.

"Ryan! What the hell was that?"

Ryan turned to see Sandy walking sternly into the tent, his face flushed with anger.

"It's nothing. Really, I'm fine," Ryan said, once again, trying to shrug off Sandy's concerns.

"You could probably use a stitch, but I can tape it for now if you want to keep playing."

"Yeah, that's great. Thanks." Ryan avoided Sandy's eyes.

"He was trying to get you, Ryan. What the hell's that kid's problem?"

"Look, Sandy, we don't get along. It's no big deal. I can deal with it."

"Your own teammate caused you to split your elbow open. On purpose. I'm sorry but --"

"He didn't mean to hurt me. Really, it's fine. It was an accident. And this…." He motioned towards his newly bandaged elbow, rising to his feet, "looks a lot worse than it is."

Sandy grabbed Ryan's good arm before he could leave the tent, an action that caused Ryan to instinctively spin, his muscles tightening in response to the firm contact.

Sandy leaned in closer, glancing around to make sure nobody could overhear their conversation. "That was no accident, Ryan. He wanted to hurt you. I saw it… Luke saw it. Even your coach saw it. Didn't you hear him yelling at the kid?"

Ryan shook his head. In all his fury, he hadn't been aware of exactly what the coach was yelling after Johnson's tactless body check.

"He wasn't even headed for the ball. He was going straight for you. He's dangerous, Ryan."

"Sandy," Ryan pleaded with a small smile that showed how much he interpreted Sandy's concern as an overreaction, "…he's just competitive. I'll be fine."

"I'm not kidding. I don't want you out there. I don't want you to play."

"It's not that easy, Sandy." Ryan laughed in spite of the wave of worry that tightened his chest. The fears that he had tried to disregard and minimize, had been brought to the forefront of his mind when Sandy voiced his concern.

Sandy appeared to feed off of Ryan's apparent consideration, leaning in closer, his voice laced with desperation. "You listen to me. If that kid's trying to hurt you, I don't want you out there. It's not worth it, Ryan."

"Why, Sandy?" Ryan spat, frustrated and tired of having to justify his decisions. "Don't you get it? Either I get it over with now, or I deal with the same shit again next time and then the time after that. I just want to get it over with."

"I don't want you fighting him. You know damn well that that could be your one way ticket back to juvie."

"I'm not gonna fight him, Sandy."

"Then you're gonna get hurt."

"It's just a game. And he's my teammate…." Ryan's words trailed off as he pulled his arm from Sandy's loosened grip.

"Why are you doing this? You weren't even supposed to play this weekend. It doesn't make sense, Ryan."

"I've dealt with people like him before. As soon as he realizes I'm not going away, things will settle down." Ryan shook his head sadly. "This is just the way it has to be." He took a few hesitant steps backwards, away from Sandy, before turning and striding purposefully back toward the field.

"Be careful."

Ryan heard the defeated words coming from behind him. He nodded with a sigh. That was all he could do.