Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: I lied! You get a chappy before Tuesday! ;)
For those of you who don't know, the World Cup tournament format goes like this: Group stage (where only 16 teams go forward), round of 16 (8 teams go forward) also called the knockout stage, quarter-finals, semi-finals, and final.
The MoV squad: Jaxy (Jax713) plays centre-back, Packy (_LittleLovely_) midfield, and Mel (mcc101180) goalie. I'll let you guess which position I play ;)
Ready for more WorldCupWard?
Chapter 3. Fuck Little Miss Swan.
I feel like I just went to sleep when my alarm goes off. With a groan, I get up from bed and head to the bathroom, where I splash cold water and slap my face in an attempt to wake up.
When I try to get a hold of Seth, his cell phone goes straight to voicemail.
Shit...
I try calling his room, but there's no answer.
Fucking kid is going to oversleep.
I can't afford to go get him or I'll be late, so I ask the front desk to call his room every five minutes as I head for breakfast. We usually eat together, because our diets are monitored and chosen according to height, weight, and build.
I grab my cereal and sit with Emmett and Jasper, even though I plan to ignore them the whole time. I have already started mentally preparing for the training session. I can't think about last night. I can't worry about Seth. I need my complete focus and whatever energy left to be on the training; otherwise, I won't be able to get through it… not after only having two hours of sleep.
Jasper asks me about last night and about Seth, but my eyes remain on my cereal, as I go over what's coming.
The first three hours of the training session will consist of jogging, sprinting intervals, and drills — cardiovascular training. Then we'll stop for lunch and go over some strategies specific to the team we are up against — England. The last two hours of the training session, we'll have a practice game, and then I'll have a special extra hour of free kick training.
"Edward, where the fuck is Seth?" Jasper's hiss brings my attention back to the table. I sip the rest of my milk and shrug at him, lifting myself from the chair and heading outside.
I can't think about Seth.
I start stretching as I wait for the rest of the team. That's when I realize the throbbing in my swollen hand. I decide not to focus on it too much; I must have done some damage to Gustavo's jaw.
Fuck. I can't think about last night.
I empty my mind and continue to stretch, until everyone is outside — everyone except for Seth.
Shit.
Garrett Nomad, our fitness trainer, is a mean motherfucker. I am sure he's heard about last night's incident, because as soon as we start, he is riding my ass. I don't give him any reasons to complain though — I sail through jogging and finish first as usual.
When Seth shows up as we are starting drills, I use my shirt to dry the sweat from my face and try really hard not to notice the green pallor of his face. I continue my drills, as if I don't feel guilty when he gets yelled at by Garrett.
I refuse to acknowledge how bad I'm panting, how my legs are burning, or how my head is pounding. I finish drills with the top of my team and don't let myself drop on the ground until Garrett finally dismisses us all after cool down.
I lie on the turf, panting and sweating, waiting for my breathing to get back to normal. Emmett is sitting next to me, thankfully, in silence. For once, I am glad about Brazil's constant sun and heat; otherwise, I'd be tempted to fall asleep right here on the grass.
After hitting the showers, I sit in front of my locker and watch the water drip from my hair to the floor in a hypnotizing manner. My eyes begin to flutter closed until a loud smack on the bench next to me wakes me up.
"Fuck," I hiss, startled, and look up to find Waylon standing in front of me, pointing at the newspaper he just smacked on the bench. I don't even have to read it; I recognize hot brunette's ass and my trademark smirk in the picture.
I look at Waylon, his face red in anger. I am tempted to shrug at him, but I refrain.
"What is this shit, Edward?"
I look down and rub one hand against my bruised knuckles and let him go on and on about how much money bail was, how it's all over the news, how they're not going to take us seriously. In my head, I'm reviewing my free kick technique.
I don't feel the need to add anything to Waylon's rant, until he mentions Seth.
"It was my idea. I dragged Seth out with me." I peek up at Waylon as he glares at me.
"Well, aren't you really fucking sweet?"
I stare at the back of Waylon's head as he retreats. With a loud sigh, I get up from the bench and finish getting dressed. When I walk in the lunchroom, Seth is sitting with Emmett and Jasper. I consider briefly if I should walk to a different table but decide against it and just drop next to Seth, who hasn't touched his food.
Jasper eyes me judgingly, and I just start slicing my chicken. I stick a forkful of chicken in my mouth and chew at it, grinning smugly at Jasper, just to spite his moral ass.
"Hey, Edward, I'm sorry," Seth whispers next to me, as my stomach sinks and my smile falters. The kid is apologizing to me — I can't fucking believe it. "I couldn't wake up." His eyes are on his plate as he pushes his food around.
I shake my head without facing him and start reviewing the angle and force needed to get a ball over the wall and straight into the net.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I was right to suspect the hardest part of today's training session was going to be staying awake for the strategy planning. Benjamin Clapp, our assistant coach, plays videos of the English game style and their most dangerous players. It's incredibly boring. I've lived in England for four years now — I've played with most of those guys. I should be the one teaching English style football. My eyes threaten to close a couple times, but I clench my injured hand into a tight fist, willing the pain to keep me awake.
Once the strategy planning agony finishes, we go outside for a four on four practice game. Small games are my strong suit — as long as someone on my team passes me the ball, I am most likely to score. We win, all four times.
I'm running on fumes by the time I start shooting free kicks with Coach Clapp and Emmett, but I drive all thoughts of exhaustion out of my mind and only focus on angles, force, and distance.
I'm pretty fucking proud of myself and my performance during today's training session, even though I'm about ready to pass out. After we shower, Jasper's on my back about last night and Seth again.
Can't I just catch a fucking break?
I was planning on ignoring him the whole time, until he says the next words.
"Do you think Waylon is going to let you play tomorrow?"
I turn to look at him through a red haze. "Let me play? I'm the fucking star of this team. He's going to beg me to play."
"You're such an asshole." Jasper stands daringly in front of me. "You're going to ruin that kid, you know that, right? He looks up to you, Edward."
I roll my eyes at Jasper. I never claimed to be a fucking role model.
"Don't you remember four years ago, being as scared as Seth?" Jasper continues his rant. "This is a big fucking deal... biggest deal of our careers, not just yours. Maybe it's time you realize that this isn't just about you. You don't want to ruin this for everyone by being careless and just plain fucking stupid."
"Careless?" I snap back, inching closer to him. "If I remember correctly, I was better than any of you at practice today. All you eight-hours-of-sleep, goodie-two-shoes... two-hours-of-sleep me can take on any of you, anytime, anywhere."
"Now, can two-hours-of-sleep you beat eight-hours-of-sleep me on some FIFA13?" Emmett asks stepping between us, one hand on each of our shoulders, trying to lighten the mood while pushing us away from each other.
Jasper and I continue to glare at one another, neither of us backing down, or laughing at Emmett's joke for that matter.
Clapp comes in the dressing room then, breaking the tension. "Waylon wants you and Emmett at the press conference," he says to me.
I stare at Clapp in disbelief.
Waylon is trying to kill me.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
I sit on the uncomfortable chair and run a hand over my eyes, holding my head in the other one with an elbow propped on the table. I am absolutely drained and not at all in the mood for any press bullshit.
Emmett and Waylon flank my sides and the press conference begins. My shoulders slouch, and I sink on the chair, but when I recognize the head of mahogany hair sitting in the front row toward the right side of the room, I perk up and straighten my back.
Well, if it isn't little Miss Swan.
In one of those tight skirts, she has her legs crossed as she furiously takes notes at Waylon's declarations. He is announcing the lineup for tomorrow's game. At the mention of my name, and the omission of Seth's, her eyes turn to me. I hold her gaze until she shakes her head and looks down at her notepad, resuming her writing.
I stay mostly quiet, until Waylon is asked about the difference between the last World Cup, where we were sent home after losing to Ghana on the round of sixteen, and this one. He answers with some bullshit about our more rigorous preparation and the tightness of our team.
"Well, I wasn't playing last time," I can't help but add right after Waylon finishes. I had travelled to South Africa with our team for the last World Cup, but only to warm the bench.
My comment gets some laughs from the reporters, and when Miss Swan's eyes land on mine, I grin at her. Her reaction though is not at all what I expected. She raises one eyebrow in a penetrating stare. When she rolls her eyes at me, getting her attention back to her notes with a huff, my grin disappears.
What the fuck is her problem?
The press conference continues, and I lose count of how many times I've yawned into my shoulder, trying to stay awake for this damn thing. I start paying attention again when Miss Swan gets up from her chair and walks to the microphone.
"Isabella Swan, for ESPN." She stretches her neck so that her mouth can reach the microphone until someone comes and lowers it for her. I'm chuckling before she starts her question. "Coach Waylon, we are surprised to see Clearwater left out of the lineup for tomorrow's game against England. Wasn't Cullen at the controversial and embarrassing club raid last night as well? Yet, somehow he still gets to play."
And with that, my smile is gone.
Maybe I am slow — in my exhaustion — but she couldn't have possibly said what I think I just heard. I think she might have, though, as several people start murmuring around the room.
"Miss Swan," Waylon starts. "My choice on the lineup for tomorrow has only to do with today's training session and the players who I think are fit to play. Last night's incident, which is very much embarrassing as you so kindly pointed out, has not affected my decision." Waylon's tone is calm which fucking pisses me off.
"With all due respect, Coach, but these men represent our country — by allowing him to play, aren't you condoning his indiscipline?"
Before Waylon can answer her judgmental comment, I jump in.
"Actually, Miss Swan, it appears you have a problem with me. Why don't you direct your question at me?" I hiss but she remains quiet. "Have you seen me play? Were you at our training session today? Maybe you should hold your judgment until you do your homework and are well-informed on what you are talking about." I scan the rest of the room before adding, "next question," and sinking back on my chair with a huff.
I hear Emmett snort next to me as I glare at Miss Swan, who is gaping at me.
The fucking nerve she has! I worked my ass off on the pitch today.
When Waylon opens his mouth again, I turn to him in disbelief. "Miss Swan, what I think Edward was trying to say is that I have decided to focus on the matters of the pitch instead of the issues of misconduct. The players chosen for the lineup tomorrow are those who showed to be in the best physical and mental shape—"
I'm almost too tired not to snap at that... almost.
"No," I interrupt Waylon. "What I was trying to say was that it seems as though, when it comes to me, people are less interested in my performance and more concerned with meaningless tabloid bullshit."
People gasp around the room at my swearing.
"Dude..." Emmett whispers next to me, nudging me with his elbow.
Coach covers his microphone with his hand and turns to the press conference moderator. "Can someone cut off his mic?"
Oh, fuck this shit.
I shoot up from the chair and turn to leave, fucking raging.
Fuck Waylon, and fuck the press… but most of all, fuck little Miss Swan!
T-minus sixteen hours to the quarterfinals against England.
A/N: Uh-Oh… someone is pissed…
Let me know what you guys think and who was fooled by the title on this chapter… lol
Now, for serious, see you Tuesday!
Ronnie.
