The whistle blew and John leaned forward, anxiety gripping his chest. He was starting left bench. As much nervousness he felt while playing, it was magnified when he was on the bench instead. It was one thing to be nervous while playing. Nervous while watching was even worse because there was absolutely nothing he could do to influence the outcome.
Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted a dark figure in a long dark coat sweeping towards the stands. Sherlock. Sherlock appeared to scan the field (hopefully looking for John?) before climbing the bleachers and pulling out a thick book to bury his face in. He might not be paying any attention, but Sherlock had shown up. John's heart fluttered slightly and his nerves increased.
John wanted to be on the field more than ever now. He wanted to be out there scoring goals and stopping plays by the other team and sending arching crosses to the players wide. Mostly he wanted to show off his skills, to impress Sherlock with his ball control and speed and accuracy. He was shifting nonstop on the bench, praying internally for his chance to go in and impress both his teammates and Sherlock.
A sharp whistle sliced through the air, pulling John out of his thoughts. On the field was one of his senior teammates, clutching his leg. Halfway down his shin, it took an unexpected twist. John cringed at the sight. A few athletic trainers rushed onto the field to cart away the boy on a stretcher, his face contorted in pain.
"Watson! Get your ass out there!" His coach loomed above him.
John jumped up right away and jogged out to the field, slightly stunned. It was happening. Now was his opportunity. To impress the team and Sherlock. He couldn't fuck up. He could hear his dad's voice shouting in his head. Lucas clapped him on the back as he got onto the field. "Ready, Pipsqueak?"
John gave him a slight shove and scanned the field. The scoreboard was still empty. He could score the first goal of the season. He had to. John glanced back at the bleachers and saw that Sherlock had put his book down. He was staring intently at John's figure. John shuddered slightly under the penetrating gaze.
And the game was on. John was sprinting and sliding and playing like a madman in an attempt to be successful. The adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream as he pulled the ball back or shielded the opponent or crossed to an open player. Eventually he was forcing the ball near the other team's goal quite often, just unable to get the final shot into the net. He needed the goal almost as much as one needed oxygen to breathe. John felt the rest of his life rested on the opportunity of scoring.
John made the mistake of seeing the stands out of the corner of his eye. He was so focused on the game, of dribbling down the field, of approaching the net, of slipping around defenders. And then, in his peripheral vision, he saw the tall figure watching him. John nearly tripped on his own feet and shot wide. "Fuck," he said, wanting to scream. He needed to focus on winning, not impressing his bloody teacher.
"What the fuck was that, man?" Lucas asked, jogging towards John. "I've seen you practice and you have a better shot than that."
"I know," John muttered, preparing for the goal kick.
"You can't choke, Pipsqueak," Lucas said before running off.
John had choked. He could feel the immense pressure of the game upon his chest. He couldn't let his team down. He couldn't let his school down. They were giving him scholarships so he could go here. If he fucked up, he would be sent back home. He couldn't afford that. He couldn't let his mistakes make their way back to the ears of his father. He had to score. And he couldn't embarrass himself in front of Sherlock. It was comforting, in a way, to have Sherlock there. To tell him that everything would be okay no matter how the game ended. But John wanted to celebrate with Sherlock after the game. He needed a win as an excuse to take him out.
The ball was sent back into play and Lucas recovered possession. John bolted down the field, weaving in and out of players, always keeping an open pathway between himself and the ball. He shouted out to his roommate. The ball sailed through the air, in front of the net, and John managed to connect his head to the flying object, changing its direction and sending it past the outstretched hands of the keeper with a whoosh.
It was the last thing John saw before his head collided with the goal post and knocked him unconscious.
Not so much Sherlock in this chapter, but I promise there will be much more of him in the next one! Don't forget to review!