Chapter 19: I'm Already Over this Nemesis Business
Santi's glares are famous.
Rafe had said as much at dinner, and now that I'm seeing a Carlos Santiago glare in person, I get it.
His entire face darkens as his downturned eyes narrow, and the scowl pinches his brow, pulling in his thick eyebrows and wrinkling the bridge of his nose.
I can't even imagine how often he must be pissed off, if he *already* has anger wrinkles at 17.
"Screw you, Rafe," he spits. "This has nothing to do with you."
Rafe smirks, a lopsided tilt to his mouth and a glint shining in his dark eyes.
"Considering I'm the one who decides who to trust with putting the ball away when the game's on the line, maybe Aidan's finishing skills have everything to do with me," he retorts.
Eighteen pairs of eyes bore into me as the rest of my brand-new team (minus Beck, who has yet to arrive) tries to figure out who I am to have Rafe talking shit to Santi like this.
It's an unnerving introduction, to say the least.
Most of me reeeally wishes Rafe hadn't singled me out so aggressively.
A tiny part of me, however, can't help but think it's kind of nice to have a teammate who would trust me with a pass.
This quiet thought betrays me when I try to frown at Rafe and get him to shut the hell up; I can't help the little upturn at the corner of my mouth that ruins my serious expression.
His smirk deepens, and I give up with a sigh.
Unfortunately, Santi doesn't.
Ignoring Rafe's taunts, Santi instead crowds me.
As nearly six feet (1.82m) of angry striker gets all up in my face, my stomach clenches in alarm, and my breath catches in my throat, and honestly I am so over this.
Whyyy do so many people have it out for me lately?
Anger, (or more like raging annoyance), burns away the icy tendrils of fear trying to ensnare me. Part of me is still panicking, but my frustration is enough to keep it at bay and let me fake nonchalance.
My face goes blank, and I flatly stare, unimpressed, at the towering douchenozzle invading my personal space.
Like, seriously dude.
What did I ever do to you?
My lack of response seems to piss him off further.
In preparation for possible violence, my active brain retreats back to the cave it used to hide in when I was expecting pain, and my over-analytical mind regains control.
Carlos Santiago. Forward. Hot-headed asshat who doesn't like his supreme authority threatened.
Vulnerable to nutmegs and feints. Not much of a thinker, it would seem.
He says something intimidating-sounding in Spanish, which I cannot understand in the slightest because all the Spanish I know is from Dora the Explorer, and I must have missed the episode on Puerto Rican curse words.
I blink, twice, then break into a wide fuck-you smile.
"Sí," I confidently reply.
Santi falters then, dark scowl morphing into pure confusion as he pulls back a step.
Dimly, I hear Rafe laughing his ass off in the background, so I can pretty much guarantee whatever Santi growled at me, "Yes" was not the right response.
The striker's confusion morphs into irritation, and Santi starts spitting rapidfire questions at me. Clearly, he has no idea how he lost our one-on-one, so now he's assuming I must be some secret powerhouse Coach brought in.
At this point, I could lie.
Nobody knows my history, and I have a feeling Coach wouldn't rat me out.
However, I've noticed the most surefire way to really piss someone off is to tell them a truth they don't want to hear.
So I hit him with all the truth bombs I got.
"Which club were you playing for?"
I shrug. "I wasn't."
"Where did Coach find you, then? At a high school game? Some tryout?"
"In the park."
Santi's fists clench. "Stop messing with me, cabrón."
I tilt my head, feigning confusion. "But I'm not?"
Pretending my heart's not beating a thousand miles a minute as this confrontation lasts for-freaking-ever, I uncap my water bottle and take a giant swig. I grip the metal bottle extra tight to keep my hands from trembling and giving me away.
Rafe chimes in, then, helpful as always, "S'all true, Santi. We stumbled across the guy drilling in the park across from the hotel. It was love at first sight for Coach. Or, well, love at first feint."
Santi's brow furrows even deeper in clear skepticism, but when Rafe doesn't waver, he realizes it must be true.
"Hmph," the striker scoffs down at me, nose curled up on one side like he smells something rotten. "I don't know what Coach is playing at, but if you aren't even good enough to play club, no way you're cut out for this team."
"That's your takeaway?" Rafe challenges, hand on hip. "Then what does that say about you, that a kid with no formal training kicked your ass without even breaking a sweat?"
I choke on my water.
Damn, Rafe.
It's like the guy has a death wish, except it's a death wish on my behalf.
"He's the one stupid enough to go hard with self-training before practice even starts. He won't last a single practice without dying," Santi replies, sounding 100% sure.
The last remaining dregs of my bravado whoosh out of me, and my knees buckle.
I'm pretty sure he's speaking figuratively, like I'm going to give up because I'm too out of shape and out of my depth to keep up with their elite practice...
But seeing as how I literally died at the end of my last team practice, I'm not feeling super confident.
Something must give me away, because all of a sudden, Rafe bounds over and throws an arm across my shoulders. To everyone else, it must look like he's leaning on me, offering his own confidence that Carlos Santiago is wrong about me.
In reality, he's the only thing keeping me standing.
"Ten bucks says he makes it to the end of practice with gas to spare," Rafe bets.
"Make it twenty," another familiar voice adds. Beck's finally arrived, with three adults I assume are all coaches, and one excited Australian Shepherd assistant.
"Captain?" Santi looks aghast that Beck seems to be on Rafe's side in this.
"I wouldn't take that bet, Santi," Coach Wilcox warns calmly, perusing the sheet on his clipboard. "Aidan has even more stamina and energy than Scruff."
I wonder if I should be offended by the comparison.
Scruff McCruyff barks delightedly and frolics right over to say hello to Rafe and curiously sniff me, the mysterious new guy.
Seemingly satisfied, the dog gives my hand a comforting lick and looks up at me with a tongue-lolling doggy smile.
Adorable.
I decide I'm not offended at all.
And when Rafe cautiously gives me a little space, all without letting on that he's doing anything for me in the slightest, I realize the strength's returned to my legs and I can stand just fine on my own.
I think it's because it finally hits home that for the first time in years, I'm not actually standing alone at all.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Seshata
Seshata Omggg I'm so glad I finally had time to post this! Half-Empty and Gaiji, now I have time to read your awesome sports novels. I'm soooo behind! I've been punishing myself for not posting, so I refused to let myself read your stuff until I finished. I neeeed me some Jake and Jaya back in my life.
Sorry for the long delay everyone! I was conducting research! When I first had the idea for this novel, I planned on actually attending practices with the Seattle Sounders Youth teams and interviewing players and coaching staff. Unfortunately, the pandemic hit and the season was put on hold, so I never had the opportunity.
However! This last week, I've had the good fortune to talk to several players and coaches and get some of the nitty gritty details I'd been after. I still hope that once the pandemic is over and the Sounders resume practices, I'll be able to learn even more about how the development academy operates, and gain greater insight into various formations the teams utilize.
For now, I hope you enjoy this chapter, which marks a bit of a turning point in Aidan's mindset. Next up, we'll see just how Aidan fares in his first real practice in ages. :)
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