Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,47

had Bruno and Cooper marked as number 7 sprinted toward me, angling for our goal.

“You got this, Darius!” Dad hollered.

Stephen Kellner, Soccer Dad, was a force to be reckoned with.

Number 7 tried to fake me left, then right. I stayed with him, looking for an opening.

But then he kicked the ball right between my feet and darted past me while I spun around to give chase.

That is, I tried to spin around.

Instead, I slipped and fell onto the grass, face-first.

For a second it was like I had fallen onto oil instead of grass. My cleats couldn’t catch any traction. I finally got my feet under me again, but it was too late. Diego had been marking number 12, counting on me to deal with number 7, and couldn’t course-correct in time.

Number 7 struck.

The whistle blew.

Trojans goal.

* * *

It was our first loss.

All because I let number 7 get past me.

It felt like it should’ve been raining as we lined up to shake hands with the Trojans.

Maybe even a bit of thunder in the distance or something.

But the sun was out, and I squinted at it to keep myself from crying.

As we went down the line, number 7 gave me a fist bump. “Tricky,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Not tricky enough, though.

I let him get past me.

I wished Sohrab were around.

With Sohrab I was invincible.

As we trudged toward the lockers—some of the guys, like Jaden and Gabe, with their hands behind their heads in Surrender Cobra—Chip rested his hand on my shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Chip gave me a little squeeze.

“Don’t—”

But he didn’t finish, because Trent Bolger was whistling and waving at him from the stands, still dressed in his Chapel Hill High School varsity football jersey. He must’ve come straight from practice.

I couldn’t believe Trent Bolger, of all people, would drive across town after practice to watch Chip’s soccer game.

Chip patted me on the back and jogged over toward Trent.

I followed behind, a little slower, angled to meet Dad where he stood with Grandma and Oma.

“Good game, son,” Dad said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I wish you could’ve seen us win.”

“You were great out there. You played your hardest.”

Next to him, Oma said, “I bet you won’t fall for that trick again.”

“I guess not.”

“That number 7 was something,” Grandma said. “Is he already committed somewhere?”

“Oh. Um. I don’t know his name.”

“I’ll go ask the coach.” Grandma patted my arm as she passed me. “You’ll do better next time.”

Oma turned to Dad. “My knees are acting up. Meet you at the car?”

“Sure.”

Once my grandmothers were both out of earshot, Dad let out this low breath.

“They don’t mean it like that,” Dad said.

“Like what?”

“Like . . .” Dad swallowed. “I just don’t want you to think they’re disappointed in you.”

“Oh.”

I mean, I did think that.

How could I not?

Disappointed was the default setting for Oma and Grandma. Just like love was the default setting for Mamou and Babou.

My eyes started burning again. I looked up toward the sun so Dad wouldn’t notice.

Next to us, Trent said something that made Chip laugh like a donkey.

Cyprian Cusumano had a hilarious laugh.

I glanced their way at exactly the wrong time, because Trent caught my eye. He did that thing where you stick your chin out to acknowledge someone.

Trent Bolger was the kind of guy you see in movies, where there’s always one guy who’s kind of mean to everyone, but they put up with him because he’s good-looking or something. But Trent wasn’t even good-looking. His nostrils were too big for his nose, and he had a terrible haircut: an undercut with a little oval of longer hair on top, combed to the side for the most part but left to do whatever in the back.

It did nothing for his very aggressive forehead.

“Darius?”

“Hm?”

Dad chuckled. “Go be with your friends.”

“Okay.” I stepped in for one of those diagonal shoulder hugs, to try and keep my sweat and grass stains off him.

Dad kissed my forehead. “I’m so proud of you.” He held on to my neck and looked into my eyes.

And then he said, “I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

He let out this tiny sigh.

“See you at home?”

“Yeah.”

I headed for the lockers. Chip was still talking to Trent, but as I walked past, Trent said, “Right between the legs, huh? Guess you’re used to that.”

Chip gave Trent a little shove. “Hey, man.”

Trent shrugged. “Later, D-Cheese.”

I stared at them both for a second.

Chip looked down at his feet.

“Whatever.”

THE SPORTSBALL-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX

It was pretty much the quietest bus ride ever. Even the rumble of the engine seemed