Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,8

we ended up friends.

Growing up, Chip had teased me almost as much as Trent did. And then somehow, after I got back from Iran, things changed. Chip started being nice to me. He said hi in the halls, and we hung out at practice, and we biked home together—Chip’s house was in the same direction as mine—and talked about soccer or homework or whatever.

One day after practice, when we both had American Lit essays to work on, Chip asked if I wanted to work on them together, and I had suggested Mindspace, and somehow, a tradition was born.

I kind of liked hanging out and doing homework with Chip.

I don’t know why, but I did.

That’s normal.

Right?

* * *

Chip and I got back to the locker room at six o’clock.

My stomach felt like it had a small neutron star in it.

He squeezed my shoulder. “You okay?”

I nodded and rubbed my hand against the back of my head.

I still wasn’t used to the bristly feeling back there. It felt good.

Relaxing, even.

“You look kind of green.”

“Just nerves, I guess.”

Chip grinned at me. “You’ll do great.”

“Thanks.”

I got changed into my kit—crimson and black for our home games—and sat on the bench to lace up my cleats.

Next to me, Gabe peeled off his sweater. I kept my eyes on my cleats, because Gabe was pretty good-looking, his stomach flat and brown with a little bit of hair right above his waistline, and it was kind of distracting.

Besides, I was dating Landon. So it was wrong to look at another guy. Wasn’t it?

“Is your boy coming to the game?”

My cheeks heated. “Landon? No, he’s got band rehearsal. Mom and Dad are, though. And my sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. She’s nine.”

“Cool.” Gabe sat next to me to pull his own cleats on. I stood up and stretched, then turned away for a second to make sure I was arranged okay in my compression shorts.

Chafing was no joke.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

HOT BEVERAGE POD EXTRACTION DEVICE

My old gym teacher, Coach Fortes, was the one who convinced me to try out for the soccer team, but over the summer his wife had gotten a job in Eastern Washington, so he followed her there.

Coach Bentley had been hired to replace him (and to teach History and Citizenship). She was a Black woman with warm, dark skin, a shaved head, and the kind of face that could go from glowing praise to nuclear rage in less than a second, especially if she thought you weren’t giving a hundred percent out on the field.

At her last school she led her teams to multiple Oregon State Championships, and now she was determined to make Chapel Hill High School Soccer a name to be feared. She had the determination of a Klingon warrior and the analytical prowess of a Vulcan scholar.

As I warmed up, kicking a ball back and forth with Chip, she kept shouting at us.

“Faster feet! Faster feet!”

I nodded and sped up our drill.

I was pretty sure I liked Coach Bentley.

Really.

But she could be a little intense too.

Across the field, the team from Crestwood High School, Chapel Hill’s district rival, warmed up in their white away kits trimmed with green and yellow.

I never really got the rivalry thing, which I suspected was because of our schools’ football teams, but their mascot was the Spartan, so I was genetically predisposed to dislike them.

Persians (even Fractional ones) and Spartans (even fake ones) are natural enemies. Whole epics have been written about it. Some racist movies too.

Coach Bentley blew her whistle. “All right, Chargers, circle up!”

Circling up is this thing Coach Bentley has us do before practices and games. We convene behind our goal and stand in a circle, arms crossed, holding hands with the people on either side of us. And we each go around in a circle, saying something nice a teammate did for us.

Coach Bentley brought it with her from her old school. She said it’s to promote team unity and fight the cult of toxic masculinity in sports.

I ended up between Chip and Gabe, across from Coach Bentley, who went first: “When we started off this season, you didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. But you welcomed me, and now we’re about to win our first game. I’m proud of you all.”

We went clockwise from there: Guys described favors someone did, notes shared, advice on footwork, even being a wingman for getting a date.

When it got to Chip, he said, “Ricky loaned me his charger when my tablet was about to die. Thanks, Ricky.” Ricky,