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"We need to talk," Wells says. It's just after fifth period on Thursday afternoon, and you really don't have time for this. All week long, Wells has been hounding you about this club nonsense, and all week long you've been ignoring him.
"I already told you, Wells," you say, slamming your locker shut as you turn to face him. "I'm not interested." You've got a lot on your plate already -- first and foremost, making it through tonight's game with your dignity intact.
Monday's game versus the Grounders went...worse than you'd hoped, but better than you'd expected. It was easy enough to get the team pumped, but that was coming off the heels of your victory Friday night. Now you're fresh off a definitive loss, which makes your task of motivating these guys even tougher. Morale's been on a downswing since day one, and unless you want to go down in history as the worst high school team on record, you need to do something about that.
"Look," Wells says, dropping his voice, "you won't have to do much. Hang some posters, show up to a couple of events. All the teams have to do community service anyway, and this way you don't have to organize anything."
If anything, that last bit's the only part that sounds tempting. Between trying to make this team presentable and picking up as many shifts at the grocery store as you can manage, and school, you don't exactly have a lot of extra time. Not to mention, you'd much rather spend that time with your sister, instead of organizing volunteer events. You turn back to Wells, frowning as you consider the offer.
The thing about Wells is, you need him. You know that you need him, and that the team needs him -- physically, he is another person that can run around and kick the ball and knock down the other team -- depending on the day, since it turns out he can really suck at that job when he puts his mind to it.
Therealreasonyou need him, though, is the access he provides. His dad's the mayor, and if anyone can get college scouts to show up at the games, it's Jaha. All you need the recruiters to do is notice you instead. Because like it or not, without a scholarship, you're gonna be picking up shifts at the grocery store for the rest of your life.
"Fine," you say, shouldering your backpack. "Just let me know what needs to be done, and I'll make the guys do it."
"Thanks," Wells says, and you think you can guess why he sounds so relieved.
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If you thought that signing up to plant trees all weekend was going to be the lowlight of your afternoon, well, then, you were wrong, because your day only gets worse after that.
You knew this game was going to be tough. You expected some roughhousing, for sure, and a least a handful of dirty moves. What you get is a bloodbath.
There are some bumps and bruises right from the get-go. It's nothing major -- a lot of your guys eat dirt and the ref doesn't blow his whistle as often as he probably should -- but you all keep on playing. What's more, your team seems to be holding its own, keeping the ball in your possession just as often as the Reapers.
Maybe thirty minutes into the game, your team's chasing the Reapers out of your half of the field. The next thing you know, one of the Reapers slides into Murphy from behind, catching him right in the ankle. You could swear the crack echoes through the stadium. Murphy hits the ground, hard, and he doesn't get back up.
This time, at least, the ref figures out how to work his whistle. It happened not far outside the penalty box, but it still takes you half a minute to take stock of the damage. Mostly it's because the rest of the team is useless, standing clumped together in a circle -- you have to shoulder your way through the crowd before you can even see what's going on. Wells is crouched down beside Murphy, who's spitting curses and clutching his leg.
"Somebody get the coach." Miller steps out of the circle at your quiet order, and follows your nod toward the bench. "And a medic," you add, over your shoulder, taking a step closer to Murphy.
"I said don't touch me," he's hissing at Wells, and struggling to get to his feet, even though his foot is twisted almost all the way backwards. You're no doctor, but in medical terms, he's screwed.
"You should stay still," Wells tells him, sounding all reasonable, with his hands hovering in midair, not actually touching Murphy at all, but looking determined to at least try and help, even though you know for a fact Wells can't stand the guy. Most people can't.
"Yeah, well, you should learn how to play defense," Murphy snipes back, trying to draw his leg closer, but all that happens is his face goes two shades whiter. "If you would just do your job I wouldn't have to come back here and do it for you."
"Murphy," you say, your tone sharp. "Shut up and stay down." He shoots you a murderous glare, but he stops squirming and shuts his mouth, and he keeps it that way until the coach and the medic jog out onto the field.
You don't have time to even wonder what's going to happen with Murphy -- by the time they drag him off the field the game is already starting again, and you have to hustle back to the goal box. The last ten minutes of the half are calmer than the first thirty-five, but only barely. Everybody stays on their feet, at least, even if Myles takes a ball to the face two minutes after subbing in for Murphy, and ends up with a busted lip. You'll take that as progress.
"This is insane," Finn says at halftime, handing Myles another towel and stating the obvious. "Maybe if we dial it back--"
"--What, and let them beat us?" you demand, and if the coach wasn't still off dealing with Murphy, he'd probably have a problem with your tone, but you aren't actually about to care. "What the hell is your problem, Finn?"
"My problem is people are getting hurt out there," Finn shoots back. "It's just a game, Bellamy. If we play it safer, maybe nobody else will."
To be honest, you stopped listening after it's just a game -- there are probably times when Finn knows what he's talking about. Like, statistically, it has to happen sometime. This is not one of them.
"If you have a problem with how we're playing, then maybe you should stay on the sidelines." You take a step into Finn's space, passing Myles, who's clutching a bloody towel to his mouth and gaping at you. "Somebody needs to keep Myles company on the bench."
"I can still play," Myles cuts in.
"Stop talking," you tell him, and he withers, but Finn maintains eye contact. "So what do you say, Finn? Do we have a problem or not?"
Finn raises his hands in surrender. "I guess not," he says, taking a step back. Miller coughs, awkwardly, and it's enough to clue you in that Myles isn't the only gawker -- the entire time has gone silent, watching your exchange with Finn. Well, since you've already got their attention--
"--What about the rest of you?" you ask, raising your voice, even though it's a tiny locker room and they're crowded in close already, like a bunch of rubberneckers. "Last time I checked that scoreboard still said 0-0. We deserve to win this game. Are we gonna sit back and take a beating, or are we going to put up a fight?"
The locker room erupts into cheers, and you can feel Finn watching you.
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Obviously he's not the only one concerned about the way this game is shaping up, because your sister's hanging around outside the locker room when you file back out.
"Hey," she says, catching your arm and tugging you out of the line. Her lips are pressed together and she's scanning you, which is ridiculous -- nobody put a hand on your first half, and you plan on keeping it that way. "What's going on out there?"
"It's nothing," you tell her, and she raises an eyebrow. "This is just what it's like," you add, even though you know she's been to enough soccer games in her life, and sat through enough beside you on the couch, pretending to be focused on her phone but actually watching with you, usually cheering for the other team just to tick you off. "Don't worry about it."
Octavia rolls her eyes and says, "Just be careful out there, okay?"
You get it, you know that she's worried, but that doesn't actually mean you're going to heed her warning. You have a game to win. "Fine," you huff, just before trotting back out onto the field.
It's a whopping ten minutes before you realize that maybe you should have listened to your sister after all.
If the Reapers were borderline violent the first half, this time they're downright brutal. The ref's blown his whistle a dozen time in half as many minutes. The other team doesn't seem to mind the fouls, or the yellow cards -- every hit is dirty and comes out of nowhere. You're starting to wonder if the Reapers are even here to play soccer, or if they're just here to take out as many players as possible. If something doesn't change soon, Murphy's probably broken ankle will be the worst of your problems.
Two minutes later Sterling goes down after a late tackle -- he pops back up a few seconds later, but even from all the way back here you can tell that he's dazed. You aren't sure if he hit his head when he went down or if he got kicked, and you really don't have time to worry about it. After a game played mostly in the midfield, one of the Reapers breaks away with the ball and heads in your direction, with intent.
He's fast, is the thing, like, you haven't seen anyone move down the field like this, probably ever. Wells and Atom are on his tail, and Finn's jogging in to help, but they're not going to make it in time -- it's just you, and this guy, and the ball.
You come charging out of the box toward him, because he's keeping the ball until the very last second. He's not about to back down and that means that you can't, either.
You're not actually sure how it happens. He takes the shot, and you launch yourself out of the goal box, wrapping your whole self around the ball. The Reaper doesn't lose his momentum, he just keeps on coming, straight toward you, even after the ball is safely in your grasp. You get a spectacular view of his cleat coming in towards your face, and then--
--and then you blink your eyes open. You're lying in the grass, on your back, looking up at several hazy faces. Your sister is on your side -- she's got one hand wrapped around your arm, her nails biting into your skin, and the other on your chest -- and there's someone else beside her.
"He's awake," Jasper says, and -- wait. Jasper?
You blink again, and apparently you're not hallucinating, because the kid you purposefully pushed off a balcony but accidentally put into a coma is crouched beside your sister, looking maybe vaguely worried on your behalf. You understand, logically, that he must have come here with Octavia, but you aren't sure what he's doing here, with you-- wherever that happens to be.
Here happens to be the sidelines. You turn your head to the side -- pain blooms behind your eyelids, enough that you get to wondering just how badly you're messed up -- but even worse than that, you catch sight of the field, where the teams are already back to playing.
"Who's in goal?" you ask, struggling to sit up, but Octavia has obviously developed superhuman strength, because she presses you back down and you can't really fight her.
"Miller," she tells you, and okay. You can live with that. Miller's the least likely to screw up in goal, after you. "Now oh my god, Bellamy, stop moving."
"I'm fine," you tell her. That is a lie. Your head is throbbing and you're dizzy just laying here.
"You have a concussion," another voice says, and you turn your head again. You must be pretty bad off after all, because it has taken you an awfully long time to realize that Clarke Griffin is crouched on your other side.
Then again, maybe you are hallucinating. You figure Jasper would follow your sister just about anywhere. You didn't think Clarke was willing to get within ten feet of you.
"I'm fine," you repeat, more adamant, and also more nauseous. "The medic's not even here."
"That's because he's calling an ambulance," Jasper supplies, and that gets you sitting, because no. No.
"NO," you say, and it's too bad that all of the people that actually listen to you are on the field. "I'm fine."
"You were unconscious for three minutes," Clarke tells you, clinically. You're not actually sure where she gets off acting like she knows what she's talking about, on account of you're pretty sure she's in high school, just the same as you.
"You're not a doctor," you tell her, going for derisive and coming off kind of petulant, actually. "Why I am even listening to you?"
"Turns out I know a thing or two about brain injuries," she responds cooly, and if you were thinking clearer you'd have a better retort for that, but Jasper's still crouched on your other side, and there's blood trickling down the side of your face, and if you get to talking about this now, feeling as fuzzy as you do, you might just end up admitting kind of feel really guilty about everything.
"I'm going back out there," you say instead, and you fumble your way back up to your feet.
"Bell," Octavia's hissing, still clutching at your arm, and you're going to pretend that she's probably not holding you up, for your dignity's sake. "Can't you listen, just for once?"
"No." Clarke's standing between you and the field. You'd step around her, except you're almost willing to admit that you're swaying on your feet. "Get out of my way."
"You need to go to a hospital," she says, arms crossed over her chest, and you can't even claim that she's arguing, she's been infuriatingly matter-of-fact.
You gesture at the field, and nearly whack Jasper in the face. "They need me out there."
"They'll be fine without you," Clarke says, and then she goes and does it. "It's just a game."
You are so sick of people saying that. It's the only excuse you can come up with for what you say next, and it's a shallow one at that.
"You don't get it, do you?" You ask her, and you should stop, now, you shouldn't say another word but now that you've started there's no turning back. "I've got one shot -- one shot -- to make it out of this town, and that's convincing some school -- literally any school -- that I'm worth having of their team. And that's never gonna happen if the college scouts won't even waste their time showing up at our games."
Octavia's let go of your arm. Distantly you can hear the game in the background, but the sound's gone all distorted. Clarke's staring right into your eyes, her whole body still, and she isn't saying a word.
The world around you is sort of swimming, but you continue. "So, yeah, it's not just a game, it kind of does matter that this team doesn't suck, because I'm not spending my whole life in this place. I can't." You take a step forward, and Clarke holds her ground. "But you -- well, between mommy's paycheck and daddy's life insurance, you can go wherever you want. How's it feel, Clarke? What's it like to have the world at your fingertips?"
You breathe in deep, even dizzier after your outburst. Clarke's eyes are steely and her lips are pressed tight and you know you've gone too far -- that was a dick move, bringing her dead dad into all of this, you know it was, but you can't take it back now. You thought it might make you feel better, getting all that off your chest, after all these months of Clarke hating you for something you didn't even mean to happen, but instead you feel -- you feel this hollow pit in your stomach, you feel like you stepped on a landmine, and now you're just waiting.
You're expecting an explosion, an outburst to rival your own, but Clarke's voice is cool and calm as she says, "Jasper, we're leaving." And then, just like that, she turns on her heel and walks away, with Jasper at her heels.
You should call out to her, you should take it back, you should apologize. Instead, you do none of those things, you just stand swaying on the sidelines.
"You sure told her," Octavia says dryly. You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. Too bad you don't even get to come up with a scathing retort, because that's when you black out. Again.
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You wake up in the Emergency Room. Your mom's there, and Octavia. One looks worried and the other looks pissed.
The doctor's don't try and keep you overnight, which is a good plan in your book. You're eighteen and you could have walked out of there whenever you wanted, except your car is back at the school and you still can't quite see straight.
You've got an official diagnosis of a concussion, a list of symptoms to watch out for, and half your team loitering in the waiting room. You send them on to the Waffle House to celebrate without you.
"Murphy's out for the rest of the season," Miller tells you when you notice the absence. "He won't need surgery, but it'll take a while for that ankle to heal." He shrugs, adding, "At least his last game was a good one. Diggs got his teeth knocked out, but he put the ball in the net. The Reapers never got close to the goal again, once you got hit." You watch as the rest of the team files out of the lobby and into the parking lot. "The guys really rallied after you went down."
"I'll keep that in mind," you deadpan. You're not entirely sure that ending up in the hospital is worth it for the win, but who knows. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.
Miller claps you on the shoulder and follows the last of the team out of the door. You let your mom and sister shepherd you out of the emergency room and into the car. The ride home is silent, leaving you to try and piece together your memories of the Rocketeer's second win this season.
Turns out it's something of a hollow victory, for you, anyway. The easy answer is you missed all the action, so it really doesn't belong to you. The honest answer is a little pricklier, and it looks a lot like the flash of hurt in Clarke's eyes just before she turned and walked away.
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