My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels 1)

It feels like euphoria.

Ecstasy.

I’ve never been this good before. Like, ever, and I’m not kidding.

I think it’s him.

His new, dark eyes are having an effect on me. They’re pouring all the adrenaline, all the fire into my veins, making me play the best game of my life.

I can feel his gaze tracking me around the field, watching me play for him.

It gives me such a high that when the whistle sounds at the thirty-minute mark, it takes me a few seconds to gather my bearings.

Suddenly, I feel three pairs of arms surrounding me and forcing me into a hug. It’s the girls, Poe, Wyn and Callie. Callie was with me on the team so when she squeals we won, I can’t believe it. Poe and Wyn squeal too, even though they were on the opposing team.

They tell me that I’m amazing and I think I’m going to cry because no one has ever said that I’m good at soccer.

No one has ever said that I’m good at anything actually.

“Salem.”

That’s his voice, loud and lashing, piercing through my happy bubble.

I actually draw back a few inches as soon as it hits me. The girls draw back too and our huddle breaks.

I spy his tall form at the edge of the field.

His muscled arms are folded, and his stance is wide. But instead of the deep admiration that I dared to imagine – because we won, didn’t we? – there’s a scowl on his features.

A dark scowl.

Before I can digest that, he dips his face and unfolds one arm. Then, he crooks a finger at me in a universal gesture of come here.

And it’s so condescending that I’m stunned.

The way he’s crooking his finger at me. Like he’s really a soccer superstar – which he is – and I’m really his overeager groupie he can just order around by simple gestures.

Okay so, I might as well be. A groupie, I mean.

But still.

He doesn’t know that.

But that’s not the end of it.

When I don’t move, he even arches his eyebrows at me, all arrogant and superior, before saying my name again in a voice that promises retribution. “Salem.”

And like the stupid, idiotic, lovestruck girl that I am, I move.

Because he called out my name.

He didn’t just call it out, I saw him call it out. I saw his tongue peek out at the ‘le’ of it, wedged between his teeth. I saw him hiss a little bit too, at ‘Sa.’

Which is nothing new because I see it all the time when people say my name.

But I’ve never seen it from him.

Just like I’ve never said his name out loud in public, he’s never said my name either. At least, in front of me.

So really, it’s his fault that he’s making me do this.

That he’s making me forget my indignation – righteous indignation – and walk across the field to get to him.

“Arrow,” I say when I reach him and flinch.

Damn it.

It just slipped out and at the worst time, no less. Almost the whole school is watching. I think I heard them gasp again.

But Arrow has no reaction to it whatsoever.

“How long have you been playing soccer?” he asks in a soft voice, studying my panting, sweaty form.

I blink up at him as I answer, “Since I was like, seven or eight.”

“So you know the game pretty well, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What position do you play again?”

“Wide midfielder.”

“And what does a wide midfielder do?”

He asks the question as if he’s asking a child and it makes me feel both embarrassed and angry.

But I can’t do anything about it, can I?

He’s my coach and I’ve already slipped up twice today.

I open my mouth to answer but I’m too late because he speaks again. This time loudly as if addressing the whole crowd but still keeping his blazing eyes on me.

“Actually, why don’t you tell us all what the job of a wide midfielder is.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Turn around,” he explains slowly and clearly, again as if to a child. “And in a very clear and loud voice, explain to the whole team what you think a wide midfielder does.”

I feel things happening inside my body then. Loud things, trembly things. All because he’s trying to humiliate me.

All because he’s standing so close to me while doing it that I can smell the musk of his skin.

Fisting my hands, I take a deep breath and purse my lips. Under his intense scrutiny, I turn around and say, “As a wide midfielder, my job is to cover the field at the center. That includes stealing the ball from the opposite team, passing it to the attackers and forwards of my team. Hopefully, so they’ll make goals.”

I don’t know how the air can be so silent with so many people present, but it is. No one talks or whispers or murmurs. Everyone is simply waiting for things to unfold.