1 Game Over

A boys' locker room is a terrible place to die.

And yet.

Here we are.

As I'm kicked and punched and thrown onto the grimy, sweat-slicked floor, my brain goes into its usual hibernation mode. About three-fourths of my consciousness hides out in this cavern my brain built for me years ago. The other one-fourth, the part that stays awake, starts categorizing things.

Analyzing.

I don't know why I do that.

But I also don't know why I'm going to die before I reach my sixteenth birthday, or why Derrick can only follow through with his kicks when he's kicking me in the ribs, or why David Beckham decided to buy an American soccer team in Miami.

So, whatever, life's full of mysteries.

"Grab his ankles! Hold him still!" Will, senior, midfielder. "Tie his hands to the bench!"

Will's always been good at easy-to-follow, decisive directions. Playmaker through and through.

Dirt-caked nails claw at my ankles, and I kick out instinctively. I flail like an epileptic fish on a hook because they're about to break my cardinal rule, and I can't let them.

Protect the legs.

Always protect the legs.

My arms are pulled taut behind me, wrists tied with frayed jump ropes to the metal legs of the bench bolted to the floor.

But I manage to tuck my most precious limbs under me, so for now, I can remain calm.

From the shouts, it would seem my cleats broke someone's finger. I feel a thrill of savage glee, even as another kick lands on my battered ribs.

A sweaty hand grabs my jaw and yanks my head up. "Still smiling, Sunshine? Still proud of stealing the hard-earned spot of a senior who's been on this team since middle school?" Andre, senior, midfielder.

Captain.

When he spits in my face, a few of the others laugh and spit on me, too. I see those leadership qualities he's known for.

"You guys aren't hitting him hard enough. He's not even crying." Matthew, senior, defender.

I'm not sure what he's defending right now.

"I told you guys. Aidan's a total freak. He never cries, no matter what. We can do whatever we want to him." Derrick, junior, forward.

Cousin.

He's smiling. He always is, when he's doing what he loves: playing soccer, kissing the seniors' and coaches' asses, hurting me.

Hurting me is his favorite, though. Brings out his brightest smile. The one he's wearing now, as he demonstrates what he means by "whatever we want."

It takes everything I have not to scream when his pocketknife digs under my fingernail and rips it in half.

Instead, I smile, too.

My mom taught me that. "Always keep smiling, my Sunshine boy. Especially when all they want is to see you cry."

I don't think this is exactly what she had in mind when she gave me that advice.

But she was right.

I see it when the older players smirk in my direction every time my name isn't called for the Varsity roster. I see it when Derrick beats me and when Aunt Kathy watches. I see it when Uncle John shows them both what torture really is.

They want the tears. They want the pain. They want the fear.

I want to take this fear and shove it so far up their sadistic asses they shit sideways until they're seventy.

Since I don't have that ability, I stick to the biggest fuck you I can manage: smiling through the pain.

"That's too much, Derrick," a quiet voice shaking with disgust says. Zander, senior, forward.

Nice.

Too nice to be an aggressive forward, perhaps, which I suppose brought us to this moment.

Me, with a spot on the Varsity Roster. Him, benched for the first time in his four years of high school.

Me, bloodied and bruised on a cold concrete floor. Him, standing above me, avoiding my gaze. Not joining in. Not stopping it, either.

"You don't need to be here, Zan. This little shit stole your spot. He's just getting what's coming to him." Andre. Captain. With four punches, two kicks, he's broken one jaw, loosened two teeth, and ruptured something internal that was probably important.

"He did it on purpose. Sucking up to Coach on his own, in secret. Just so he could play when the scouts are coming." Matthew. Defender. Three punches, one slap, one knee to the groin, three kicks. Lots of bruising. Ruptured ear drum.

"You're a senior. You need those scouts to see you play. We're going to make sure that happens." Derrick. Sadist. Shared genepool.

I don't want to analyze what he's done.

"I—I don't…" Zander. Forward. He used to give me the leftovers from his lunches. He knew I was hungry, knew my uncle wouldn't pay for me to eat at school.

He makes eye contact for the first time since I'd been grabbed coming off the field.

His eyes say he's sorry.

His legs still walk him out the door.

That hurts worse than every hit and kick Zander refused to land. My breath hisses, and I look down, curling into myself.

Laughing, Matthew shoves my shoulder, and I slide to the left, off my tucked legs.

Derrick seizes the opportunity.

Before I can register what's happening, he dives for my revealed right calf and yanks my leg straight out in front of me.

Horror seizes me, forcibly wrenching me from my self-preservation cave.

Fully awake and present, a scream rips from my lungs. The sound twists as it echoes in the cavernous concrete-and-metal room, assaulting me from every side.

I try to fling myself away. My shoulder dislocates as I struggle, but it's still not enough.

Derrick raises my ankle like my leg is a too-long log ready for a campfire. He looks up, his eyes gleaming as he takes in my own bright blue gaze, wide-eyed in terror.

Then his spiked cleats come crashing down, and everything ends in a blaze of pain.