Bloodsport

Chapter 4

Louis Tomlinson was avoiding Harry. Harry only knew that, because all he could personally think about was Louis Tomlinson.

It had been a week since the incident in the locker room. At night, Harry's head swivelled with memories; Louis' scent, his warmth, his body, the crook of his shoulder, and his gorgeous fucking face. During the daytime, he was reminded of what a freaking idiot the guy was.

It was all very confusing.

Louis didn't talk to Harry. They had never talked, but now Louis all of sudden wasn't even taking his time to sneer at him in the hallways or to taunt him at footie training. It was kind of nice, in a way. As though a constant ringing in his ears had suddenly evaporated. However, Harry wasn't dumb enough not to realise that it meant something had changed. Something had changed for Louis, and that worried him. He didn't know what Louis was thinking, and Louis was historically an extremely unpredictable person. Any sudden shifts in his mindset could have considerable effects on Harry's life. It all reminded him how little he knew about Louis' thoughts on the whole thing. All Harry could do was guess, and he didn't like that. He had to at least know a share of what Louis was thinking.

As the week had progressed, it had become impossible to catch Louis alone, even for a moment to talk. Louis still played dictator in each of his footie practices, but when Harry was still fuming in the locker room, Louis was quiet and distant. But say Harry did manage to catch Louis on his own, he didn't know what to say. Sure, having sex together had been nice and all, and certainly the following escapade had been a wonderful, blissful experience, but what was there to say, really? There definitely was no relationship to discuss, and no feelings there. But they had to at least come to an agreement on how to deal with the incidents. More precisely, agree on not telling anyone about it.

The days kept snowballing, and Harry didn't find a proper minute to talk to Louis about any of it. All of a sudden Friday had approached, and along with it the premiere of football season. Harry's mother was still touring cities for her gallery, and Harry didn't really know what his father was up to that night. He didn't particularly want to go home and find out, so he ended up eating a box of salad he'd bought in the school cafeteria in his car between school and football. He was nervous, but he did feel excited for the first time in a long while. Louis' dictatorship had cast a shadow over football lately, but today he felt eager. Finally, after three long months, they would be playing a match. It was like finally getting to stretch his legs after a long car ride. Harry needed this.

Warm-up felt decent. His body was cooperating, and the rest of the boys seemed mentally prepared. Harry's mood got better the closer to kick-off they got, and by the time they were having their last rundown in the locker room, he was barely able to keep himself from jumping up and down with adrenaline. Louis was sitting on the bench, wide-legged with his hands interlocked between his knees. His eyes were closed, a little like he was praying. Harry knew better than to think that, though, because he'd seen Louis do it before each and every match they'd played together. A ritual of some sort, finding clear and honest focus.

Louis wore the captain's armband that match. Harry resented it, but figured it didn't matter in the end. In his own calculations, if they wore it every other match, by the time they reached the championship final Harry would be in charge. To get there, though, they still had to win.

The opposing team was from another school near Manchester, and they knocked the wind out of Harry's team immediately. It was as if some of the boys hadn't expected that another team was as good as them, and it showed. After thirty minutes Stan made an ugly foul, and Harry had to keep himself from shouting in anger. They had talked about this. If you needed to make a slide tackle you were already in the wrong position to start with. Louis was right there, up in the referee's face, maddened by the free-kick. Harry knew he was out of bounds, and he was lucky he wasn't receiving a warning the way he was mouthing off.