Christobel

Chapter 3

Bel

Bel hadn't played lacrosse in years, and his form showed it. The coach would make him run drills until well after practice to make up for his mistakes. The first week of practice had been hell. Bel left the field sweaty, dirty, and sore. He was the first one on and the first one off, training hard to catch up. His teammates had scowled when he'd first shown up, pushing him against the lockers in the locker room, calling him names and snickering whenever he fumbled.

There was one guy in particular, McClaren, who seemed to hate Bel more than the rest. It took Bel a while to place him, but he eventually remembered that he had been the same guy that had stared daggers when Bel had first arrived. From what Bel could gather, the guy had a serious chip on his shoulder and it had nothing to do with Bel. Although that didn't mean that he didn't go out of his way to make practice miserable.

The team seemed ready enough to follow their captain's lead, up until the coach finally placed Bel out in the field during a skirmish. As out of shape as he was, Bel was still a tank in defense. Every ounce of anger in him transformed into fierce, brute tackles. He was not afraid to check the oncoming offense with enough strength and ferocity to warrant a foul. Yet every move Bel pulled was completely calculated and legal within the game. He used his opponent's inertia against them, planting his feet solidly on the ground and becoming an immovable force. It made him a frighteningly remarkable athlete.

He left the field sweaty, dirty, with attackers as enemies, and a fire in his soul after every practice. His helmet hid the wild grin on his face as he walked back to the locker room.

For the most part, his teammates liked him enough after several practices. They weren't friends, but they did not cause him any more trouble than what he caused them. He was a valuable addition, they all knew it, even the coach that had fought so hard to keep him out.

The goalies appreciated him, some even punched his shoulder or tapped his back in friendly greetings or goodbyes. The midfielders were a toss up; it all depended on whether they were on his team during skirmishes and how well they communicated on the field.

As for the attackers, well, they followed the attitudes of their leading striker, McClaren, and despised him. They had soon learned that Bel would reply in kind to physical abuse. The coaches had to break up one of their nastier fights after Bel's first practice.

He'd left McClaren with a bloodied nose, another with a black eye, and several badly bruised. Bel walked away with nothing but a busted lip and a bruised shoulder. Bel had to hand it to the coach, he acted fairly and made all of them run thirty laps. He even stayed until the last player finished.

Much to Bel's surprise, the twins had waited for him to have dinner. They'd had a meager meal of Lunchables on the dorm roof, clinking their warm coke cans to his triumph. As he laid to rest that night, Bel allowed the warm feeling in his chest to spread, though he refused to name it.

Now, as he stood in the shower, a heavy shove against his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. McClaren wore an expression of false shock. His blue eyes glowered with contempt.

"Watch yourself, Rivera."

Bel turned away, rinsing the rest of the shampoo out of his slowly growing hair.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

He cut the hot stream of water, sparing McClaren a look that clearly said he wasn't worth his time. But McClaren could not handle being ignored. He waited until Bel's back was turned before he shoved him as hard as he could.

On the slick floor, Bel's feet stood no chance. He felt himself slide, saw the hard tile floor ready to break him. At the last possible second, Bel managed to rotate his body; the impact was absorbed evenly throughout his limbs. Bel fucking hated the Army, but it had taught him some useful shit.