06.

AXEL

Football tryouts are today. 

As I observe the faces in the locker room—a mix of boys from different classes set to make their mark in the school team—the mountain of confidence I had towards football on my first day shrinks down to a pebble. 

The sheer thought of having an embarrassing performance at a new school gnaws at me. What if I'm not as good as I think I'll be?  

I pick up a helmet lying on the bench and swing it from one hand to the other, feeling its solid weight in my grip. By physical standards, I stand a chance just as good as any boy out here. But for some reason, I can't quiet the anxiety simmering beneath my skin. 

  I rise from the bench and move across the locker room, my eyes drawn to the names etched into the metal tags on each locker. My fingers brush over them absentmindedly as I pass, voicing each one quietly. 

  I stop at the name on the final locker. Shane O’Connor. The name tastes like sour grapes on my tongue, and it sounds vaguely familiar. 

A deep voice echoes behind me. “You’d love your name on one of those, wouldn’t you?”

  I turn around and there's a dark-haired, broad-shouldered boy glaring straight at me. His eyes are pale, like smoke, and he stands an inch taller than me. It takes a second, but I recognize him as the same guy who stared me daggers on my first day in class. 

It's him. Shane. 

  But he’s not alone. Beside him are two other boys: one is tall and dark-skinned with a small goatee clinging to his jaws, his hair locked in braids. The second boy is a muscular blonde who's pretty much the same height as I am. He wears a scowl, and a jagged scar runs across the side of his face.  

  Shane steps forward, his gaze fixed on me. “Where’d you say you were from again, green eyes?”

  Tension stirs in my belly, but I shove it down. I’m not the scrawny kid in Ashbrae anymore. And if this jock thinks otherwise, he has something else coming. “I'm from south of ‘none of your damn business.’”

The dark-skinned boy smiles wickedly. “You’re a tough fucker, aren't you?” 

“Easy, Rakim.” Shane says to him, his eyes not leaving mine. “Don't scare him now.” 

Blood boils beneath my skin and I try to step around him. But Shane moves in front of me quickly, staring me down. He’s only slightly taller than me, but the way he stands, like he owns the damn locker room, it makes him feel way bigger. 

 His voice drops to a low growl. “Show me your real eyes.”

 The words send a cold shiver racing down my spine. 

  My eyes only turned green the night I became a werewolf. But no one knows that information, except me. And now this guy—this punk—is staring right through me, asking to see my “real” eyes. What the fuck is he onto? 

  I tighten my grip on the helmet in my hand, feeling the iron bars creak and bend as I contemplate slamming it into the face before me. I don't even mind swinging with the other two if I have to. 

My pulse pounds in my ears, anger swelling in my chest. “How about you get out of my way?” I inch forward until we're just breaths apart. “Or I make you.”

  Shane doesn’t move. He just watches me calmly, his eyes darting between mine like he’s reading something I can’t hide.

  Then he says it again, like he's genuinely seeking an answer and not being an asshole. “Show me your real eyes, Axel.”

Alarm bells go off in my head and the anger in my bones shift to wariness. There's something else at play here. I brace myself for a brawl, my breath falling to shallow rasps.  

 The doors to the locker room fling open that moment, and a burly, bearded man in a blue sports shirt and a face cap strides in. “Lads.” His voice booms across the room. 

  Every head in the locker room turns to meet him, but his gaze shifts to the small stand-off ensuing between myself and Shane's group. The man strides towards us, a whistle dangling from his hand. 

  “A little pre-tryout introduction going on here, eh?” He teases, approaching us. The two guys flanking Shane—Rakim and the blonde whose permanent expression seems to be a scowl—step back. 

The burly man places a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Come on, O’Connor. Give the new kid a breather, will ya?”

  Shane shoots me one last look then turns to face him. “My bad, Coach. Just sharing a few tips.” Without another word, he turns around and strolls out of the room, his two minions tossing glances over their shoulders as they accompany him. 

  Coach turns to me, shoving both hands in his pockets as he studies me from head to toe. “Yer one for tryouts aren't ya?” 

“Yes, sir—Coach.” I blurt out. “I'm Axel Grey.” 

“Just Grey will do, lad. Yer first name’s pointless.” He exhales, still holding my gaze. “Look, I know today’s a big day for ya. But remember, it’s just football, not war.”

  A small laugh bursts from his lips. “I mean, a bunch of young lads trying out for just two spots. It is a bit like war I suppose, eh?” He chuckles to himself. 

  His expression grows serious when I don't share the humor. “But like I said, it's just football. So calm your titties, get out there and give it yer best shot, alright?”

  “Yes, Coach,” I respond. 

  “Good lad,” he pats me on the shoulder. “And it's Coach Phillips to ya.” With that he turns and walks towards the next bench, bellowing instructions in his thick accent. 

  I shove thoughts of Shane to the back of my mind as I settle down on the bench closest to me. I'm strapping on a glove in readiness when the bathroom door behind me swings open. I glance over my shoulder just as a figure steps out, wrapped in a towel from the waist down.

  The sunlight filtering through the window throws long shadows over him, but as he walks closer, his features become clearer: Thick ginger hair, a firm jawline and a tanned skin. 

And that face. It’s one I've seen before. In a love-framed photo. 

  Ginger hair settles down on the bench across from me. “You’re one of the transfer students this year. Axel, right?” 

  I nod in reply, turning my attention back to my gloves.

  “I’m Theo,” he says, holding out a hand. “Captain of the team.” I shake it firmly and for the first time our eyes meet.

  Fully gloved, I start to stand when his voice stops me. “I saw you walk into school with Hayley the other day.” He leans forward, his hair trickling water droplets to the floor. “You two… close?”

 I hold his gaze. “She’s a friend.” 

  His brow lifts and he cocks his head to the side. “Just a friend, huh?”

  I stand fully. “She’s a very close friend,” I respond, deliberately emphasizing the words, not even sure why. Then I give him a small nod and make my way towards the exit.

  I’m one foot out of the door when he calls out to me. “Did you do this?”

  I whirl around to see him holding a helmet with mangled bars—the one I’d twisted in my grip. The look on his face is pure bewilderment. 

  “No, I didn't.” I fist my hand into a ball, trying to stop my fingers from twitching. A tell-tale sign that I'm lying. “Met it that way myself.” 

  He scans the bent metal like it's a puzzle, his brows narrowing suspiciously. Then he shrugs, tossing the helmet to a corner. “Good luck at tryouts,” he says, rising from the bench and heading for his locker.

  For a moment, my thoughts circle back to his photo in Hayley’s room. He's probably her boyfriend. A lump forms in my throat at the thought. It shouldn't matter to me whatever he is to her… 

And yet it does.

I draw in a long, slow breath, pulling my attention away from Hayley, and back to what's ahead: my first ever football tryout. 

“Rein yourself in, Ax,” I murmur repeatedly, like a personal mantra as I step out into the hallways. “You’ve got this.” 

Muttering the words under my breath offers a small sense of comfort. Until I step onto the field.