“Stop hogging the ball!” I yelled at him, trying to futilely steal it.

“If it bothers you so much, get it away from me, then,” he teased before passing it to Mateo.

Between the thirty to forty-five minute mark, every player started running as fast as they could. No one wanted to be on the team that lost. The ball travelled from player to player faster than it would have normally. I was getting desperate. Sweaty as hell, thanks to the humidity and the sun that didn’t seem to care I’d put on sunscreen not that long ago, I started digging my shoulder into Sacha’s side to throw him off balance every time the ball got too close to him. The idea of losing my hair—because I sure as hell didn’t have the bone structure to pull off a shaved head—made the beast come out.

The ball came straight at us and I tripped him. Then I tripped him again and again.

And again.

As I ran with the ball at the tip of my left foot, I heard Sacha in the background calling out, “What the hell? That was a yellow card!”

“Suck it up, Sassy!” I hollered back at him.

And then, it really got out of control.

Even though we were laughing our asses off, I started elbowing him—somewhat gently—in the ribs, and I kicked him in the thigh another time. Not-so-innocent-Sacha pulled the end of my ponytail and would use his shoulder to push me away.

The last time I managed to trip him, he grabbed the back of my shirt to pull me down too. Unfortunately, his weight made me fall down hip first, bumping the shit out of my side as I landed next to him, still laughing. Sacha was smart enough to hop up and take off running to get the stray ball.

My shirt was soaked in sweat, my arms and neck ached with sun exposure, and I had dirt all over me. So, it wouldn't have been a big deal when Sacha dipped into our half-limping, lazy-running time by hip-checking me so hard I lost my balance and fell on the ground once more.

At the last minute, before the one-hour timer went off on Gordo’s phone, Carter scored a goal that I didn’t completely understand.

What I did understand was what happened next. Tied, and with everyone on the verge of dying because only three of us ran on a slightly regular basis, no one wanted to add more time to the clock. So the game went to penalty kicks.

Penalty kicks.

It was Eli that said, “One of you merch losers and Bryce should be goalies. I vote you do it, Flabs.”

I was sitting on the grass when I tipped my head back and scowled at him. “Excuse me?”

“You three are the only people that can risk getting hurt,” he said like that made total sense.

I guess it sort of did. Did I really want to leave the fate of my scalp to Carter’s goalkeeping skills? Not really.

“Does that work?” Julian asked.

I nodded, thinking of my bra-length hair. “Fine.” I glanced at Carter and widened my eyes. “I’ll do it.”

“Can I go first? We can alternate,” Bryce, the TCC lighting guy, asked without even putting up a fight.

I rubbed the back of my sunburnt neck and nodded. “Go for it.”

Eli went first and missed. Cold dread went down my spine, and I had to bury my head between my hands when I realized how screwed we were.

I got to my feet and said a prayer under my breath while I marched toward the net-less, lopsided goal.

“Don’t let me down, Flabby!” Eli yelled.

I shook my head at him as I walked backward, mouthing and pointing “This is your fault.” I was going to end up bald. I fucking knew it.

The first person to come up to do a penalty kick was Mason. He winked at me as he got into position. “I love you, Flabbers, but this ball is going in.”