No fouls are counted, no matter how many hits are exchanged. Cards? Forget about that. Fair play? No way in hell. In fact, the referee is egging the teams on and calling them names for not scoring.
To say it’s chaos is an understatement.
This should be labeled combat football instead of the regular type.
Still, we keep losing the ball to the more aggressive players of the other team. They’re also bulkier, which makes it unnerving to even look at them, let alone try to fight them for the ball.
At one of our aimless attacks, I stay back and tell Maksim to do the same. He raises his hands and shouts, “But we’re missing all the fun!”
“Trust me,” I mouth, not taking my eye off the ball. “I’ll be right-wing, and you take the left. Whoever has the ball, the other runs forward, got it?”
“Well, all right. This plan better be worth missing the action for.”
“It will be,” I say with confidence.
As expected, a player from the other team steals possession of the ball, and he comes running in our direction.
Naturally, everyone else follows him like a herd. Maksim takes the one with the ball by surprise and steals it.
“Lipovsky!” he shouts, but I’m already running toward the goal. When he passes the ball, I’m there to catch it.
The other team runs at a frightening speed toward me. I don’t wait to have the best shot and, instead, go in blind.
A couple of bodies slam into me, and I’m about to be knocked off my feet, but then I’m not.
The ones who attacked me are my teammates, and they’re holding me up, cheering at the top of their lungs.
I scored.
Holy shit. Iscored.
Maksim shakes me by the shoulders, then headlocks me. “I knew you’d fit right in, Aleksander.”
I smile for the first time since I said goodbye to Uncle Albert and Mike.
“You can call me Sasha,” I tell him.
“Call me Maks.” He grabs me by the shoulder and faces the others. “I accept sacrifices for bringing in a scorer for the team.”
They give him shit about that statement, and he just calls them names, then they’re all flipping each other off.
Some soldiers slap me on the back, others welcome me aboard, and even the members of the other team give me a thumbs-up.
Does this mean I broke the ice with them?
Do I…finally belong here?
My smile falters when my gaze clashes with an icy one. Sometimes, it’s like I’m staring at a piece of the Arctic Ocean.
Captain Kirill.
For the past week, he’s mostly ignored my existence. Viktor was the one who oversaw my individual training while he gave the orders from afar.
For a second, I think maybe he’s watching the game, but his arms are crossed, and his glare falls on me.
Frighteningly so.
My heart nearly beats out of my rib cage. I think there’s a problem with me. Otherwise, why would I feel like he’s peeling my skin apart and revealing each and every one of my secrets?