I was mad. I was really mad. I went out to the field, slipping into the locker room to grab a stick and a ball. I raced out to the field. School had just e fed and the boys didn't have practice today because here were too many people that were busy. Huffing, I threw the ball down. I stared at the small, white thing in the ground and let my eyes water for a second. Then I wiped them dry and scooped up the ball.

Instead of aiming at the net, I aimed to the side at a tree. There was a medium sized hope there were I usually threw it. The net was easy. Too easy. It looked like a bird had nested there, maybe...

Taking a deep breath in and then taking a second to aim, I let my breath out, closed my eyes, the opened them as I shot.

Hole in one.

Cause golf so fuck everyone that doesn't like that reference.

I rolled my shoulders, ran to get the ball, and then aimed again. I did this again and again, running back and forth, aiming, and getting it in every time. The tiredness seemed to calm me down. For now. I was sweaty so I took my shirt off, leaving me in a tank top. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand.

Realizing this wasn't working, I put the stick between my legs for a second to tie my hair up. Better. Now sweat was falling down into my eyes but my hair was out of the way so I was fine.

Shoot. Retrieve. Aim. Shoot. Retrieve. Aim. Shoot. Retrieve. Aim. Shoot.

Again and again and again, never relenting as I had to double over for a second then stand up, dealing with a cramp then catching my breath. After it went away, I continued.

"You're good. But anyone with minimum skill can shoot a ball into a hole. I can do that with a smaller hole when I'm drunk." My eyes closed as I heard the familiar voice sneering over my shoulder. "What you need is competition. Come to the goal. See if you can get it in with me blocking."

"Jackson I don't have time for your shut right now," I growled. "And last time I checked, when you're angry and drunk, you can't get shit in any fucking hole. I'd know. Lydia Martin may have been your public play thing but I was for times Lydia was busy or some stupid shit between you guys was happening. So if you could leave, that'd be much appreciated."

A chuckle. "Wow, Y/n, someone's had a rough day. Why're you biting my head off, babe, I didn't do anything to you..."

"Don't call me that, Jackson. We're over. I ended it a long time ago and now you've ended it with Lydia. Again. Don't play me like a fucking fool. I was, but not anymore."

"It's just lacrosse, okay? Just one game, you and me. Screw being goalie. Just one on one. I've never seen you play before. And you are pretty good..."

I looked over, surprised, as his voice sounded soft and genuine. For once, he wasn't cocky or rude. His eyes looked at me, wide and vulnerable.

I sighed. "One game?" I asked.

He nodded. "One."

I got ready. "Ready to lose, Whitmore?"

"Ha! Not in a million years, Y/l/n! Keep dreaming."

And then it began. I scooped it up and began running. He tackled me. I rolled as I fell, having him fall on the hard ground and then scrambled to my feet. I began running to the goal again, throwing the ball into it. I turned around, putting my hip out and resting a hand on top, smirking triumphantly.

"What was that again?" I asked him. He looked up at me from the ground, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

"What the hell was that?" He asked, unbelieving.

I laughed. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Whitmore. There's a reason I left you. Have a nice day... Jackson." I bent down and scooped up the ball in one hand and en my shirt in the other, making my way to the locker room. I put up the ball and stick and was about to put my shirt back on when I felt a hand on my arm.

I turned to see Jackson.

"Y/n..." He whispered, looking up at me with curious eyes.

"Yeah?" I whispered, my throat closed.

"You're really good. Maybe you should join the team. Or..." He offered quickly when he saw my facial expression. "Or maybe you could teach me a few things. Practice with me and help me get better..." He shrugged, that smirk back.

I laughed. "You would love that, wouldn't you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I would, actually.... That's why I asked."

I sighed. "When?"

"After practice."

"You'll be tired then. How about in the mornings, before school?"

"And I won't be tired then?"

"It'll be a nice wake up, don't argue. You work out in the mornings anyway, don't you? You'd get your spot every single day, get your work out, and get some major practice in. Plus, I'll teach you a few things."

He paused, as if thinking it over. "I might not be able to make it every morning."

"How dedicated are you to lacrosse?" I asked, touching my hip again and raising an eyebrow. "Because if you're dedicated, you'll make it every morning. No booty call will-"

"It's not always about sex, Y/n," he said with a hard jaw.

"You're Jackson Whittmore. Of course it's always about sex," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Nice try though."

"I'm not the ass hole you make me out to be. Really. I'm rough around the edges-" I scoffed again. "But really. There's more going on then you know..." He paused, looking to the side. Something flashed in his eyes...

Fear?

I pursed my lips. "Fine. Come the mornings you can come. I come every single morning either way so..."

He smirked. "See you then?"

"Ah, that's all up to you." Then I turned and left.