Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(73)

I keep my eyes down on my cleats as he walks past me, deeper on our side, in preparation for kickoff, but I can’t wipe away the happiness inside me, lighting me up. It’s the kind of joy that fills me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, that makes my fingertips hum and sends a kick of jittery, giddy adrenaline flooding my veins. I feel on top of the world.

Which is why it’s all the more jarring when, just thirty seconds later, as I step up to challenge our opponent’s defense, a vile slur cuts through the air and punctures that happy aura. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the word. And, unfortunately, in all likelihood, it won’t be the last. Being reconciled to the fact doesn’t make it easier, though. The defender who said it throws his shoulder into me sharply after he passes the ball, sneering as he jogs past me and glances back.

Unfortunately for him, looking back at me leaves him entirely unprepared for a six-foot-four, livid co-captain shoving him violently to the ground.

“Hayes!” I sprint forward, stepping in front of Gavin, hands on his chest. “Hayes. Stop.”

Gavin’s not looking at me. He’s glaring murder at the defender, chest heaving, that vein in his temple throbbing. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Shut up,” I tell him, grabbing his face. “Don’t say that.”

He lunges forward, and I have to shove him back. “I don’t fucking care.”

“I care.” I grab his shoulders again. “Stop.”

The ref jogs over, whistling and halting play. I’m about to open my mouth and defuse things, when Gavin turns, shoves me behind him and proceeds to tell the ref in a shockingly calm tone what happened.

“Get him the fu—” Gavin catches himself, his jaw clenching. “Get him off this pitch,” he says, pointing at the defender. “Or this game is over. We’ll walk right off.”

Coach is out on the field now, walking as fast as her extremely pregnant body allows her, followed by Rico and Jas. The other team’s coach comes out, too.

The refs turn toward me. Ask me to corroborate. I won’t say the word. I won’t dignify that hatred by repeating it. But I nod when they say it, asking if that’s what was directed at me.

And then I feel it. Those bands narrowing around my ribs. My hands turning numb. My heart rate accelerating faster than Gavin’s car as he gunned it down the road this morning and got us to the stadium. I sway as I start to lose feeling in my legs.

“Hey.” Gavin’s there, gripping my arm, tugging me toward him. “You’re all right.”

I shake my head. My knees buckle.

“Fuck, Oliver. Breathe.” He tugs me closer, holding me tight. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His head snaps up as he looks toward the team. “Oi!”

The world’s swimming, its sounds reduced to my too-fast tugs of air, my heart pounding in my ears, but I see them—first Santi, then Ben, Ethan, Carlo, Andre, even Amobi, who bolts down the field—everyone circling around us, boxing us in.

You’d think being swarmed by the team roster when I’m hyperventilating would make things worse. But it’s just like the tight embrace Gavin wraps me in, pinning my head against his shoulder—it grounds me, comforts me, shields me.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, his hand heavy on my back.

As my breaths become less frantic, I hear what I couldn’t before, Santi muttering under his breath, praying maybe, encouraging me, perhaps both—soft, whispered Spanish. Carlo’s Portuguese drifts on the air, blending with Andre’s French. Ben wraps an arm around Ethan and Amobi, shouldering out a videographer, sealing us off.

“You got this, Oliver.”

“We’re here.”

The team’s words, some in English, some not, are quiet, peaceful, their presence steadying. “Gav,” I whisper.

“What do you need?” he says, hand pressing on my back.

I can’t answer him. I just need to know he’s there, to feel him grounding me to Earth.

“Focus on my breaths, Oliver. Breathe when I do.”

“Trying.” I lick my dry lips. “Talk?”

He clears his throat. “Coach is going to murder someone. She is an eight-and-a-half-months-pregnant fury, and the ref is about to shit himself.”

I feel a faint smile tug at my mouth. I suck in a breath of air that feels deeper, a little slower, not shallow and dizzying. “More.”

“Listen,” he says. “You can hear her.”

“I don’t give a damn what that playback video does or does not show you,” Coach growls at the other team’s coach. “Your player used a slur on one of mine, which means he’s out. You’re better than this and your team should be, too. Zero tolerance.”

As we both listen to Coach obliterating the weak placations of our opponent’s coach, I feel Gavin’s anger, like a banked fire, waiting for fresh oxygen to send it roaring to life. I feel his control, the way he steadies himself for me, holding me tight.

“Damn right,” Coach says after a stretch of conversation between the refs and the other coach that I couldn’t hear. “Hayes!”

Gavin hesitates.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, shakily stepping back. I can feel my hands. My legs aren’t solid, but I can stand on my own. The team’s there for me to turn to, still reassuringly close.