My head hit the turf with a thunk that made my teeth rattle. I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. Above me, fluffy white clouds wheeled in pointless circles, and I could hear shouting from the rest of my team—things like, "What the hell, man?" and "Carter! Are you all right?"

I lay still, evaluating that question and feeling my pulse in my bitten cheek. Then I felt footsteps as much as I heard them, and a familiar face swam into view above me. Bright green eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and full lips twisted in disgust. Wesley.

Oh, man. My stomach sank. Just kill me now.

Wesley crouched beside me, leaning in almost like he planned to help me up—but of course he didn't. Instead, he bent down close to me. His breath was warm on my cheek, and his face was so close I could practically feel the scruff of his jawline against my skin. His piercing eyes stared straight into mine as he hissed, "That's what you get for blocking my shot."

I groaned and shut my eyes. How had I already screwed up this badly?

******

One Week Earlier

My new dorm building wasn't pretty. It was a jaggy old hunk of brownstone with windows poked in it, and there were scuffs on the sides where some people had wheat-pasted things on and other people had scrubbed them off. The landscaping crew had jammed in a few scraggly bushes around the base, and the bushes didn't look too thrilled about that. Still, I stood in the parking lot and gaped up at the banner that said Welcome, Class of 2024! I kind of knew what a freshman dweeb I must look like, but I couldn't help myself. I loved everything about the building.

"Hey, earth to Carter." Mom shoved a duffel bag of my soccer gear at my chest. She was grinning. A little teary, too, but in a mostly-happy way. "This luggage won't carry itself; you know."

"Sorry, Mom."

We followed my printout map inside the dorm and up the stairs to my room, which already showed evidence of my roommate: sketches splattered over the walls, band posters in dizzying psychedelic colors, a tie-dyed bedspread I was sure would be visible from space. Everything but the roommate himself.

"Wow." Mom whistled. "It looks like the '60s threw up in here."

I squinted at one of the posters. "I don't think Modest Mouse is from the '60s."

She shrugged—I knew she didn't care—and started unpacking clothes from my suitcase and arranging things on my desk.

"Mom." I intercepted a new package of socks before she could stash it in the dresser. When had she gotten me new socks, anyway? "Mom, I got it."

She looked at me, one hand still on the bundle of socks. "Well, I know you do, honey, I just thought…"

"Mom." I resisted the urge to look at the door to my room, which stood open to the hallway and to all the guys out there who might overhear my mom fussing over where to put my socks. I wanted to make a good first impression.

"Okay, okay. I'll let you do it yourself." She let go of the socks and pulled me into a hug. "Oh, I'm going to miss you so much. Are you sure you're ready to be away from home? After everything that's happened?"

My chest tightened. I held onto her to avoid having to look her in the face. "I'm fine, Mom. I'm ready." I did a pretty good job of keeping my voice steady. "And I'm only an hour away—I can come home whenever I want."

"Of course you can." She pulled back, looking very seriously into my face for a minute. Then she did another teary-happy smile, kissed my cheek, and let me go. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"And be good!"

"Of course not."

Mom smacked my arm, dashed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, and left.

My knees suddenly felt shaky. I dropped down on the edge of my unmade bed, running a hand through my hair and trying to get my head around the fact that I was here. Finally. College. Actually on my own for the first time in my life. The thought made my lungs go giddy and light.

Then Mom's voice floated back through the doorway: "Carter! Don't forget to wear your mouthguard at night! You know you grind your teeth!"

Laughter erupted up and down the hallway, and the giddy feeling dissolved. I groaned and put my face in my hands. So much for good first impressions.

I spent the rest of that afternoon unpacking my things and wondering about my absent roommate, who never did turn up. I made my bed and taped up my favorite Spider-Man poster—the Deodato variant cover of Spider-Men #4 from 2012, which has Peter Parker and Miles Morales both in awesome poses. Looking at it stuck up there on the wall reminded me of Dad and made my chest hurt all over again, so I went to the cafeteria to eat the least greasy thing I could find. Then I changed into my soccer gear, rolled on a fresh layer of deodorant (I didn't want to be that guy), and headed out to my first team meeting.

I'd toured campus before I got here, of course, and I'd daydreamed over the pictures a hundred times, but I still couldn't find the soccer field. I stood on the quad and frowned up at the facades of buildings, trying to match names to the labeled rectangles on the map I'd pulled up on my phone. If that was Wilson Hall, then shouldn't this one be Singh, not Rosencrantz?

I was going to be late. My throat constricted a little. I really wanted to get off to a good start here. I'd left my dorm early and everything just to make sure I wouldn't be late. I’d been lucky enough to get a full soccer scholarship, and the thought of putting that in jeopardy made me feel sick. Where the hell was the soccer field?

I was staring at my phone instead of my feet, so I didn't see the other guy until it was too late. I smacked right into him, and he went, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Watch it!"

I backed up immediately, feeling my face get hot, which was embarrassing, and being embarrassed made my face hotter. "Oh—shit. Sorry, dude."

"Nah, man, don't worry about it. " He had a wide, easy smile and dark brown skin. A heavy flop of black dreads hung at the nape of his neck, tied with a red rubber band. He was also wearing a Bancroft University soccer tee like I was.

I pointed at it. "Are you looking for the soccer field, too?"

He laughed. "Yeah man, I've been wandering around out here for twenty minutes. I wouldn't have thought they could hide something twice the size of an Olympic swimming pool. I'm Duncan. You on the team?"

"Carter. Yeah, I am."

He stuck out his fist, and I bumped it. Someone had sharpied the word sicc across his knuckles. "We're gonna be so late," he said forlornly to the sky.

"It's the first day. You think we're going to get in trouble about it?"

Duncan gave me a hard look. Then, abruptly, he grinned. His teeth were the kind of flawless that suggested decades of dental work. "Just based on what I've heard about Coach Garcia, we're toast."

It took us another full ten minutes to find the field. The rest of the team had already collected on the grass, shooting the breeze and doing stretches. I was glad I had Duncan to walk in with, and I smiled at the other guys, trying to look confident and like I hadn't just been wandering around the quad like a lost puppy. Nobody was paying attention to me.

No—wait. Maybe someone was.

Then Coach Garcia clapped his hands, drawing our attention. I dropped my stuff on the sideline and jogged over to listen. "Welcome back, everyone," Coach was saying. He was a short, fierce-looking man with a frame more like a linebacker than a midfielder. "Welcome the first time, to some of you. A few of you were late today"—he looked at Duncan and me the way an eagle looks at a couple of mice, and I resisted the urge to scurry away—"and just this once, I'm going to let it slide. In the future, though, I expect absolute punctuality. You understand? This is important, and we have only so much time, so if you show up late, you run an extra three miles. Got it?"

Oh, I got it. I straightened up my shoulders and nodded, relieved that he was fair. Strict, but fair. I'd do better next time.

My eyes snagged on a guy standing just a bit behind Coach—the one I'd noticed watching me. He was tall and slim, with very dark brown hair that contrasted the light, almost electric green of his eyes. Narrowed, suspicious eyes that were staring directly into mine with a look of pure loathing. I felt a jolt of heat race through my body and I quickly looked away, though I could still feel his gaze on me.

I knew who that was. That was Wesley Quinn, the team captain.

And apparently, he already hated me.