Senior Year. September.

This much was obvious; Louis hated Harry, Harry hated Louis. Not in a silent glare and shit-talking behind the other’s back kind of way, but in a never-ending feud that involved getting limbs torn off the other kind of way.

Captain of the footie team is an enticing notion, but the rank had not only been bunked to co-captain but the other co-captain position had unluckily been designated to Louis Tomlinson. Four years of tearing and gnawing at each other’s necks reduced to a forced partnership.

One week of attempted co-coaching was disastrous and schedules were arranged. Tomlinson would run practices Monday and Tuesday, Harry took Wednesdays and Thursdays, and Fridays were for Coach Abrahams to control.

Not only did they fail to get along, but their beliefs and ideas so vastly contrasted one another in such a argument provoking way — and with heat and lack of civility towards one another resulted in detrimental fights (and several warnings and lectures from Coach). Louis had the footie players running laps till they dropped for the sake of endurance and building speed. And the mere idea of Harry’s yoga had him near gagging. A remark or a glare was always shot towards him when his practices started that way. Every fibre was aimed towards the game or the sheer and pure hatred for the other.

After a disastrous attempt at coming out to his parents the night before, a shitty Monday afternoon footie practice, one unfortunately ran by Louis, he was only serving to irritate him further and demonstrate how incompatible they aligned. Running drills (as Louis always made them do) should’ve been simple but Harry was wide open for a shot and Louis was hogging the ball again, refusing to pass for the sake of staying on his high horse, thinking he could make the goal himself.

Louis missed.

And Harry was a ticking time bomb.

“Why can’t you get your head out of your fucking arse and pass me the ball for once, huh?” Harry snapped, already pushing past his teammates to get to Louis.