Green lion. The house for sports. You could feel the grass and dirt give slightly under your foot before you ran towards the net. The ball at your feet were kicked in small strokes, quickly, and never allowed to be touched by any other. As you neared the net you kicked it with great force, hitting the bottom edge of it so it lifted its way above the head of the goalie.
They jumped and caught it, causing some first year students to wince at seeing that the goalie had bare hands. Many found they couldn't take it. And they wouldn't last. The Green Lion house, though held auditions to get in, always kicked a good handful out at the beginning. Many students didn't take to like the roughness. But others, like you, thrived in it.
The feel of wind on your face, pushing your body to the limit, gliding through the air or kicking off rain-soaked ground. This was what you were good at. And Herman Greenhill could see that.
The day was slightly chilly, making a few wear sweaters over their sports uniforms. Though many of the students quickly shed theirs. Sweat dripped down your face as you stood facing across Greenhill. Your eyes could see how his chest heaved at each breath, and you briefly regretted going head to head against him. He was larger than you, and much stronger. You began to fear for a few broken bones. This was the second and final round for the day.
"You're going down, Greenhill. Wether you're my prefect or not."
The prefect merely smirked, eyes confident in telling a different story. You two gave a customary handshake, his hand warm and firm. It was a nice touch, and made you lose your focus just a little. When the whistle rang though, it had caught you off guard.
Greenhill darted past you, ball before him. You chased after him, not letting him beat you so easily like that. You should have been more focused.
You slid before him, kicking the ball to his fag which was on your team. His fag quickly ran towards the net and you got up, grass stains on your pants and palms.
You wiped your hands on your pants and looked up at him, eyes softening.
"Really?" Greenhill gulped ever so slightly before nodding and your eyes turned even softer, more compassionate, even. His breathing came harder though he was still, and his eyes focused on the ground. A flush made way up his neck and he slowly looked up. He then froze.
You were gone.
Across the field someone shouted out a warning to you as they ran next to you, and you looked over your shoulder to see Greenhill running after you. Your lead on him though caused you to kick one more time, this time getting a score. You laughed and felt your team pat you on the back. The first time someone stole the ball from Greenhill. And the prefect merely shook his head. What a pathetic, cheap trick. So why did he want it to happen again?