The elevator door opened. With long strides I removed myself from the steel box whose inside had been embellished with high-class carpeting and its walls painted with a metallic brown coating. Repositioning my steps towards the end of the small hallway, I looked to see against what my right hand had found itself gliding. "Machine Wash 75 cents," read the sign. I continued to make my way down the hallway. I progressed towards the two doors at the end of the hall, one placed directly under a sign which read "Emergency Exit." Behind the other door, however, came an echo. The door sat flush with the walls, no crack around the edges, yet somehow the high-pitched screams and belly-deep grunts still permeated the metal barrier. Pushing down on the handle, I pushed the door forward, allowing myself to enter the hot and musty atmosphere which sat in exile behind the prison gate.

As the loud, unceasing cry rang in my ears, I looked up and saw them. There they were, ten or twelve boys jumping and splashing around in the small pool located in the center of the enclosed, humid room. “Sam!” they all roared in unison.

Here were my teammates, epitomizing their immaturity and boyhood in the only way they knew how: pelting foam footballs at each other, taking part in cannonball and bellyflop contests, and belly laughing over the most recent sex joke. I stood at the door for a moment, analysing the situation, formulating my plan.

You have to be here, so spend some time with them. You don’t have to say anything, but at least try to say something. They’re your teammates. You’ve known most of them for at least a year now. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Hang out for a while, then you can go back to your room. Anyways, Coach told us not to get too tired out. We’re going to be exhausted for the game tomorrow. I hope these guys realize this. Why do I have to be here?

I stepped fully into the room and closed the door, totally submerged in my company. I proceeded to set down my stuff and join my companions in the pool. Like clockwork, my teammates began to antagonize me over the prominent shade of red my neck, face, and forearms were compared to the paleness of my chest. It was hot in Chattanooga, and the soccer complex where our tournament was held was completely desolate of any shade. I had been burned, and this temporary scar left by the scorching sun was not only causing me great pain but also provoked the unwanted and unimaginable. My teammates were now focusing all of their attention towards me.

Slowly, the wooden walls that I had constructed over the years began to burn away as my teammates and I began to joke about my newly attained crimson hue.

Suddenly, we were in the lounging area of the hotel. Our parents sat beside us sprawled out in a circle while they drank, laughed, drank, cursed, and drank a little more. The boys, however, sat at the other end of the room, also congregated in a circle. At the center sat our goalkeeper, Zack, who was quickly asserting his authority over the entire team with his fast hands, lucky talent, and gambling skills. The card game he introduced possessed the power to hypnotise all onlookers and force them into a round against the keeper. One by one the strikers and defenders fell, and at the sound of every heartbreak, I knew that I had been summoned to take on the beast.

The game was difficult. It involved a series of piles I was to look over while I waited for a specific card to be played. Upon seeing that card, I was supposed to slap a specific pile depending on the number of the card which was drawn. As the game progressed, I had begun to notice that Zack’s confident smirk had slowly sagged into a determined straight line. Am I winning? To be honest, I had little understanding of the game and was surprised myself when I discovered my own victory.

I was saddened for Zack. He was naturally arrogant, and I, the former quiet kid, had just stripped him of his pride.

Eventually we found ourselves in the lobby of the hotel, having a conversation because the receptionist at the front desk had recently informed us that there had been a number of complaints filed against us due to our sprinting races down the third floor hallway. As far as our parents were concerned, we were either to be in the lobby or our rooms. Our own individual rooms. It was at this time that I saw her. To be totally fair, I cannot comment on her exquisite beauty, flawless skin, or striking eyes, but she was a girl and I was a 13-year-old boy surrounded with his obnoxious, newly-found friends, therefore…she was perfect.

The conversation was riveting as only three guys, including myself, had the courage to approach her. Her name was not Britney, and her name was not Todd. She lived in New York and was down in Chattanooga for her brother’s wedding. She was fourteen years old and also played soccer. Our interaction was quickly shut off by my father who had summoned me to my room so that we both could go to bed.