by McKinley May
Key word being almost.
In one swift movement, I do a fast step-over move that sends Weston diving to my right side so hard he ends up falling straight on his ass. I quickly push the ball left with the outside of my foot and send that baby flying into the top right-hand corner of the net—a placement so freaking precise even someone as good as Cameron doesn't have a chance in hell of blocking it.
Annnnnd there it is. That sweet, satisfactory goalgasm.
Feels damn good.
I hear the cheers from the Goal Girls in the bleachers and a chorus of “oohs” from the team as they laugh at Weston on the ground.
“I let you do that, Steel. I wasn’t even fucking trying, dude!” Weston yells loudly enough so everyone can hear his pathetic excuse.
“Okay, man. I believe you.” I grin as I jog with the rest of the team to end practice in our usual huddle.
“Paine, get the hell off the ground and join the team!” Coach shouts out as Weston slowly lifts himself up and hobbles over.
He approaches us, rubbing his tailbone dramatically. “I swear I just broke my ass, Coach.”
“That’s what you get for diving in like that, dumbass.” Coach rolls his eyes before going into a long rant about being prepared for our game tomorrow.
After he finally finishes his speech, we break off. Cameron jogs up to me, nodding towards the Goal Girls.
“You care if I invite Julie over tonight? We’ll probably just hang in my room.”
I look up into the bleachers, spotting the leader of the Goal Girls and Cam’s on-again off-again fling, Julie, taking selfies with some of the other girls. It’s no secret I’m not her biggest fan—mainly because she’s the most notorious cleat-chaser of the bunch—but policing other people’s hook-ups isn’t my thing, so I shake my head. “Cool with me.”
“Thanks, man,” Cameron says, walking over to the girls as he rips his goalie gloves off.
It’s kinda hard to say no to Cam in general when it comes to stuff because he’s such a good dude. Seriously, if you looked up the ideal roommate in the dictionary, his picture would be there. He picks up after himself, always warns us if he has people over, and has roommate etiquette that most college students lack. He was raised in the foster care system and lived in homes with up to ten other kids at a time. According to him, you either learned to respect people’s personal spaces or you ended up with a black eye and a swollen lip.
I’m about to head to the showers when a flash of familiar light brown hair grabs my attention from the opposite side of the bleachers. I turn and see Rayne making her way down the steps. She’s chatting with some guy holding a fancy camera in his hands, and he’s staring at her with big, moony eyes, mesmerized by whatever she’s saying.
When he places his hand on her lower back to guide her, I cup my hands over my mouth and call out to get her attention. “Raynie!”
Her head jerks up and she gives me a small wave.
I jog over to the railing of the bleachers, motioning for her to come talk to me. I can see her exaggerated eye roll from all the way down here, and it brings a smile to my face. It’s way too fucking easy to get on this girl’s nerves. I sorta like it when she’s all prickly with me.
She says her goodbyes with Mr. Moony-Eyes who looks completely devastated she’s ditching him for me. She takes the steps two at a time until she’s right in front of me, crossing her arms over her chest as I gaze up at her.
“What do you need, Steel?”
“You brought your boyfriend to watch me practice?” I raise my brows in amusement.
“My boyfriend?” She shakes her head. “Uh, no.”
“You might wanna tell him that. He likes you.”
“No he doesn’t.” She glowers at me. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“And you’re so blind,” I counter. “So what are you doing here? You applying to be a Goal Girl?”
She smirks. “You caught me. I’m ready to devote my entire life to worshipping the ground you and your teammates walk on. How could anyone not sign up for something as fulfilling as that?”
“Figured you couldn’t resist for long,” I tease. We both look towards the Goal Girls, some of whom are now shooting daggers at Rayne as she talks to me.
She frowns. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to make the cut.” She turns back to me, confusion on her face. “But really, what’s their problem? Am I not allowed to speak to you?”
“They tend to get a little territorial. Ignore them, I usually do.” I shrug. “I’m surprised to see you at a practice already. I was expecting you to show up way later in the season to get some pics last minute for your article.”
Her face twists into a mixture of shock and disgust, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell I just said that would garner a reaction like that. She’s acting like I suggested we go on some crime-ridden, bank-robbing spree together, straight up Bonnie-and-Clyde style.
“Procrastination and I don’t mix, Steel. Doing things last minute doesn’t exactly mesh well with a Type A personality.” She lets out a low sigh. “Although, I would’ve preferred coming to a practice later on this week. But Allen—”
“Your boyfriend,” I add pointedly. She shoots me a dirty look.
“—Allen, the photographer for the paper, could only come tonight so I had no choice. Missing Monday Night Football makes today so much more… Mondayish.” She furrows her brows together and I laugh.
“Mondayish?”
She nods. “Yep. Mondayish. Definition: a way to describe something that really freaking sucks. Synonyms include, but are not limited to, horrible, shitty, borderline unbearable.”
“I like that. Mondayish. Has a nice ring to it.” I scratch my head. “But don’t you mean you’re pissed 'cause you’re missing the Arsenal game tonight?”
She chuckles. “Not to burst your bubble or anything, but I like football a lot more than I like soccer.”
She must see the horror on my face because she quickly speaks again. “Don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy the sport. The World Cup is one of my favorite events to watch, but football has no competition. If I have to choose between the two, football’s coming out on top every time.”
I groan. “Awh man, Rayne. You’re crushing my heart here. Look, I love football as much as the average American dude, but you can’t deny that soccer is the more beautiful of the two. It’s a scientific fact.”
She twirls a strand of her hair, her lips curling up in amusement. “It’s a scientific fact? I think that’s up for debate.”
I hold up a hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there before you say something you’ll regret. Come down to the field, and I’m going to show you the beauty that is my sport. Once you witness the magic, I guarantee you’re never going to choose football first again.”
“I’ll listen to your spiel, but I’m not making any promises.” She strains her neck as she looks towards the fence, searching for an entrance onto the field.
“Jump over the railing. The entrances on this side are all locked.” When she glances over the edge, slightly uncomfortable, I hold out my arms. “I’ll catch you.”
She hesitates for a second.
“Let's go, babe. I don’t have all day.”
Climbing over the top of the metal bar, she commands, “You better not drop me.”
I scoff, a little insulted. “Do I look like I would drop you? I’m twice your size.”
She shrugs. “You’re a soccer player. Arm strength isn’t your specialty.”
“Trust me, Raynie. Every muscle in my body is strong,” I assure her.
Laughing, she leaps into the air. She lands perfectly, her arms looped around my neck and her legs snug around my torso, her body molded smoothly into mine.
My arms wrap around her small waist, pulling her tight against me, the tips of my fingers brushing against the soft cotton of her t-shirt. With her head buried in the crook of my neck, her hair is right by my nose, and it smells freaking amazing, like coconuts and summertime.
It brushes against my cheek as she lifts her head. She blinks her long eyelashes at me, honey-colored eyes glittering. For the first time, I notice a small flurry of freckles scattered on the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks.
I’m still gazing at her face and holding her tight when she releases her arms from my neck.
“What the heck are you doing? Put me down before the Goal Girls come at me with pitchforks and torches!” she hisses as she wiggles a little. “Plus, you’re all sweaty!” She giggles, squirming even harder to get out of my grasp.
“No shit, woman. I’ve been sprinting up and down this field for the past two hours. 'The hell do you expect?”
I gently place her in the thick blades of grass beneath us. After grabbing a couple of balls from a ball-bag under the metal bench, I lead her to the center of the field.
Everyone’s started to clear out, the guys to the locker room to pack up and leave and the Goal Girls to wherever the hell they go when soccer isn’t going on—my bet's on Weston’s bedroom. The only noises audible now are the loud humming of the field lights and the sound of muffled conversation from some students tossing a baseball a few fields away.
The practice facility at Windhaven isn’t the most glamorous or flashy area on campus, but it’s probably my favorite place to be. It’s quiet and simple, just a few soccer fields and a small set of bleachers. It’s absolutely nothing compared to the grandness of the dome stadium where we play our games, but I actually like it better here.
I’m not saying that I don’t love the atmosphere and pressure of performing in front of a giant crowd at the stadium, because of course I do. I live for home games during the season; students and fans packed into the stands to watch us dominate is exhilarating.
And when the crowd chants my name after I score a goal?
Chills every fucking time.
But there’s just something special about playing on a bumpy grass field with faded white field lines. Here it’s not about the fancy scoreboard, the rowdy fans, or the fame.
Here it’s just me, the ball, and the sport. And sometimes that’s all you really need.
The sound of Rayne jostling around in her bag stirs me from my thoughts. When I see her pulling out her voice recorder, a loud laugh escapes my lips.
She blushes. “Do you care if I record this?”
“No problem.” I watch her hit the on button and lay the recorder on her bag between us. “Do you have that thing on you at all times?”
“Pretty much.” She smiles sheepishly. “You never know when you’ll need to record something.”
I start juggling one of the balls with my feet and gesture for her to move in front of me. “Alright, sit down, Everett. I’m about to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.”
She gets comfy on the grass, tucking her knees into her chest as she watches, wide-eyed and amused.
“So let me just go out on a limb here and guess that you like football better because it’s ‘more entertaining’ than soccer. More points scored, more action, all that nonsense. Am I right?”
She nods. “Nailed it.”
I shake my head as I bring the ball up to my knees and continue juggling from there.
“Well, you’re wrong.”
A throaty laugh erupts from her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to have an opinion on a completely subjective topic.”
“Oh, you can have an opinion all you like. I’m just here to tell you your opinion's wrong.”
She bites her bottom lip and cocks her head up at me. “I’ll play along. Go on.”
“Football’s great. You’ve got big, burly dudes practically sumo wrestling on the line of scrimmage, quarterbacks slinging spirals down the field. All good stuff and very fun to watch. But soccer? Soccer’s like a goddamn art form. The technical skill, the footwork, the precision of touch and control. It’s like watching a masterpiece be painted when done right. Two words, baby: Lionel Messi.”
She rolls her eyes as I begin heading the ball. “Four words for you, baby: Tom Brady. Peyton Manning. You’re gonna have to come up with something better than examples of good players to convince me.” She puts her hand to ear, egging me on. “I’m listening.”
I grin down at her. “Well, start watching instead, because I’m going to show you exactly what I’m talking about.
I spend the next twenty minutes showing her my best moves, but the girl is impossible to impress. She doesn’t move a muscle when I do a 360 spin as I show her the Helicopter. No sign of amazement when I perform the Rainbow, rolling the ball up my calf and popping it over my head. It’s not until I take her over by the goal and do a backwards bicycle kick that I see the smallest hint of approval in her eyes.
She runs over and digs the ball out from the net, laughing as she jogs up to me.
“You’re a total show-off.” She playfully shoves the ball into my chest.
“And proud of it.” I smirk, tossing the ball from hand to hand. “So did I convince you? Have you seen the light?”
She holds her hands out in front of her, one much higher than the other.
“Here’s how much I like football.” She wiggles the higher hand. “Here’s how much I like soccer.” She shakes the lower hand.
“Here’s how much I like soccer after your presentation.” She moves the lower hand an inch or two higher, grinning at me. “You put forth a valiant effort, but it wasn’t quite enough.”
I laugh. “I’ll take it for now, but I’m not giving up on you that easily.”
Suddenly she tilts her head, eyes studying me as if she’s trying to read my mind.
“You know, it’s kinda cool to see how passionate you are about your sport. Refreshing, actually.” She scratches her head as she thinks about something else. “Unless you’re just incredibly stubborn and like to argue with me.”
I throw her the ball. “That’s partially the reason,” I joke as we both take a seat in the soft grass. “Nah, I live and breathe for the game. Soccer is my entire life, my escape. I wouldn’t be me without it.”
Rayne plucks a few blades of grass from the ground before looking up, admiration in her expression. “Athletes who play the game solely for the love of the sport and not everything else that comes along with it are the reason I want to be a sports journalist. It’s nice to know you’re one of them. It’ll make the article that much better, too.”
I squint at her. “You’re really serious about this piece, huh? Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t it just for a shitty school newspaper?”
She lets out a small laugh. “I get that it seems weird how crazy I’m going over this, because you’re right, it is for a shitty school paper. But it’s also going to make up the bulk of my application for a StadiumScore internship, so it’s extremely important for my future career. Crucial, really.”
And now I'm feeling like a total dick for causing her so much stress last week. I had no clue she was banking on this to get her an internship.
“Damn, why didn’t you tell me before?”
She shrugs while I snatch her voice recorder. I bring it up to my mouth, speaking directly into it with my best newscaster impersonation.
“I hereby declare that I, Steel Blue, will personally see to it that Rayne gets the lusted after StadiumScore internship.”
She laughs and yanks it out of my hand. “Jeez, dude! Okay, Voice Recorder Rule One: No speaking that loudly and that close to the microphone. That’s going to scare the shit out of me when I listen to this later!”
We spend the next thirty minutes talking and hanging out. The conversation between us flows so smoothly it’s hard to believe I’ve known the girl less than a week. When she’s not scolding me and I’m not teasing her, we get along really well. She’s actually a pretty cool chick.
It’s not until the field lights buzz and begin to dim that we finally come back to reality and realize how long we’ve been there.
“Let’s go before the sprinklers com
e on.”
Rayne grabs her bag, and I begin leading her towards the parking lot where only our two cars remain. We’ve only made it halfway across the field when a familiar clicking sound begins.
“Shit. Hurry!” I reach for Rayne’s hand just as the rapid fire of the sprinklers begins.
“It’s freezing!” She squeals as we both take off running, cracking up as the streams of water drench us despite our attempts to zig zag out of the way.
We make it to the parking lot, both of us hunched over with our hands on our knees, completely out of breath and dripping wet.
Once we get air circulating through our lungs again, I pop open the trunk of my car and pull out two towels. I toss one to Rayne.