Striker’s Waltz
Alexa Padgett
Sidecar Press, LLC
Contents
Striker’s Waltz
Copyright
1. Teo
2. Preslee
3. Teo
4. Preslee
5. Teo
6. Preslee
7. Teo
8. Preslee
9. Teo
10. Preslee
11. Teo
12. Preslee
13. Teo
14. Preslee
15. Teo
16. Preslee
17. Teo
18. Preslee
19. Teo
20. Preslee
21. Teo
22. Preslee
23. Teo
24. Preslee
25. Teo
26. Preslee
27. Teo
28. Preslee
29. Teo
30. Preslee
31. Teo
Epilogue
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Alexa Padgett
Striker’s Waltz
by Alexa Padgett
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the material in this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
Striker’s Waltz © 2017 by Alexa Padgett
Edited by Deborah Nemeth and Nicole Pomeroy
Cover Art by Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs
For Kylie, my sister of the heart.
1
Teo
I strode across the short, jewel-green grass toward the other volunteers, ignoring my aching hamstring. Dios mio. The longer this injury lingered the greater its probability of destroying my chance to get out of Seattle. I’d clawed my way back to being the top player of my current team, the Seattle Timber. I’d played better futbol these past weeks than any of the pundits thought possible.
Words like devastating and career-ending were bandied across every sports network in Europe, my home country of Argentina, and here, in the United States, where I’d been traded eighteen weeks ago from Madrid. Already, they were clamoring to sign me back. My smile of satisfaction grew until the next twinge shot through my hamstring.
I’d worked too hard, rehabbed for months, to get on the shortlist to be traded to Milan, back to the soccer world’s premier league, because I did not wish to return to a team that threw me away when I needed them—twelve years together and they dropped me at the first sign of injury.
More than a sign. The malingering pain might keep me from the world championship, let alone the World Cup.
I shortened my steps and picked up my knees, trying to pace my strides and not tug the weak muscle further. So far, even after all these weeks, no one within the Timber organization—or, more importantly, the press—asked about Mariana’s profession. In fact, there’d been surprisingly little coverage of the woman staying in my condo. I’d been lucky, and I paid through the nose, for her constant presence the past few weeks. My father’s billion-dollar conglomerate’s vast reach proved useful in both keeping Mariana’s identity quiet and getting me the best care.
Mariana’s fingers worked miracles, and I’d recovered near full function in my leg again—hence my fantastic play these past weeks. My scowl grew. I only had one more month on Mariana’s calendar before she returned to her practice outside of Buenos Aires.
“Teo. Glad you could help us out with this,” Noah, the Timber’s assistant general manager, said. “I think you know everyone here except maybe my sister, Preslee. She used to play—”
“For Northwestern.” I smiled, pleased to see such athletic talent on the pitch. “You have one of the best records for shots-on-goal of any player.”
She smiled back, her eyes a pale green. Ojos bonitos, fringed with dark lashes under high-swept angel brows. After a long moment of perusal, I settled on her eyes as her most appealing feature. Not to say her long, toned legs weren’t gorgeous, because they were. So was her glossy, short black hair, her thin, pert nose, those full lips. A beautiful face—one I would like to study more without with her brother hovering nearby.
I reached out, pleased to touch the soft skin of her hand. Mm, una mujer encantadora. Yes, she made this pit stop in my career better.
“Thanks for the compliment, but it’s been a long time, and I haven’t played since my junior year of college.”
Her voice…Santa Maria de Santa Fe. Her voice raised chill bumps over my skin. I had never heard such richness before.
I wanted to ask her why she quit playing soccer, ask her anything that would allow me to hear her voice again, but defensive coach Kent Streeter clapped his hands to get our attention.
“We have five groups working today and tomorrow. You’ll stick with your same partner for the duration of these camps. So, here we go. Teo, you are paired with Preslee.”
I nodded, trying not to smirk at my good luck. The rest of the guys were paired with teammates or one of the female players from the local university that Preslee had played at six, maybe seven, years ago. I was more than happy to spend time with Noah’s pretty sister.
“They paired us together because I’m out of practice,” Preslee said, her voice apologetic. “Noah said if I suck, you’ll be there to pick up the slack.”
My hamstring cramped again, causing my stride to hitch. I scowled, breathing through the irritation. Preslee must have thought I was irritated with her comment because she rushed on. “I won’t suck, though, I promise. I’ve been going through my old drills for the last couple of months, since Noah asked me if I was interested in helping, and I’ve always enjoyed working with the kids.”
“I’m sure we will work together fine.” I gritted my teeth, wishing there’d been a way to cut these camps from my schedule—not because I didn’t like the kids. I, too, enjoyed their enthusiasm for the sport. No, my hamstring ached from morning practice, and Mariana’s warning proved correct. I needed more rest to ensure my continued good health. I bent down to touch my toes, careful to keep the stretch easy, as Mariana showed me. Unfortunately, my new position pulled my attention away from Preslee’s tight cula accentuated in those shorts.
Maybe I could talk Mariana into staying longer. I needed her. No way I wanted to share my concerns about my leg with Timber management. That would kill my trade possibilities, and I refused to stay in the United States.
Not if I wanted to add that last, elusive copa to my accolades. And I wanted the Euro Cup more than I wanted a hot fling with my sexy camp partner.
“Are you okay?” Preslee asked, a small frown marring her smooth brow.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked.
“You seem to be favoring your right leg,” she said, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes.
“It’s fine. Just a little stiff from practice this morning."
I studied her face, wondering how she picked up on my secret.
“Sure thing. I didn’t mean to make you upset,” she mumbled, her cheeks staining red as she attempted to tuck her too-short bangs behind her ear. The back of her hair was cl
ose-cropped—shorter than mine. The style suited her, bringing out her high, rounded cheekbones and making her soft eyes seem even larger under those dark brows. In fact, the cut proved shockingly feminine.
Short-haired women had never appealed to me before. I preferred to run my fingers through long locks while I kissed luscious lips or pounded into a soft, willing body.
Preslee’s body—athletic and sleek—filled my head.
I cleared my throat and looked away, trying to remove the inappropriate thoughts about my assistant GM’s sister. I might not be perfect, but I didn’t like short-term affairs. My father cured me of those years ago.
“Um, well, I’ll just go grab my water from my bag.”
I wanted to hang my head, but instead I tracked Preslee’s progress toward the metal bench lining the edge of the field. She was the first woman to catch my attention in months—since before that sweltering night game in Paris when Lavelle, frustrated by our large win, slide-tackled me late. He received a red card, I tore my hamstring.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. One bad play. That’s all it took for me to lose one of the most prestigious jerseys in the game. Well, that and my harsh criticism of another striker on the team. I should have kept my mouth shut, but the kid’s drug habit made his play erratic. Winning was my goal. Period.
The kid, seen as a victim of my anger toward the organization, stayed and took over my role. He still had a drug problem, only now other players were speaking up—but only because he'd caused the team to plummet in rankings. I hated the losses of my former teammates nearly as much as I hated practically sitting out this year.
The hours were ticking away on the tail-end of my career, and the trade to Milan was my last shot at reaching my Euro Cup goal. My goal to prove to Madrid they never should have cut me.
Guilt washed over me. Preslee thought I didn’t like her. Her long legs, the same pallid color of most of the people in the Northwest, slid out of her tiny black shorts. The lack of sun in this city weighed on me, making me sluggish. I’d never been interested in playing in England for the same reason, but I hadn’t been given a choice about this move, thanks to the extent of my injury. In fact, I’d been lucky to stay in the pros after an opposing player’s illegal slide tackle.
With effort, I swallowed down my bitterness. My trade to the US slapped at my reputation, demoting my accomplishments and career, though some critics would say I needed even deeper cuts at my ego. That’s because they didn’t know my story, and I wasn’t about to enlighten them if all they saw was the spoiled son of a business mogul.
I might’ve wanted to gnash my teeth and beat my chest against the injustice of the entire situation, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to play for Milan this year and next, proving my worth to myself, thumbing my nose at my mother’s plans for me and the media’s has-been write-ups.
With a sigh, I headed toward Preslee, needing to make amends with her. Her eyes touched on me before skittering off again. Her hands fluttered up to her hair, touching it briefly before she headed toward the small, white goals we’d use with the kids today.
“I’ll help you set those up,” I said. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She sucked in her lips and nodded. “Great. I’ve got these. I’ve already stretched.” She looked pointedly at my leg, her eyes flashing back to mine. “Never can be too careful after injuries like ours.”
I narrowed my eyes at her retreating back. She trotted across the grass, those short shorts rippling in the light spring breeze to show off a bit more of her smooth thighs. She maneuvered the goal posts and set out a series of bright orange disks to demarcate the space between the various drills we’d use for practice.
I put my foot up on the bench and leaned forward, trying not to wince as I reached down to grab my toes. Better, but not enough mobility. I jogged around the track, enjoying the warming of my muscles. Back at the bench, I extended my hamstrings, pleased with the easing of the muscle.
Preslee materialized beside me. “Stretch before and after each workout.” She spoke low, something I appreciated now that other players were entering the field. “And soak in a hot tub, then get a deep tissue massage to ease out the lingering kinks.”
“I assume you’re speaking from experience.”
She nodded, looking out over the field. She refused to meet my gaze. A damn shame because her eyes were worth gazing into.
“I pulled my hamstring my freshman year three months before the state championship. The team hired one of the best sports physical therapists in the country to rehab my injury. Once it healed, I played.”
One question bubbled forth—the most important one. “And you won?”
She turned to look at me, delicate black brow raised. “Of course.”
More questions surrounded Preslee Jennings. She’d fallen off the soccer circuit a year, maybe two, after that great win. One game she just wasn’t there—and she didn’t return.
Before I could ask her what happened, sound erupted from the gates, and within moments, the kids tumbled into the arena, a chattering and giggling mass of energy.
We’d reached our last weekend of camps for the spring.
Three weeks of enjoying Preslee’s subtle sense of humor, her eye for talent—not to mention her athleticism—now over. I sighed, realizing that while my hamstring would appreciate the end of these long, grueling days, I was going to miss spending time with her. Well, after today and tomorrow.
As usual, Preslee headed out into the sea of young bodies, most of which only came up to her waist. She greeted each child, taking time to ask a question or two, listening intently to their answers. I smiled, still marveling at her ability to engage even the most troubled youths.
“She’s great with kids,” Noah said.
I nodded, still watching her, tension creeping up my neck as I wondered if Preslee’s brother was here to warn me away from his sister. Not that I’d communicated with Preslee outside of the camps. I’d considered it, but Noah couldn’t know that. He gave no indication of concern as he leaned his arms against the metal railing that snaked between us.
“I wasn’t sure she’d actually like being on the pitch again.” Noah seemed to talk more to himself than me. “The way her soccer career ended…”
“An injury?” I’d pulled up an article whose headline said Preslee was in an altercation that led to the end of her collegiate soccer career. I’d scoffed and closed the browser, frustrated with the lack of clear-cut reporting.
“A career-ending one,” Noah said on a sigh.
Shuddering at those words, I turned to watch Preslee, too, as she high-fived one of the girls. Another of the younger children wrapped her arms around Preslee’s waist, hanging on tight. Preslee laughed as she slung her arms around the girl’s shoulders. I couldn’t help the smile that bloomed across my face. I liked Preslee. More than I should.
Noah tapped his fist on the metal, his eyes focused on his sister as she began to line the kids up into their first set of drills. One of the other players called his name, and Noah trotted over before I could ask him any more questions about Preslee.
But her past—hell, her present—choices weren’t my business. Best if I left her alone…even if she was one of the first women to hold my attention in years. After Vivi, I promised myself to focus on what mattered—that would be soccer. Winning. Earning la copa and the accolades that went with it. Anyway, I’d never met a woman worth the consequences a long-term relationship imposed. I liked looking at Preslee, even working with her, but I remained uncertain about whether starting a relationship with her would be worth the fallout.
Probably for the best this was the last camp. Milan. My goal to play there was closer now after one of the sports networks wrote about my healed leg and the explosiveness I demonstrated during training camp.
My agent had another conference call scheduled for Thursday this week. I’d asked to be in on this one—I wanted to get this deal sealed and delivered.
Preslee, as delightful and sexy as she was, didn’t fit into my long-term plans.
I finished my stretches, trying not to wince at the continued pull in my hamstring. While I’d miss Preslee on the pitch, I needed to put her from my mind. My agent’s call this morning confirmed Milan wanted me on their club roster—the healthy version of myself that I’d managed to show the world, anyway.
2
Preslee
Teo’s dark hair, almost blue in the sun, fell in a riot of messy waves. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Teo was clean-shaven, showing off the strong line of his jaw and his firm, pink lips that quirked just enough for me to know he caught me staring. His eyes were a greenish hazel, and filled with humor as he assessed me with the same intensity.
A man with a reputation for being focused on the field and off. Not much broke that focus—at least from what I’d read. His dating history, at least per social media, appeared sporadic, which made me wonder if he needed the extreme focus or if he’d been damaged by past relationships, too.
“Nice day today,” Teo said before sipping from his water bottle.
I watched his throat muscles contract, annoyed by how sexy I found everything about him. Even the way he drank water.
Striker's Waltz (Seattle Sound Series Book 6) Page 1