by McKinley May
"I don't really think pink gloves are my destiny." We come to a stop at a red-light and I snicker. "This crystal-ball mumbo jumbo ain't workin' for me. Third reason?"
"The final, and most convincing, reason is this: If you take them, I'll stop talking about them. Win-win for both of us."
She gives two thumbs up and I bark out a laugh.
"There it is. That last one did the trick," I joke before emitting a sigh of defeat. "I surrender. Hand 'em over."
With a satisfied smile, she places the gloves into my open palm. The traffic light turns green just as I finish stuffing them into the seat pocket behind me.
I'll accept the gift to please her, but am I ever gonna wear these god-awful things?
Not a snowball's chance in hell.
10
Five minutes later, the practice facility comes into view. As I pull into an empty space and put the car in park, I scope out the area. Windhaven University is an epicenter for all things sports, so the large number of student athletes doing their thing around the complex comes as no surprise. Luckily, I spot an unoccupied soccer goal and the two of us quickly claim the territory.
We bring our stuff over—Sydney with her plethora of supplies and me with nothing but a water bottle and my normal, neutral-colored goalie gloves I suddenly have a newfound appreciation for.
"Time to get down to business!" She grabs a soccer ball and starts doing toe-taps on it. "What should we warm up with? PKs? Free kicks? Far-range shots?"
"Whoa, whoa. Slow down, crazy girl," I instruct. "Hit the brakes for a sec. We're not jumping into the deep end right off the bat."
She rolls the ball up her foot and starts juggling. "Why not?"
"'Cause I said so."
A snort escapes her. "Bossy much?"
"Never claimed I wasn't."
I give her a teasing wink and those dark-blue eyes roll.
"Okay, boss. What's the master plan?"
"The plan is we're gonna get rid of this." I reach forward, grabbing the ball in mid-air before tucking it under my arm. "And we're just gonna chat for a little bit."
"Chat?" She makes no effort to hide her skepticism. "That's your great scheme to solve my problem? A conversation?"
"Yup. That's what we're gonna start with. And it's gonna help more than you think." The reassurance in my tone doesn't seem to ease her doubts, so I tilt my head and ask, "You trust me, right?"
"Do I have any other choice? Teach me your wise ways, great sensei," she quips before a serious look is cast over her features. "I trust you."
"Good answer." I point at the ground. "Now pop a squat."
She takes a seat on the short grass and I follow suit. Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on my knees and start talking.
"Alright, first things first. Let's go over your game play. I've been to both of your university matches this year."
"Saw you in the stands both times," she confirms.
"I also got my hands on some film from your high school days, and—"
"What? You did?"
"Yeah?" I cock my head, confused at her shocked tone. "No need to look so damn surprised, Syd. I said I was gonna help you out, didn't I?"
She nods.
"That means I did my research to see exactly what I'm working with here." I raise a quizzical brow. "What? You think I'm all talk and no action?"
"Apparently not." A tiny smile appears on her face before her forehead creases. "How did you get the film?"
"That part was kinda difficult, actually," I admit. "Had to pull some strings and drop a few names to get what I wanted. The dude who sent me the clips made sure I wasn't some creepy stalker trying to get the footage for God knows what."
Sydney clicks her tongue. "Well, that guy needs to be fired because he definitely made the wrong judgment call. Isn't he aware you have a police record for stealing ladies' underwear from department stores?!"
"Oh shit. She's got jokes."
I grin as she emits a bubbly laugh.
"So what's the verdict?" she asks. "What's the conclusion from your thorough and oh-so-dedicated research on me?"
"Most obvious thing? You definitely didn't have this accuracy issue in high school." Short snippets of teenage Sydney placing the ball into the back of the net with impressive precision play through my mind. "It's new, right?"
"As of this summer, yep."
"About the time you got a spot on Windhaven?"
"Pretty much." Her reply is punctuated with a heavy sigh. "It's been a major problem since I showed up for July training."
I give a slow, calculated nod. "Yeah, that's what I figured. That's good news, though, because it's for sure not a skill issue."
"What do you mean?"
"Vaughn told me about your scholarship dilemma. No fucking way this isn't related to that. You're overthinking everything, putting way too much pressure on yourself," I explain. "It's a sports psychology type of deal. More common than you think."
"I see where you're coming from, but I don't know..." She shakes her head, short ponytail swinging back and forth in disagreement. "I love pressure, Cam. I live for pressure."
Her passionate insistence has me lifting both hands in innocence. "Hey, I'm not questioning that."
Yeah...not questioning that for half a second.
If she's anything like her sibling, she freaking revels in the spotlight and the abundance of high expectations that come with it.
"But maybe this is a different kind of pressure," I offer. "One you haven't experienced before. It's no longer about gaining something like a prestigious title or recognition or shit like that. Now you've got something major to lose."
"A spot on the team," she mumbles as her brow furrows.
"Exactly. And that could be what's tripping you up."
She places a closed fist under her chin as she squints at me. "It is always on the back of my mind...an annoying little chirp stressing me out at all hours of the day."
"See?" I nudge her cleat with my own. "It's affecting your game more than you think."
"Okay. Let's say that's the case. What's the solution?"
"Easy. All you need to do is relax. Chill out." I shrug. "Simple as that."
"Chill out?" With a playful smirk, she pulls out another soccer ball from behind her back, tosses it in the air, and begins to head it repeatedly. "What's that?"
I reach over, snatching the ball once again as I give her an amused look. "Well, I'll tell you what it's not—a phrase in your vocabulary."
"Hey!" She laughs and makes a futile attempt to grab the sphere from my grip. I palm it in my right hand, holding it far above her reach before she finally relents. "I'm just messing around. Of course I know how to chill out!"
"Do you?" An incredulous note weaves its way through my question. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"I'll have you know I took a yoga class with Rayne's mom this past June and I totally relaxed. Zoned-out and aligned my chakras and all that good stuff."
A sardonic grunt rumbles in my chest. "Yeah, Syd. I'm sure that one hour of serenity three months ago really changed everything. Gave you a whole new 'zen' perspective on life."
"Fineee," she concedes. "So maybe sitting still and clearing my mind aren't in my realm of talents, but I still don't understand how those would help anyway. What am I supposed to do? Meditate in the middle of the match?"
"Not advisable."
She grins. "I didn't think so. Any other suggestions?"
"Well, what you probably need to do is..." I pause for a sec, scratching my chin before I try again. "I'm thinking the best way to tackle this would be..."
My words trail off.
I'm drawing a total blank here.
Sydney leans forward, eyes wide in anticipation of my promised solution, but I need more intel.
"You know what? You were right," I announce suddenly. "Sitting here talking about this is only gonna get us so far. I've seen you play from a bird's eye view plenty of times. I think it's time for some on-the-field o
bservation."
"Told you so." Her face breaks into a smug smile as she leaps from the ground. "Let's do this."
As I stand, I gesture to the loose blue laces on her left cleat. "Tie your shoe first. I don't need you breaking an ankle under my watch."
"Yes, sir," she mocks as she tightens the cobalt-colored strings.
With goalie gloves situated and shoelaces properly snug, we take our positions. I slap my mitts together and bounce on the balls of my feet to get loose as Sydney does a quad stretch near mid-field.
After we're both ready to roll, I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to her.
"I need this to be as authentic as possible, yeah? Come at me like it's a real match. Game's on the line, scoring is a must. Can you do that?"
"Yep." She nods twice. "Make-or-break situation. Got it."
I point towards the faded white border marking off the 18-yard box. "Shoot once you cross the line."
Before I can shout 'Go!', she's already racing down the field a million miles per hour. The ball moves easily between her scuffed cleats, almost like a dance. It's a type of fluid movement only seen in someone who's been playing the game since childhood.
I watch as she dribbles across the green grass, a smile tugging at my lips.
There's no denying it—Sydney's got speed, skill, and a hint of signature Steel swagger that can't be taught.
With her superstar talent on full display, I'm wondering what the hell could be the problem here, but the answer to that comes swiftly. The moment she hits the edge of the box and lifts her head, the issue is crystal clear.
The girl's face is an open book.
Not just any ol' book, either. I'm talking a large-print, can read the pages from a block away type of novel.
I see every thought and worry that crosses her mind, each one bold, underlined, and italicized. Anxiety and nervous energy buzz in the air, her vision bouncing left to right as she decides where to place the shot.
And I know exactly where she's gonna place it.
Before she even plants her foot on the ground, I'm moving to my right, palms up and prepared to make the save.
As expected, the shot falls straight into my outstretched hands a beat later.
"Urghh!" The disgruntled brunette gives me a pitiful pout. "That looked way too easy for you."
I lift a shoulder, not about to argue the fact. "It was."
"Shit."
"Like taking candy from a baby."
Her head lolls back in defeat. "Salt in the wound, Cam!"
I release a loud laugh. "Sorry. Okay, this is gonna sound weird as hell, but you have the most expressive face I've ever seen. Like, in my entire life. Someone could film an extreme close up shot of you reacting to shit for an hour and it'd be more entertaining than a damn soap opera."
Her frustration melts into a knowing sigh. "I get that a lot, actually. Poker's not my game. I think I hold a lot of tension in my lips or jaw or something?"
"Nah," I say. "It's your eyes."
"My eyes?"
"Yeah, for sure. They're glass windows to your freaking soul."
On cue, my gaze latches on to hers. The unrelenting sun shines bright on her face, causing her pupils to constrict into minuscule black specks. The vast array of blue hues in her irises seem to spiral in a slow rhythm, like some type of optical illusion. And when she blinks those deep indigo pools at me all innocent and shit, I can't look away. It's like I'm under a goddamn spell, unable to break the eye contact no matter how hard I try.
Somehow I find my voice, though it's noticeably raspier than usual. "They're just so damn big and blue and—"
Beautiful.
Whoa.
The word comes close to spilling past my lips. Dangerously close.
I immediately snap my mouth shut because seriously?
Where the fuck did that come from?
Curiosity flits across Sydney's face at my abrupt pause. "And what?"
I clear my throat, finally snapping out of the strange-as-shit daze.
"I was just gonna say they're really fucking expressive is all." The casual cover-up seems to work and I continue. "I'd tell you to squeeze those things shut, but I'm pretty positive that won't help you hit your target. You gotta learn to school your features. Control your thoughts. It's gonna take practice. A lot of practice."
She wipes the sweat from her forehead. "Then it's a good thing we've got all morning, huh?"
We set up again, but her next attempt ends with an identical conclusion to the first.
And the one after that? Same thing.
By the fourth try, she's getting fired up, blazing waves of anger and determination emanating off her body.
"Time to get serious," she mumbles to herself.
In one swift movement, she peels her t-shirt off, revealing a pink sports bra and her toned abdomen.
This girl is not a fan of clothing.
She tosses the top over her shoulder with disregard, completely oblivious to every dude at the facility who's staring, jaws dropped at her hot as fuck physique.
Me included.
I manage to tear my eyes away from her perky tits and hard nipples visible beneath the thin fabric. Staring up into the clouds, I try to talk down the semi I'm sporting.
She's your best friend's little sister.
She's the chick version of Vaughn.
Don't look at her like that.
But shit.
Why does she have to be so fucking gorgeous?
This might be a problem...
Syd's still unaware of the lingering male gazes and strategic crotch adjustments; she's all business as she tightens her ponytail and exhales. She claps twice, then motions for the soccer ball.
"Again."
11
Morning weight room sessions aren't the most interesting of events.
They follow the same predictable routine: Show up, pump some iron, break a sweat, shower, leave.
Very 'Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma'am' type of deal.
But Tuesday's sunrise sesh is different.
Despite the early hour, the team seems much more alert and awake on this particular day. Curious gazes follow a certain member of the squad around the state-of-the-art facility, everyone wondering what is up with the new dude.
Zion Pierce.
It's the first day he's been cleared to join our strength training and practices, and the asshole is already causing a scene.
Not a vocal disruption or a fight or anything of that nature. He's too anti-social for that. The moment he walked through the door, he popped in some Air Pods and headed for the most isolated machine he could find.
It's the fact that he's lifting weights while decked out in designer clothing. I'm talking brand names head-to-toe: Tom Ford, Yves Saint Laurent...shit I only recognize because Weston's older bro, Rhett, is one affluent motherfucker who likes to show off.
Pierce is working out in those gaudy Golden Goose sneakers and wearing sunglasses indoors, for crying out loud. Weston's vampire theory might not be so far-fetched after all.
One thing that's for certain?
Zion's got some serious $$$.
It's not that people have an issue with the money he or his family obviously possess. Nothing like that. There are more than a handful of dudes on the squad who come from wealth. You'd just never guess because they don't go out of their way to flaunt it.
But it's not just the rich-prick vibes Z's sporting that are rubbing everyone the wrong way. Anytime someone attempts to strike up a convo, he flat out ignores them. He won't even acknowledge our strength and conditioning coach, which I'm thinking he's gonna regret sooner than later. Getting on Assistant Coach Jones' bad side will not bode well for him come Thursday morning field sprints.
Still haven't shared a single syllable with the guy, but I highly doubt my assessment of his character is too far off the mark.
He's a fucking tool.
An hour and a half of strenuous exercise drags by. The session finally comes to
an end and everyone heads to the locker room. After I take a quick shower, Weston asks if I wanna go to a brunch spot around the corner. I don't have class until four in the afternoon, so I accept the invite.
"Sweet. Lex is coming, too. And I'm gonna ask Z if he wants to go," Weston says.
"Dude, why?" I roll my eyes. "Sounds like a sure-fire way to ruin the morning."
"Don't worry. A hundred bucks he says no."
My brow arches in confusion. "Then what's the point of asking?"
"'Cause," he begins as he shuts his locker and faces me. "I wanna show you what it's like trying to interact with this guy. Fucking impossible."
I grab my shit and follow him towards the back corner of the locker room.
"'Sup, roomie?" Weston slaps Z on the back, the friendly gesture met with a tight-lipped frown. "How's it going?"
"What do you want?" Zion asks, his tone apathetic.
"Collins and I were thinking about hitting up Gigi's for some grub after this. You should come with."
"I'll pass."
"What—you have class or some shit?"
Zion rips his sweaty shirt off and tosses it aside. "Nope."
"Then what's the deal? Why don't you wanna go?"
He slams his locker shut, the echo reverberating off the walls. Pure annoyance flickers through his creepy silver eyes as he turns our way. "Do I need a goddamn reason?"
"Guess not, bro."
Weston glances at me, eyebrows high and a hint of amusement on his face. His head shakes back and forth as if to say 'can you believe this bastard?'
After we leave Zion with an unreciprocated goodbye, we push through the gym doors and head out into the blinding sunlight.
"So that's what I'm fucking dealing with," Weston grumbles as he slides his sunglasses on. "Stick in the mud, man. I'm telling you."
"You don't have to convince me." I drain the rest of my water bottle and toss it in a recycling bin. "Hollywood's a douchebag—no one's gonna fight you on that one."
"Hollywood? Fits him perfectly." Weston laughs. "Can't believe I thought Liam was an asshole when we first became roommates. Wright's a damn saint compared to this dick."