by Lilah Grey
The sound of shrill, off-key Katy Perry lyrics began to penetrate my oasis. A few moments later, the door to the sauna swung open.
“And you’re gonna hear me roar!” Chloe screamed, rather than sang.
Dear Lord. How could someone sing that terribly in public and not know? Well, she probably did, but Chloe just didn’t care.
“Game time, Cori! Let’s do this!”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“If it will stop you from singing, I’ll go.”
She frowned. “Stop singing? Not until your butt is on that field.”
She resumed serenading me with Katy Perry and didn’t stop until my butt was on the field. Literally. I had to sit down on the grass for her to stop.
The referee blew rapidly into his whistle as he charged toward Rylee. Two UVA defenders were already in her face, screaming at her, while a third was on the ground, clutching her leg as she grimaced.
I knew what was coming next—we all knew—those of us who saw what Rylee had done. The UVA coaching staff and the rest of the bench were already yelling it: red card. After a few more seconds, the ref pulled out the red card, showed it to Rylee, and raised it high in the air.
She screamed some obscenities at the other team as she left the field, ignoring Coach Kay as she stormed off toward the lockers. Coach Kay followed her for a bit but threw her hands in the air and returned to the field when Rylee kept walking without looking back. I’d never seen Coach Kay look so exasperated.
I was embarrassed to be on the same team as her. The defender had stolen the ball from her yet again, but this time, after the defender cleared it, Rylee came up behind her and swept her legs out from under her. It was a close game, 1-1, but there’s no excuse for that type of behavior.
James paced on the sideline, running his hand his head as he looked down, skin flushed. A few moments later, he glanced in the direction Rylee left and then to the player on the field as he mouthed ‘What the fuck?’ I tried to apologize to the player Rylee had injured, but it was lost in the swarm of staff and players huddled around her.
After the player was taken off the field, the game resumed with me taking over Rylee’s position as striker. This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned I’d get to play as striker. I wish it happened on my own merit, and not as the result of an idiotic decision by Rylee.
The rest of the match went horribly. When the final whistle blew, the end result was 2-1. Our first loss of the season. UVA scored a few minutes after we resumed play and came close nearly a half dozen more times. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did; they were ranked number one and undefeated. They were, without a doubt, the best team in the league at the moment.
It wasn’t the loss that hurt; it was how we lost. We were evenly matched the entire game until Rylee lost her cool and attacked that UVA player. After that, we were playing from a disadvantage. All of us were disgusted by her act, while UVA was emboldened by it. When the game resumed they came back with an intensity we couldn’t match.
All hope of winning or even drawing against them evaporated the moment that red card came out.
“Tough break,” James said, resting his hand on the back of my neck.
I tried to ignore the tingling, pinprick sensations that his touch elicited. His fingers stroked the side of my neck, leaving my lungs deflated; but with the anger and disappointment from the game still fresh, the effect of James’s touch waned faster than usual.
“I can’t believe Rylee would… I just… What the hell got into her?”
James sighed. “I know.”
He pulled me into a hug, and I breathed in his cologne, a delicious, heady scent. All my negative thoughts seemed to melt away in his embrace. That is, until I caught a whiff of myself. I started to become a little self-conscious and tried to pull away, but James held on tighter.
“I smell horrible,” I protested, my head still resting on his chest. I looked up at him and he did that thing where smiled at me with that cute half-smile, and all the air in my lungs disappeared once again.
“I don’t mind,” he said, thumbing a few stray tangles of hair plastered on my forehead. “I love me a sweaty, stinky Cori.”
I bit my lip in an attempt to squelch my inner squees. Unfortunately, one kind of slipped out. And because of the way my lips were pressed together, it sounded less like a squee and more like a fart.
James laughed, and my body warmed up as blood rushed through my chest, up my neck, and across my face.
“What in the world was that?” James asked, after stifling his laugh.
“A sneeze,” I lied.
He squeezed me once more and then let me go.
“We still on for tonight?”
With all that had happened during the game today, I’d completely forgotten about the Blazers vs Sirens game.
“Of course.”
“Good.” There was that smile again. He needed to stop that. Well, okay, maybe not. I just wish it didn’t leave me all wobbly, weak-kneed.
“After yesterday, I wasn’t so sure.”
I broke my gaze with him almost immediately and looked down at my feet. “Yeah,” I said, sheepishly, “I’m sorry about that. I just—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” James said. “It wasn’t my place to meddle. I trust you, Cori. I know you have your reasons. If you do want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”
This time it was me who initiated the hug. He nearly toppled over from my force.
“I’ll always be here for you,” he whispered.
I felt myself melt away in his arms. I wanted to stay in this moment, in his embrace forever. Moments later, however, I heard Coach Kay yell out to James, and my heart sunk to my stomach.
We’d been over here alone, touching, hugging; I’d completely forgotten about the rest of the team and where we were. We broke away from each other.
“I’ll see you tonight,” James said.
“Okay.”
He trotted over to Coach Kay, and she immediately started talking. It didn’t look good. They turned around and headed to the main building.
A sick feeling welled in my stomach as I hoped James wasn’t being reprimanded for our embrace.
27
James
“Thanks again, James,” Coach Kay said as we stood, shaking my hand.
I nodded. “Not a problem.”
She let out a low sigh. “I just hope it works.”
“It will. I’ll make sure of it.”
I left the office and checked my phone. I had a barrage of texts from Cori. She was worried about the conversation between Coach Kay and me. I was worried too, initially. I was relieved to find that it had nothing to do with either me or Cori and everything to do with Rylee’s behavior.
Coach Kay was on the verge of cutting Rylee from the team. It was clear that Rylee’s behavior had become more erratic, creating real repercussions for the team. Cutting her loose would be the logical choice. But then I remembered my conversation with Jack. If my team was willing to give me another chance, then Rylee deserved the same.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s no redemption for Rylee. But I was willing to give it a chance.
Coach Kay ended up suspending Rylee for the rest of the season; she could return in the post-season if she met a few expectations. First, she couldn’t miss anymore practices or games, even though she wouldn’t play. Second, she would now have to workout with Corinne and me three times a week.
I wasn’t thrilled about the last stipulation, but Coach Kay insisted. She’d been impressed with the improvements Cori had made under my guidance and thought a strict routine might help Rylee. Cori would be pissed when I told her, but I had no choice in the matter.
It was probably for the best. We shouldn’t be spending so much time alone together. It could lead to places we shouldn’t go, but a part of me wanted to go. My mind went there multiple times throughout our workouts. It was hard not to when Corinne’s lithe body bent and stretched in front of me.
>
The things I wanted to do…
The things I would do if we were in any other situation…
Someone who wasn’t my player…
Or stepsister…
It was an exercise in pure torture, but one I went through willingly. I’d never felt more alive than when I was with her. Not even the winning the championship last year compared.
Nothing compared to Cori.
When I pulled up to Cori’s apartment, I was a nervous wreck. It was ridiculous. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror, tousling my hair before I gripped the wheel tightly.
It’s just Corinne. Remember those glasses? Those braces and gangly limbs?
An image of her as a teen flashed in my head, calming my nerves. But a few seconds later, it dissolved into a different image: an image of her naked body in my guest room. The soft curve of her breasts. The delicate lines of her neck, of her back and legs. Her firm, round ass.
My cock hardened as I imagined the feel of her alabaster skin under my hands as I gripped her waist, taking her. Rough. Primal. Unrestrained. I was losing control. She made me lose control. I knew it was trouble to play with fire, but a little burn never hurt anyone.
A few seconds later, there was a knock on my window. My grip on the wheel slackened, and my hands fell into my lap as I was jolted out of my fantasy. Corinne smiled at me from the other side of the glass.
Ho-ly shit.
She was wearing makeup; I’d never actually seen her wear makeup before. It wasn’t a lot, but it was more than enough to accentuate her already gorgeous features. My gaze dragged along her face as I took in her beauty.
A thin braid of hair ran along the front of her head, continuing across the side. My eyes followed it and then jumped to her slender neck and down to the thin, delicate straps on her bare shoulders. As I took in the pale yellow sundress that hugged her curves, I knew I wasn’t going to spend a single minute watching the game.
Corinne would have all my attention.
She tapped on the glass again. “Are you just going to sit here all night?”
From behind the window, her words came out muffled, but I heard them perfectly. Christ, I was never this awkward.
I rolled down the window. “Sorry,” I said. “I was about to text you.” I picked up my phone from my lap and waved it in front of me.
“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “I’ll just pretend that you weren’t sitting in front of my apartment for fifteen minutes.”
Had I been out here that long? I swallowed hard as I watched Cori walk around the front of my car, her hips swaying back and forth. It had a mesmerizing effect, and I found myself again imagining myself lifting up the hem of that dress, slipping my fingers under her…
Get it together! Can you not spend a single night with Corinne without eye-fucking the shit out of her?
She knocked on the passenger side window and then pointed to the lock. “A little help here,” her face seemed to ask.
I fumbled with the buttons for a moment, but eventually hit the right one and Corinne hopped inside.
She smoothed out her sundress and then glanced at me. “So what music are we listening to?”
“Death Cab for Cutie.”
She grinned at me. “Death Cab? I didn’t think you liked them.”
“You introduced them to me, remember?”
“I remember,” she said, with a slight frown. “I also remember you never responding to that letter.”
I snorted. “What? You’re the one that never responded.”
“I can’t respond to a letter I never received,” she said flatly, facing forward.
We’re off to a great start tonight. I wanted to keep pushing because I knew I was right, but what did it matter now? It was in the past and pushing any further would only make this car ride more awkward.
I dropped it, flipping through my music library until selecting a track from the Death Cab’s Trasatlanticism album—the album she suggested to me in her letter.
“Good choice,” Cori said, a smile returning her lips as the smooth voice of Benjamin Gibbard washed over us.
28
Corinne
James leapt to his feet. What little popcorn he hadn’t eaten spilled from his bag and onto the ground. “That’s how it’s done!” He followed it up with an ear-splitting whistle a few seconds later.
I sat there, gaping at the kid in an adult’s body pumping his fist in the air. It was kind of adorable watching him get so excited. I’d rarely seen this much emotion spring from him before—the stoic he was.
James looked down at me, his hands on his hips. “Man, that was something else.”
“Yeah,” I smiled up at him. “Amy is amazing.”
“Amazing?” He looked at me as though I’d said something unforgivable. “She’s outstanding.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet without much effort. Dear Lord he had some strength in those arms. “Watch this,” he said, pointing to the massive television screen across from us.
“Connecting with a header like that…” he said, narrating the replay. “That’s control. Not many women, let alone men could do something like that. Hell, I probably couldn’t. The keeper didn’t have a chance.”
I’ll take his word for it because I wasn’t watching the screen. Instead, I was intently focused on his arm, the tattoos on it to be more specific. I’d never actually paid much attention to them until now. I traced the various patterns and symbols and text with my eyes, trying to discern their meaning.
I felt my cheeks flush as I followed one particular pattern until it disappeared under James’s shirtsleeve. I found myself imagining him without his shirt, my fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos, my lips exploring his muscled torso.
I bit my lip and turned away. Why was I torturing myself? I knew very well that nothing would ever happen between James and me. I wasn’t his type. I’d seen him with models and dancers and actresses. I wasn’t any of those things, and I never would be.
Besides, he was my coach and my stepbrother. It couldn’t work.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from hoping and wishing for the possibility. We seemed to be getting along, enjoying each other’s company, and there were times when I sensed that he felt the same. But maybe I’d only imagined it.
I’m sure he’s only spending time with me because he felt bad for not visiting while he was away or for all those letters of mine he ignored. He said he replied, but I know he didn’t. I would’ve gotten his letters. Mine made it to him; I saw that while I was at his apartment.
James placed his hand on my neck, and I felt myself begin to melt away into the floor. It was a new thing he did, touching my neck in such a gentle and affectionate manner. It always made it difficult for me to breathe because my entire body would get overwhelmed with the rush of endorphins and release of serotonin.
I was unable to control my body’s response to his touch. But the truth is that I didn’t want to control it. And I knew, after what happened last year, that it could lead to dangerous places.
“I think the Sirens could win it all this season,” James said, sitting down, kicking his feet up on the seat in front of him.
And just when I thought I’d gotten my body under control again, James spoke.
“And I still think you’d be a great fit for them,” James said, rubbing the back of my head.
Goosebumps erupted along my arms and legs as a smile formed on my lips. He knew exactly what to say. So did Tyler. The difference, though, was that James actually meant the words that came from his mouth.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. The season isn’t over yet.”
James nodded. “True.” He scrunched his face as though he were thinking. He turned to me, opened his mouth, but then closed it again.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
He shoved his hand into the bag of popcorn, paper rustling as he reached the bottom. H
e flipped the bag upside down and shook it in front of me. “Did you eat it all while I wasn’t looking?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Take a look at the floor, messy.”
“I’m not Messi,” James said, grinning.
“Yes you are, just look at the floor.”
“I’m James Calder.” He was biting back laughter
It was then that I realized what he was going on about. “Seriously James, another pun?” I slapped his arm. “They’re not funny.”
He leaned into me. “You love my puns, Cori.”
I groaned because I actually did like the pun. Mostly because of how hilarious James thought it was.
“Okay, you’re right. You definitely aren’t Lionel Messi. He actually knows how to play soccer.”
James’s eyes and mouth widened. A few moments later, his shock gave way to a fit of laughter. “Okay, that was pretty good. It hurts a little, but still pretty good.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re still my favorite player.”
The whistle blew and the half ended. The Sirens were up 2-0 and poised for a shutout. The sound of shuffling feet, random conversation, and children screaming surrounded us as people filtered out of their seats.
I looked around the stadium, at the seats, the media boxes and cameras, and finally at the field. Ball chasers, none of whom were older than twelve, ran around on the field having the time of their lives. I remembered when I was their age, dreaming of having the chance of being on that same field.
I glanced away from the field and noticed a kid, no older than eight, standing at the end of our row. He had an adorable bowl cut that ended just above his bulging, blue eyes. The jersey he wore engulfed him, hanging so low that it looked like he was wearing a dress. It was a New York Stars jersey—number eleven.
“James,” I whispered, nudging him with my elbow.
“Huh?” He looked at me and then followed my gaze.
“I think you have—” James was already on his feet and heading toward the kid. “—a fan.”
James knelt in front of the kid and pulled out a pen. The kid twirled around, the fringe of his jersey blowing upward as James signed his name on the back before standing up again. The kid twirled back around, head flung back as he gawked at James. He knelt again so the kid wouldn’t hurt his neck and whispered something into his ear.