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by May, McKinley

  "Sheesh. Double the legacy? That's rough."

  "Tell me about it," he mutters.

  "Is your brother good?"

  "Yeah," he says without hesitation. "Fuck yeah. He's the face of Arsenal, not to mention one of the best players in the Premier League overall. Some think he might end up being better than my dad."

  "You've never mentioned him before," I remark.

  He shrugs. "He's four years older than me and we were super tight growing up. But things changed when our parents got divorced and he left. Our relationship basically took a nosedive after that."

  "He left when your parents got divorced? Where did he go?"

  "Back to the U.K. with our dad." Weston's eyes meet mine. "You know how I told you my mom studied in France in college?"

  I bob my head.

  "Well, she met my dad on a weekend trip to London. They got married, she finished up her studies, and it wasn't long before Rhett and I were born."

  "Hold on...you were born in England?" I ask in awe. "You're British?"

  "Half. Mom's American, Dad's English."

  "Where's your charming British accent?"

  He laughs. "I only lived there until I was three, so I never got one. Sorry to disappoint."

  "Shame," I say with a teasing grin. "So you guys moved to Texas?"

  "Yep. My mom was more than ready to go back to the states. She loved England, but she's a Texan through-and-through. When my dad suffered a career-ending injury, they packed their bags and moved our family to her small hometown."

  "But that didn't work out?"

  "For a while, it did, but my dad wasn't happy here just like my mom wasn't happy in London. When he got the call to coach with Arsenal, it was a no-brainer. I was thirteen when they decided to split up—amicably, thank fuck for that. Rhett went with my dad across the pond. I stayed here with my mom."

  "Dang." I frown. "It wasn't just your parents separating. It was like an entire family divorce!"

  "Pretty much."

  "I'm assuming your brother went over there for soccer reasons." When he confirms with a nod, I arch a puzzled brow. "But you didn't want to go with them?"

  "Nah, I did. As a kid, playing for Arsenal was my freaking dream. Even as a teen, I knew my chances of making it big time would increase if I trained over in Europe. I legit begged to join them, but my dad said no." A humorless laugh follows his words. "Actually, he said a helluva lot more than a simple 'no'. His entire spiel was thirty minutes long, so here's the Cliff Notes version: I wasn't fast enough, I wasn't strong enough, and he didn't see any promising potential in me."

  "Sheesh. Your dad's kinda...blunt."

  "No doubt about that. But that's just how it is; facts over feelings in the world of sports." He frowns. "It's the shit he started spouting off next that really got to me. Saying he wanted to focus solely on Rhett and his career, put 100% of his time and effort into helping him succeed. He said I'd be nothing more than a 'burden' and 'distraction' if he let me come with them."

  I shake my head. "That's so messed up."

  "Yeah, that kinda fucked me up for a while." Weston emits a deep breath. "My brother's always been my dad's number one priority. He was older, more skilled, and he and my dad were more alike on and off the field. It used to seriously piss me off, and I'd try so freaking hard to compete for that coveted 'Dad's Favorite' spot, but there was no damn point. Rhett's his pride and joy, his 'golden child', but for him to throw it in my face was a load of bull. I mean, he basically told me I wasn't as good as my brother, and therefore I wasn't worth his time. Shit like that cuts deep when you're young."

  "I can imagine," I say softly. "But obviously he had a change of heart?"

  "That's the ironic part of this whole thing. I don't know if I was spurred on by his refusal or what, but I started training as hard as I fucking could. My spare time consisted of soccer drills, running bleachers, and studying the game. By the time I was a Sophomore in high school, I was starting Varsity. Junior Year, I had offers from both university and professional teams. And when Senior Year rolled around, my dad was heavily recruiting me. We made a deal—I'd play in college for a little while and then consider going over there. For the last three years, he's been on my ass about joining the squad, but now it's me who isn't interested. The tables have turned."

  "And what made you change your mind?"

  "Being here by myself, for sure. Figuring out who I was as a soccer player without being in the shadow of those two. I finally felt like I was my own person paving my own path. Not just the son or little brother who wasn't measuring up, you know?"

  "Totally get it," I comment. "I'm constantly compared to my older sisters in school. It gets old real fast. I'm not a carbon-copy of them."

  "Exactly." He rubs the back of his neck and glances at me. "And I know if I go to London, the comparisons are gonna start right back up again. The Paine name still ensures I'm held to their accomplishments no matter what. It doesn't even make any freaking sense to directly compare us, but the entire soccer world does it regardless."

  His brows pull together as he shakes his head. "The funny thing is, I'm a fucking good player. I score a shit ton for a defender, but it's never gonna hold a candle to their numbers. Sure, I might take a mean free kick, but me getting the Golden Boot like my dad did in the World Cup? Not gonna happen. Doesn't matter how badass you are, when you play a defensive position, you're not gonna get the same type of praise or glory. You're just not. I mean, how many times has a defensive player won the Heisman? How many times has—"

  "Whoa. Wait a minute," I interject. "Is there a StadiumScore crew around? Is Rayne here getting a quote for Windhaven Weekly's sports section?"

  One side of his mouth quirks up. "No?"

  "Then why are you speaking ESPN to me? Free kicks, Golden Boot, Heisman? You think I know what that crap means?" I dig my shoulder into his and smile mockingly. "English, please."

  "You're such a smart-ass," he says with a laugh. "All I'm saying is I'm never gonna live up to the standards set by my brother and dad because they're not even feasible for me. And even if they were, I don't think I'd want to."

  "So Arsenal's a no-go then?"

  "It's a no-go," he confirms. "It's batshit crazy to turn down fucking Arsenal, and I'm sure I'll get a lot of heat in the media for my choice, but it's just not what I want."

  A cool breeze blows across the way, the gentle tickle on my skin causing me to shiver. Weston wraps an arm around me, pulling me close to his warm body.

  "How did you tell your dad you weren't going?" I prod.

  "I called him over winter break and laid it all out on the line for him. No small talk, no 'how's the weather over there' bullshit. Just said I wasn't planning on signing a contract with the team and that's that."

  "And how did he respond?"

  "Not great. Said we needed to discuss it further, not make any rash decisions. And he and my brother have been trying to contact me nonstop since that convo, but there's nothing left to say. I've made up my mind."

  Another gust of cold wind whips through my hair as I chew on his words.

  It's shocking to me how parallel our personal lives are. This is more than just the superficial things we have in common. We're both dealing with some major, life-altering decisions here.

  Except his situation is a zillion times more complicated than mine.

  If he's pursuing what he wants in a predicament like this, foregoing those career expectations with possible public scrutiny for the decision, then surely I can stand up to my own parents, right?

  My thoughts are cut short by a barrage of male voices.

  "Yo, Weston!"

  "Quit monkeying around, dude! Ha! Get it? Monkeying around? Monkey bars? Anybody?"

  "Shut your face, Carlos!"

  "Ay, who's the chick?"

  My head turns towards the noise and I spot a pack of seven or eight shadowy figures approaching the field.

  "Who are they?" I ask Weston.

  A bright smile
lights up his face, a simply stated, "Those are the kids" his only explanation.

  He jumps down, wood chips crunching beneath his sneakers. Holding out a hand, he assists me to the ground.

  We meet the boys at a lone metal bench under a buzzing field light. Now that they're no longer clothed in darkness, I'm able to make out their features. Instantly, I realize why Weston refers to them as 'kids'; they can't be more than 14 years old.

  "Lexie, meet the kids." Weston motions to the teens before pointing at me. "Kids, meet Lexie."

  I shake hands with each of the guys and get their names.

  "Are you joining our session?" A brunette named Mark lifts a thick brow at me.

  "Session?" I look to Weston for further information.

  "I meet up with these guys on Wednesdays to do some skills training and conditioning. Just trying to prep them for college soccer or a professional team or in Jamie's case—" he shoots a scolding glare at the lanky boy with snake bite piercings "—a soccer career behind bars. An orange jumpsuit and a ball-and-chain isn't the most practical of uniforms, but you'll get used to it eventually."

  Jamie lets out a low groan. "Lay off."

  "I'm just telling it like it is, dude," Weston says with a frown. "That's gonna be your future if you don't stop fucking around."

  "It was just some Xanny and X. Not a big deal," Jamie mutters.

  "It is a big deal. It's not cool, man. Right now it's Juvie, but the day you turn eighteen that shit's gonna get you in big-boy jail. You don't want that, bro."

  The other guys pipe up in agreement, each one spouting words of encouragement to bad-apple Jamie until he promises he'll do better.

  As I watch the interaction, intrigued by the camaraderie between Weston and the boys, the shortest and youngest looking of the bunch, Carlos, steps forward.

  "This your girl, Weston? Because if not..." He hits me with the oh-so-suave double finger guns and clicks his tongue twice. "I'm recently single."

  "Uhhh. That's very interesting." It takes all of my willpower not to burst out in laughter, but Weston releases a loud guffaw on my behalf.

  "Might wanna wait until puberty arrives before hitting on college chicks, Carlos," he says as he gives the boy a hearty whack on the back. "She could be your friggin' babysitter."

  Weston's eyes find mine and he gives me a teasing wink. "And Lexie is my girl, so I don't want any of you guys giving her a hard time, yeah?"

  The gang grunts in acknowledgement. Carlos drops the ball he's holding and tips his chin at me. "Are you at least gonna practice with us?"

  I chuckle. "Probably not."

  "Aw, come on," he eggs me on. "Let's see what you got."

  He passes the ball in my direction, I time the kick perfectly, anddd...

  Are you kidding me?!

  It's going straight for the crotch...again?!

  Lucky for Carlos, he's alert and quickly dodges out of the way. He swears under his breath as the rest of the guys erupt in hysterics.

  "I don't think she likes you much, man!" Mark manages to get out between wheezy laughs.

  I throw my arms up in exasperation. "Do you guys put magnets down your pants or something? Damn!"

  Weston shoots me an amused glance. "I think it's best if she watches for a little while."

  "Good idea," I instantly agree, plopping down on the silver bench. "I'll sit this one on the sideline."

  For the next forty minutes, I observe from afar as Weston trains with the kids. He's shockingly good with them, and I feel like I'm in the freakin' Twilight Zone as I see him in a new light.

  He's so responsible.

  So authoritative.

  So mature.

  Not my typical descriptors of choice when it comes to my lab partner.

  When the boys start a shooting drill and Weston begins picking up orange cones, I jog over to him.

  "You do this every Wednesday?" I ask.

  "Rain or shine."

  "Is this part of a volunteer thing or like, mandatory for your team or something?"

  "Nah." He scoops up the last cone and levels me with a funny look. "I'm not getting community service hours or money out of it, either, to answer your next question."

  "Pfft. What?" I fake offense. "That wasn't my next question."

  "Surree," he mouths with an all-knowing smirk. "I met Carlos here about a year ago. He was practicing some moves and asked if I'd teach him a few tricks. Kid's a little punk, but it was fun helping him out. We started meeting up every week, and more and more dudes were showing up. Now it's about 8-12 guys every time."

  I study him for a moment. "Have you ever considered coaching soccer?"

  "Definitely thought about it. I wanna play professionally, but I'd like to do some development camps or youth programs on the side, too. Something free for kids who can't afford club soccer."

  My insides go a little gooey at his words because how could they not?

  He's totally sweet.

  "You're a really good guy, Weston," I murmur quietly, so quietly I'm surprised when he turns to me, expression indicating he heard my compliment.

  He grins, about to respond when a stray ball rolls our direction.

  I perk up. "Ooh! I got it!"

  I jog forward, but my route is cut short when Weston wraps his arms around my middle and lifts me from the ground. My foot collides with nothing but air as the sphere cruises past.

  "Get the hell away from that," he chides as he swings me around effortlessly. "No more balls for you."

  I squirm in his grip. "Why not?"

  "These guys came here to practice, not get fucking sterilized."

  His breathy laughter tickles the tip of my ear, the sensation causing heat to blossom in my chest. The warmth spreads as he sets me down, turning me 180 degrees so we're face-to-face.

  He puts his hands on my waist, tugs me closer, and—surprise, surprise—my heartbeat takes off like a damn racehorse.

  At this rate, I may need to consider getting myself on a heart transplant list. I'm not sure how much longer this ticker's gonna last with Weston around.

  It's so strange, these reactions I experience when I'm with him. After years of barely even a hint of electricity with other guys, it's borderline absurd the way I'm feeling lately.

  It's as if my body's been saving up every butterfly, every internal firework, every single physiological response for the right guy to come around...

  But Weston?

  He's the right guy?

  Is that even possible?

  His brows pull together as he watches me, one side of his mouth curving up in question. "What are you thinking about?"

  "You."

  The confession comes out in a soft whisper, that one single syllable changing the playful nature of the conversation at the drop of a hat.

  Weston's hazel irises go cloudy, intrigue and arousal flickering within their depths. He reaches out and cups my chin. My breath hitches at the gentle touch.

  And before I can assess what's happening, his lips crash against mine in a fervent kiss.

  If I thought my physical reactions were extreme before, they're minuscule in comparison to the turmoil transpiring at this very instant. Fiery heat floods my cheeks, my veins, and my core. Every nerve in my body hums and buzzes like a live wire. I'm so loopy I can't even feel the ground beneath my feet.

  When I'm no longer at risk of sensory overload, I reciprocate. Fisting his shirt in my hands, I tug him closer, greedy and desperate to feel his body on mine.

  His erection rubs against my lower abdomen and he groans with unabashed pleasure. When he sneaks a hand behind me and palms my ass, it's my turn to let out a sensual moan.

  "Fuck, Lexie," he mumbles against my mouth.

  My eyes flutter close as he deepens the kiss, our tongues meeting between parted lips.

  I don't know how long we're in this position, bodies molded together and drowning in ecstasy as we explore one another.

  I couldn't even tell you which way is up at the moment.


  But all good things must come to an end, and Jamie's voice brings us back down to reality.

  "Hey! Y'all stop sucking face and bring us the cones!"

  Weston releases a pained, guttural sound in his chest as he reluctantly pulls away.

  When I slowly blink my eyes open, he's staring at me. His expression perfectly mirrors my feelings about what just went down.

  Confused.

  Bewildered.

  Ridiculously turned on.

  His chest rises and falls with labored breaths. He doesn't speak, just pierces me with that mesmerizing, half-lidded gaze. I watch as he jogs over to the boys, my eyes unwilling to focus on anything but him.

  My fingers lift to rest on my lips...my swollen, sensitive lips that serve as indisputable proof that yes—I did just share an earth-shattering kiss with Weston.

  And that's when I realize something.

  Something sorta-kinda freakin' insane.

  I am definitely getting attached to him.

  Oh shit.

  21

  "Damn, Lexie." I jerk my phone away from my head as a sudden blast of music threatens to burst my eardrum. "What the fuck is that?"

  "Huh?" Lexie's response is muffled, her voice drowned out by the cheesy lyrics blaring around her. A few seconds later, the volume lowers and she laughs. "Oops. That was a little loud. What were you saying?"

  I cautiously bring my cell back to my ear. "What is that shitty music you're listening to?"

  "Shitty music? I know you're not referring to the Moana soundtrack."

  "If that's what's playing in the background, then hell yeah that's what I'm referring to."

  "Well, you at least like the movie, right?"

  "Never seen it."

  A little gasp penetrates the line. "Whaatt? Why not?"

  "Shit, I dunno, Lex. Maybe 'cause I'm not a 10 year old girl?"

  "I'm not a 10 year old girl and I like it," she counters before immediately breaking into song. "I've been standing at the edge of the water, 'long as I can remember, never really knowing why!"

  "Jesus," I groan at her off-key melody. "You're a girl of many talents, Barbie, but singing sure isn't one of them."