Love and Other Goals (Love and Other #1)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

“ W ould you at least wear a cute athletic skort?” Teegan pleads with me, frustration in her voice.

“No, Teegs,” I state firmly. “We are going on a hike. I am not wearing a skirt. I’m just going to wear shorts and an athletic tank. I do not need to look cute for this.”

Teegan groans as I wrap my hair up in a messy bun. She pouts her lower lip. “This is Kansas; it’s not even a real hike. You can wear an athletic skirt to walk along a trail.”

I can’t help but laugh. Dressing me in just the right outfit is one of Teegan’s love languages, but I’m not going to be swayed this time. I want to feel comfortable hiking (okay, walking) so my brain can concentrate on my conversation with Mateo today. He’s going to pick me up in about ten minutes to drive to a trailhead on the opposite edge of campus.

Lacing up my tennis shoes, I nod and reply, “Mmhmm,” to all of Teegan’s reminders to have fun, forget about Aaron, and remember every detail to report back later.

I’m guessing Mateo might be early again, so I throw my belt bag over my head as I bound down the stairs. Sure enough, he’s coming up the walkway as I head out the front door. He somehow manages to look equally as attractive in athletic shorts and a performance tee as he did dressed up nice for our first date.

Mateo smiles and greets me. As he opens the truck door for me, my eyes are drawn to the shift of the muscles in his shoulders, and I’m grateful to be wearing lightweight athletic gear as a flush heats my face.

After starting the truck, Mateo pauses. “Is it okay if we stop by the soccer complex real quick? Coach swears he told us to turn in attendance sheets at practice this morning, but no one remembered. We can’t accuse Coach of forgetting, so I need to drop it off.”

“Of course, not a problem at all,” I reply. Despite the popularity of the home soccer matches among the student body, I haven’t ever been to the soccer complex before.

I take a drink from the water bottle Mateo had waiting in the cup holder for me as we pull up to the soccer complex. “You’re welcome to come look around if you want,” Mateo offers.

I hop out and follow him through the parking lot. We head around to the side of the complex, where the building with the offices and locker rooms sits at one end of the field. I can’t go into the locker room, obviously, so I explore as I wait.

Walking down the sideline of the field, I see a few soccer balls apparently forgotten after practice earlier that day. I’m scanning the chalk markings on the grass, imagining the crowds cheering in the stands for Mateo and the team. I gently kick one of the balls onto the edge of the field and run my foot back and forth over its surface.

“Ever been to a match before?” Mateo asks as he jogs up behind me. I shake my head.

“No, but I can imagine how pumped the crowd gets when Townsend wins. With the stands so close to the field, it must get loud. Everyone loves the soccer team here,” I say.

Mateo shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so. It is really fun to hear the crowd get going when we’re close to shooting on goal.”

I stare pensively out at the field. Mateo frowns and asks if I’m okay, and I make a decision.

I turn to face him, the soccer ball still at my feet between us. “You know on our date when you asked me what would surprise my friends about past Lana?”

He nods. “Of course I do.”

I give a small smirk. “Well, I told you about my lawn care business, but I could have also told you that I played seven years of competitive soccer.”

Without giving him time to process what I said, I kick the ball with my left foot toward the center and take off dribbling down the field. I caught Mateo off guard, but he’s much faster than me, so it won’t take him long to be hot on my heels.

The familiar rush of streaking down a soccer field with an opponent chasing me takes over my brain and body. I sense Mateo closing in, but I know he won’t come after me as aggressively as he would against a real opposing player. I take advantage of him taking it easy on me to juke to one side to escape. I’m just inside the box and pulling my leg back to take my shot when I feel Mateo’s arm wrap around my waist as he pulls me off course. The ball slowly rolls to a stop well short of the net.

“Hey! Whistle! Whistle, whistle!” I yell. Mateo is dying laughing as he releases his arm from around me.

“That, sir, was a penalty,” I tell him with feigned indignity, poking my finger in his chest.

He just shrugs his shoulder with a smile. “Maybe the penalty was worth it.”

I ignore his flirting. “You owe me a penalty kick,” I announce as I march to scoop up the ball and place it in position. I point at Mateo and then the goal, commanding him to take the goalie position.

Mateo reluctantly moves in front of the net. “For the record, I haven’t played keeper since I was like, eight years old,” he says as he crouches and holds his hands out at his sides.

“Well, I haven’t shot a PK in almost four years, so we’ll call it an even match,” I say. My mind immediately transports me back to the fields in Kansas City, hearing my coaches and teammates cheering me on as I stare down the opposing goalkeeper .

I decide to pull out my favorite PK strategy since Mateo doesn’t know anything about the way I used to play. Blowing out a deep breath, I glance at both corners of the net before ever so slightly angling my body toward the right side. I’m sprinting toward the ball as Mateo takes my bait and starts a dive to the right, but I take a Jorginho hop and use it to angle my kick to the top left corner instead.

The ball swishes into the back of the net, and I raise my hands in victory as Mateo sits up with his arms on his knees. We both turn our heads at the sound of loud voices.

“Ohhhh, she totally faked you out, bro!” Andrès yells as he walks toward us. Another teammate is doubled over laughing. “Burn, man!”

I can’t help but smile as Mateo hops up, defending himself. “Dude, I’m a midfielder! I never claimed to have goalkeeping skills.” He’s laughing as he gives Andrès a bro hug before mock slapping the back of his head. I start walking toward them, and the three of them meet me halfway.

“Andrès, you know Lana,” Mateo says as Andrès gives me a huge grin that clues me in that he probably knows a lot about me from Mateo. “And Lana, this is Chris—he’s one of our starting defenders.”

Chris reaches out to shake my hand. “That was quite the PK. We always enjoy seeing Alvarez get put in his place,” he says with a laugh as he shoves Mateo, who puts him in a headlock in return. This is clearly their typical team dynamic, because all three of them are smiling without a hint of ill will.

“Yeah, well I only learned about two minutes before that impressive display that Lana played competitive soccer her whole life, so I was at a disadvantage,” Mateo says as he winks at me. My heart does a much bigger flip flop this time.

I raise my hands up and tilt my head. “Hey, your coach would probably say you’re always supposed to be prepared, so I’m just exposing any weak spots.” It’s crazy how quickly trash talk comes back, even after you’ve been disengaged for a long time.

Chris and Andrès give Mateo a hard time all over again. When they’re done scuffling, Andrès claps Mateo on the back and says, “What would you say to playing a little two v two action?”

Mateo looks over at me and raises one shoulder in question. The exhilaration of being back on the field is still pumping through me, so I nod my head and reply, “Sure!”

“But only if I get Lana as my partner,” Mateo quickly adds with a grin. “I’m not going up against her again.”

I blush, and he high-fives me as Andrès spells out the rules. “We’ll play on one half of the field and take turns attacking the goal. If the ball goes out of bounds or back past the midfield line, the other team takes the ball. First to score five points wins. Cool?”

We all nod, and Mateo loses rock-paper-scissors, so we start on defense. As we jog to position, I hold up a hand and say, “Wait just a sec.” I pull the hair ties out of my bun and let the messy waves fall down my back. Flipping my head over, I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and tightly secure it with an extra loop of my hair tie, my signature hairstyle all the years I played.

It always drove new coaches crazy at first—they’d try to insist that I somehow braid my nearly waist-length hair to keep it well-managed so it wouldn’t weigh me down or get in my face as I was fighting for the ball. But they all quickly learned that I played my best with my thick mane free-flowing as I maneuvered the field.

Ponytail secure, I jump in place a couple of times and say, “Ready!”

Mateo is openly staring at me with a smile. He asks, “By the way, what position did you play?”

“Striker!” I yell to him as I start jogging toward Chris. “I always sucked at defense!”

Mateo gives a short laugh before quickly closing the distance between him and Andrès, forcing Andrès to pass to Chris. I’m ready for it and bump into him with more of an arm shove than he was probably anticipating. He’s thrown off balance just enough that I’m able to boot the ball out of bounds, earning a loud cheer from Mateo.

Hey, a girl has got to use whatever resources she has to her advantage. Even if it’s guys taking it easy on her .

Mateo tells me to take the ball to start our offensive at the midfield line. Andrès is standing a few paces back, waiting for me to bring the ball into play. I give the ball a soft kick, keeping my dribble slow and controlled as I watch Andrès moving toward me. I pick up speed as he comes in to fight for the ball. He nearly steals control, but I manage to inside cut the ball and kick a hard left-footed pass over to Mateo on the right side.

As he settles the pass and works his way up the field against Chris, I sprint toward the goal box. I don’t think Andrès will expect me to try a header, so when Mateo makes eye contact with me, I give a small upward jerk of my head. He raises his eyebrows right before kicking a perfect cross assist.

My instinct was correct, and Andrès stays grounded instead of jumping to fight for the ball. I offer up a split-second prayer that I haven’t forgotten how to do this as I leap up to head the ball into the back of the net.

The joy of this game I once loved so much expands through every cell of my body. Without even thinking about it, my arms raise as though holding a bow and shooting an arrow into the goal—my token score celebration, once upon a time.

I hear Mateo’s loud cheer seconds before he whirls me around in celebration. “Yesssss, Lana!” he says, then wags his finger at the guys. “Now you see what it’s like to be caught off guard by her skills.”

Laughing but also winded (this is the most I’ve sprinted in a while!), I bend down with my hands on my knees, gasping in oxygen as I smile up at Andrès and Chris.

“That’s it, we know you’re pulling out all the stops. No more going easy,” Chris says with a grin.

What follows can only be described as one of the most fun experiences of my entire college career. I’m surprised by how quickly my brain unlocks the closed soccer compartment and unleashes all the muscle memory I have in order to keep up with the guys.

We’re equal parts seriously competing, laughing, and trash talking as we go back and forth on the field. Andrès and Chris are up 4-3, and Mateo is fighting Chris to keep the ball to try to tie up the score. He does a lightning-fast pullback to get the ball away from Chris before passing it toward me in the corner of the box.

Andrès is sprinting next to me to try to reach the ball first when we suddenly hear, “Alvarez! Garcia! Garrett! What do you knuckleheads think you’re doing?”

We quickly stop short and swivel our bodies to the office building, where Coach Anderson is standing. Looking not too happy.

“Out here goofing off with no cleats, no shin guards, no nothing. One of you idiots is going to wind up rolling an ankle and ruining our season!” Coach yells as the three guys sheepishly hang their heads.

“Sorry Coach, it was my fault,” Mateo yells back. “We’ll head out right now.”

“See you at practice tomorrow—early, for ten extra laps,” Coach adds before turning back to the building.

The four of us are out of breath with our hands on our knees or above our heads. I exhale. “Sorry about that, guys.”

They look at each other and grin. “Totally worth the extra laps!” Andrès says, as he and Chris give me high fives. “This was awesome. We’ll have a rematch after soccer season is over, so you’re not too sad about losing.”

“Whatever man. Lana was totally about to score, I could sense it,” Mateo says as he throws an arm over my shoulders. I’m grateful that my cheeks are already flushed from running so the guys don’t know how much I’m blushing at his touch.

“Sure, sure, you can tell yourself that all you want till you get to prove it!” Chris teases as they wave and head toward the parking lot.

Mateo turns to me. “So, you still want to go out to the trail?”

I shake my head. “Nope, I’d say that counts as sufficient physical exercise for this date.” Mateo chuckles as his dimple pops, making me smile. “I have a better idea—let’s go get slushies.”

There’s a gas station on the edge of campus that has the mother of all slushie machines. There are ten different flavors, but more importantly, the machine runs on some kind of magic that makes the texture of the slush perfectly smooth without a hint of chunky ice. Similar enchantment keeps the flavor evenly dispersed, so you’re never left with a sad pile of barely-flavored ice.

“What the lady wants, she gets,” Mateo says, tossing the soccer ball back to the sideline. We head to his truck and drive toward the campus gas station. The weather is not terribly hot, but he cranks up the air anyway. I lean my face toward the vent to try to dry some of the sweat on my forehead. My hair is sticking to the skin on my neck and shoulders, and it’s probably three times bigger after running around so much.

I don’t even care.

It’s a short drive, but the whole way my brain falls back in time to high school, submerged in soccer memories. Amazing wins with my team, heartbreaking losses, the roar of our families and friends cheering us on from their sideline lawn chairs. I’ve kept a lid on all those memories for the past three years, but it feels good to open it back up and breathe in the nostalgia.

Mateo parks his truck and follows me into the gas station. I head straight to the slushie machine and grab two large cups, handing one to him. He’s looking over all the flavors intently, and I elbow him in the side. “Please tell me you’ve been here for a slushie before.”

He gives me a fake grimace. “Only once freshman year. What flavor is better? Cherry Limeade or Blue Raspberry?”

I give an exaggerated sigh. “There’s only one correct way to do this.” I pull his arm over to the pop machine. “First, you have to get a splash of Vanilla Coke, just enough to give the hint of vanilla,” I say as I demonstrate how much.

Heading back over to the slushie machine, I put my cup under the Coke nozzle and begin filling. “Then, you fill it up with Coke slush. No mixing flavors. This right here is perfection.” I pop on the lid and stick in a straw.

Mateo looks at me and deadpans, “You know this is the literal opposite of hydration, right?”

“But it’s oh-so-good, especially after exercising out in the sun,” I say as I take a long sip. “Ahhh, so good.”

“Okay, but can I mix in cherry instead of vanilla? I’ve never really liked Vanilla Coke,” Mateo asks as he holds his cup under the Cherry slushie nozzle.

I bat his cup away and say with gravity. “No. Mixing. Slushie. Flavors.” He smirks at me, and I make an I’m-watching-you gesture with my fingers. “If you must have cherry instead, at least get a splash of Cherry Coke. I’ll try not to take it personally that you don’t like vanilla.”

“I surrender,” he says with a grin, and follows my instructions. We head up to the register to pay, but he stops to grab two cold water bottles first. “At least promise to drink water along with your caffeinated dehydration beverage.”

We head out the door, holding our slushie cups and water bottles. As we near the truck, Mateo asks, “What do you say we leave the truck parked here and walk across the street to campus? There’s a shaded area with some picnic tables not too far.”

I agree, and we stand at the crosswalk waiting for a break in traffic. “Have you tried it yet? Is it the best post-workout drink you’ve ever tasted?”

Mateo takes a sip. “I’ll give you that it tastes great. I’ll fight you that it can be classified as a post-workout drink,” he quips. We jog across the street before the next wave of cars comes through and walk along the sidewalk to a small alcove with tables outside of the engineering building. There are lots of trees shading the area and a cool breeze blowing, making it the perfect place to sit and relax.

We sit on two benches next to each other around a square table, and I make a show of opening my water bottle and taking a long drink. “See? I’m hydrating.”

“I approve,” Mateo says before doing the same. He then takes a drink of his slushie before continuing, “So, you’re obviously going to have to tell me a little more about that soccer show back there. ”

I smile down at the table and switch to sipping my slushie. “Yeah, no one at Townsend knows that I used to be so hardcore about soccer. I mean, Teegan and Amaya know that I was on the soccer team in high school, but even they have no idea how competitively I played.”

“Or how incredibly skilled you are?” Mateo asks with a raised eyebrow. I blush. “So, the bow and arrow—was that your signature goal celebration?”

“Starting my sophomore year of high school, it was,” I tell him. “I played on our high school team, but in the fall seasons I always played with a club team. It was an ongoing gift from my grandparents on my dad’s side, to pay the fees for me to play club soccer. I switched to a new team in a different league sophomore year, and our team name was The Archers. There was an archery range that agreed to sponsor our team if we adopted the name.”

Mateo rolls his eyes. “I know exactly how that goes. I once played on a team called The Locomotives, thanks to an auto parts store.”

“That definitely makes Archers not seem so bad,” I say with a giggle. “In our first game, I scored a goal in minute three, and that’s just the celebration that my brain landed on in that moment of adrenaline. My teammates and our sideline went crazy, so it just sort of stuck. Of course, my dad decided to be super embarrassing and started bringing a sign that said ‘Bullseye’ to hold up every time I scored.”

“But you kind of loved it,” Mateo says with a mischievous grin.

“You’re right, I totally did,” I laugh.

He leans in with one elbow propped on the table between us. “So…why didn’t you keep playing? It sure looked like you had the skill to play for a college team. What made you decide not to?”

I fiddle with my slushie straw for a minute. Eventually, I turn toward him to prop my toes on the edge of his bench. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my chin on my knees while I think.

“I don’t know,” I start. “Well, that’s not true, I do know, but sometimes I wonder if my logic was flawed.”

Mateo props his head with one hand and just looks at me with those perfect brown eyes, not pushing but just waiting expectantly.

“I had my plan all laid out, knowing exactly what I was going to major in, what activities I would join, what leadership check marks I needed on my résumé to prepare for law school,” I finally share. “I knew it was going to take a lot of focus to be prepared to apply at the beginning of my senior year. And I also knew that college athletics takes a lot of time, attention, and dedication, even at the DII or DIII level.”

Mateo nods. “You’re not wrong there.”

“So, even though I had soft offers from a couple of schools, I just shut it down. I decided I was done after my senior year because I had to focus on my long-term future plan. I haven’t even touched a soccer ball since the final game of my senior spring season. It’s like I just quarantined that area of my life to the past. Even though it used to make me so happy.”

Mateo is quiet for a minute, taking in what I’d shared. “And how was it being back out on the field today?” he asks.

I can’t stop myself from grinning widely. “Completely amazing. It’s like every muscle in my body had just been waiting to be called up to perform again. I don’t know that I’ve had that much fun since coming to Townsend. Thanks so much for letting us play, even if it did result in extra running for you tomorrow. I feel bad about that.”

He smiles back at me and says, “I’ll gladly run extra laps in the name of you remembering how much fun soccer is.”

I take a drink of my slushie and wave toward Mateo. “You’ve heard my soccer origin story, now you need to tell me yours. What made you get started playing?”

“Well, if we’re going to talk origin story, then I guess we’ll need to call it fútbol , since that’s what most of the world calls soccer, including Guatemala.” Mateo winks at me. I love the authentic way he pronounces Guatemala. “My dad grew up playing soccer all the time, never on an organized team, but just for fun with the kids on his street. There wasn’t any opportunity for him to play seriously, but he always loved the sport. ”

He’s smiling to himself, and I silently soak in how sweet he is every time he talks about his family.

“When my dad had sons living in America, he couldn’t wait for us to be able to play ‘real fútbol ’,” he says in an accented voice, I assume mimicking his father. “He was out in the yard teaching my brother Miguel and me soccer drills basically when we started walking. We joined teams as soon as we were old enough.

“When Miguel hit middle school, he decided he wanted to start playing American football with the kids from school. And my dad totally supported him in that. Dad was always cheering him on from the stands, but he couldn’t offer much by way of extra coaching since he wasn’t very familiar with the sport.

“But I always loved the extra time with my dad kicking the ball around in the backyard, so I stuck with soccer. When my sixth-grade coach told my parents that I might have the natural talent to play in college one day, my dad started working harvest jobs again just to be able to pay the club fees for a better team in a nearby city.”

Mateo pauses, lost in the memory. He clears his throat before continuing. “My dad always pushed me to do my best, to constantly improve, but he also always told me how proud he was of me, even when I played poorly. The day I got the offer to play at Townsend was one of the best days of my life, watching my dad cry while we talked to Coach Anderson on speaker. I had an offer to a school closer to home, but Dad had done all sorts of research and was convinced that Coach Anderson was going to be the next great men’s soccer coach. So here I am.”

My heart is a melted puddle thinking about Mateo with his sweet dad. “Do they ever get to come watch you play?” I ask.

“Sadly, not often. Between the distance and the demands of owning a restaurant, it’s hard for them to make it down. But my dad always watches the game tape, and we talk about it after. And they were able to be at the DII tournament last year to see us win. That was unforgettable,” Mateo concludes with a wide smile.

“So…” Mateo says as he looks down at his hands, fidgeting with his water bottle. I’m not sure I’ll ever get us ed to this naturally confident, popular student athlete acting nervous around me. “We have a home match on Saturday. Would you maybe want to come? You know, if you don’t have AOPi stuff going on or anything.”

I smile at him when he looks up at my face. “I’d love to come. It’s been way too long since I watched a soccer match, especially with someone I care about playing.” Mateo grins, and my heart squeezes at the elation on his face.

Glancing down at my watch, I see it’s almost 5:00 p.m. “Well, after that unexpected running, I’m going to need to shower before Arrow tonight, so I should probably get back to AOPi,” I say reluctantly. In the span of just two dates, I’m learning that time spent with Mateo flies by and never feels like quite enough.

Mateo picks up both of our slushie cups and throws them in the nearby trashcan, tossing his empty water bottle in the recycling bin. He points at my half-full water. “Drink up. I’m holding you hostage till you finish.”

I mock roll my eyes and huff, “Such a hydration dictator.” Mateo laughs as I exaggeratedly gulp my water and hand him the empty bottle. “Happy?”

“More than you know,” Mateo says with a smile, glancing over at me as we start walking back to the car.

I think I’m just going to have to get used to heart flips now.