Better Off-Limits

Prologue

No new emails.

I chuck the inanimate bearer of bad news on the bed as my heart rate picks up.

Fuck you back, phone.

The absence of the email I’m hoping for isn’t necessarily a surprise. But it does reinforce the constant press of anxiety that’s been alive in my chest since last year.

Last year, when I wasn’t invited to the US national soccer training camp in my age bracket. At the time, U19—under nineteen years old.

It was the first time I’d been left off a roster during all my years in the US Youth program.

My dream of being a top-caliber, World-Cup-worthy soccer player? Poof, it disappeared in a matter of seconds, like an ice cube on the Florida pavement in July.

Fast forward to now, one year later—I’m fighting to fit together the puzzle that is my future. Flailing, and failing.

The email I was hoping for today? Confirmation from my Name, Image, and Likeness agent that my modest NIL deals will continue this fall, when I’ll be a sophomore on the Princeton soccer team.

Instead, there’s radio silence. Which may mean not having enough money for my living expenses at school, unless I ask for help from my oldest brother. Or even worse, my mother.

Calm down, Connor. It may be a matter of waiting another day or two. It’s a holiday after all.

A few forced breaths to recenter myself follow that internal command. Then I slip off my glasses and walk into my bathroom to put in my contacts, which I use when working out.

You got this. Soon you’ll be on the field, and you can take it out on the ball.

Once my contacts are in, I grab my duffle and softly open the bedroom door, praying I don’t bump into either of my brothers before I get out of the house.

Because in the interest of deciding my future trajectory, I’ve been trying something new this summer, secretly.

It’s not a soccer ball I’ll be kicking today, but a football. As in American football, like my international soccer friends would say.

I step as faintly as I can, passing my older brother Rawley’s room down the hall. The second I think I’m safe, his door swings open, and I freeze.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Where you headed?”

“Stepping out for a bit. I’ll be back.”

He peers at me for a beat. It’s clear from my lack of glasses I’m working out, something we often do together.

Luckily, he doesn’t press for more answers. “Whatever. I’ll save you a plate of food.”

Truthfully, I’m considering revealing my new quest to him soon. We’re a couple of years apart in age, but we connect as if we’re two sides of the same coin. He’s the charismatic, self-effacing giver, and I’m the dry, restrained processor—complementing each other.

Also, I know he’d never tell me what to do, just listen and support me. I’ve done the same for him as he gears up for his rookie season with the local NFL team, the Orlando Waves.

“Thanks, Rawls.” I give him a quick smile and head toward the main part of the house, hoping to avoid our oldest brother.

Now Landon—he’s a “fixer” all the way. Give him the hint of a problem and he’ll whip off solutions in three seconds flat, making phone calls to every mover and shaker in his contacts before you finish your sentence.

Sure, he’s only twenty-four years old, but you can’t fight who you are, right? He thrives in his role as our substitute “dad.” Case in point, he has this huge house Rawley and I are crashing in.

Which means it’s hard to miss him as I’m coming and going. Turns out, today included.

“Morning,” he says as I walk past the living room toward the front door. He’s on the couch, sipping a coffee. “Headed to a workout?”

“Yeah, I’m going to kick some balls around.” Not a lie—I just didn’t say what kind of ball.

“Nice. You hear from your agent yet?”

I’m not surprised he’s checking in; it’s what he does. He’d asked me a couple of times if I needed money for school this year, so I’d finally shared my situation with him.

“No, but it’s the Fourth of July? He’s probably not working.”

“Sure, sure. Keep me posted.”

I’m glad he’s focused on the money, all things considered.

It’ll take me longer to tell Landon about exploring the football path than Rawley. I’ll need to be certain it’s a go. Otherwise, he’ll attempt to get involved before I’m ready for any guidance.

If anything, I’ll probably tell our twenty-three-year-old sister, Grace, before him. Which is kind of funny, because he’s the reason I’m doing this in the first place.

After my world was rocked last year by the U19 team news, Landon, a middle linebacker for the Waves, introduced me to the veteran placekicker on the team, Del Larsson.

Del had notoriously switched from soccer to football after he graduated from college.

He’s now earned millions in his storied NFL career.

As this summer approached with no clear plan for my life, I realized that maybe an NFL kicker route was worth investigating.

And you know what? Thank fuck I texted Del to ask for help. Because the eight secret sessions with him since I arrived in Orlando late May? I’ve loved them.

This morning, it’s time for lesson nine, and I don’t expect my attitude toward the experience to change.

“Alright, see ya,” I say to Landon, so I can be spared any more questions.

The drive to the fields of Tolliver University, where Del’s been teaching me, has that classic peaceful feel of a holiday morning when everyone’s taking it easy. Cars are sparse on the highway, and the miles pass quickly.

It’s a good sign the practice field will be quiet. Widely considered the best university in Florida, Tolliver is where Grace received her Master’s in Business Administration last year. Its sports facilities are top-notch, fitting for a D1 school. On normal days, that also means they’re packed.

Once I pull up to park near our designated spot, my speculation proves correct. Del’s already here, setting up on the football field. Otherwise, only a few others are using the track that wraps around it, and someone is dribbling a soccer ball on the opposite end.

When I make my way down the stairs to the field, Del waves. “Morning, Connor.”

I like him. He’s always upbeat, and his demeanor with me is fatherly in a positive, caring way.

As I approach the area he’s claimed, the soccer player I spotted earlier is juggling a ball. Doing it well, too. Still fifty yards away, but I can tell now that the player’s a woman.

Who she is becomes apparent when Del shouts in her direction.

“Eden, come meet Connor.” He turns back to explain, “That’s my daughter. She’ll be a freshman at Tolliver in the fall.”

“She plays soccer?”

Del’s smile widens, and his eyes light up with pride. “Even better than her old man did. She just got back from the U19 national training camp.”

Damn, that means she’s in the top two dozen or so of the US women in that age bracket. Unlike me on the men’s side last year. A twinge squeezes my chest briefly.

All such thoughts wash away, though, as Eden comes close enough for me to see her. The halo glare from the beating Florida sun made it hard to focus on her features before, but now I appreciate what I was missing.

A lot, it turns out, because Eden Larsson is stunning.

I take in her bright blue-green eyes, her rich honey-colored hair pulled into a ponytail, her cheeks pink from her workout. Glancing down past her short navy gym shorts, the compact, lean muscles of her legs show off the fitness demanded at her level.

As if that was not enough, when my eyes ping back to her face, those turquoise eyes shine with a keen intelligence, and there’s a magnetic aura of confidence radiating off her too.

All of this, all of her, renders me mute. Trying to seem like I’m not just staring, I reach to adjust my glasses, until I remember I have my contacts in.

“Hi Connor, great to meet you. Dad’s told me a lot about you.” Her voice has a singsong quality, while also conveying a self-assurance underneath.

“Hello,” I manage to say.

Both Del and Eden watch me, like they’re expecting more to come out of my mouth—except I can’t find any words.

What’s happening? I’ve never been left speechless by a woman. My ex-girlfriend at Princeton used to joke about how I asked her out within an hour of us meeting.

Yet now, I can’t think of anything to say.

Finally, Eden gives us both a little smile. “I guess I’ll go back to my drills.”

As she jogs back to her side of the field, Del turns to me. “Close the jaw, kid,” he says, in an amused tone. “That’s my little girl.”

I snap out of my haze. Shit, he noticed my reaction? “I—uh, sorry.”

“You only have ten days before you return to school, so let’s focus on the matter at hand. Plus, you got me out here on a holiday. Although I don’t mind the exercise before I bury myself in burgers and beer later.”

He doesn’t sound overly irritated, but he’s definitely making it clear where my priorities need to be. Not on his daughter.

I nod and walk closer toward where he’s set up. “Yes, sorry. Let’s begin.”

He’s got a bag of balls, like always. “Extra-point kicks first. Get in your starting position.” Without waiting for a reply, he heads to the twenty-three-yard line, where the holder catches the snap for extra points in the NFL.

I back up further, and then take two strides to the left, as he holds the ball against the ground.

“Whenever you’re ready, Battle.”

What I’m really ready to do is turn around and check in on the other Larsson. Is she working on footwork? Her speed? What position does she play?

Is she really that fucking pretty?

Shit. This is not why any of us are here.

I need to focus on the mission: getting the ball through the uprights. Nothing else matters, I repeat a few times.

Finally, gaze narrowed on Del and the ball, my head clears. I set my body like he taught me, taking three strides forward and planting my left foot by the ball. Locking my ankle, I hit it squarely with the top of my right foot. BOOM.

The whole motion is over in seconds. Despite the need to wrestle Eden out of my mind beforehand, the ball goes through the uprights with plenty of room.

This is why I’m truly intrigued by kicking. I love the simplicity, the serene flow of the movements, and that it’s just you, the ball, and the uprights. Something I can control.

The ability to be precise and smooth is in sharp contrast to the constant jockeying for positioning and possessions on a soccer field.

“Awesome,” Del says as he pats me on the back. “Centered beautifully, and you easily would have made it even ten yards further back.”

“Thanks.” I grin at him, grateful for the affirmation.

“Kick a couple more times from that spot, and then we’ll make things more challenging.”

When the more difficult tests come, I deliver on each kick he asks for. We take short breaks in between, during which he gives me small tips about gameplay scenarios.

It’s in these moments that my mind slips to the other Larsson behind us, and I struggle to keep my attention on Del, instead of sneaking peeks at her.

At one point, I catch her nailing advanced footwork drills I can barely manage on my best day, and the sight sucks the air out of me.

She’s incredible.

Remember, this is her dad with you, I tell myself. The man trying to help me figure out if I wanted to switch to football, one of the greatest NFL kickers ever. I don’t want to waste his time.

But nothing has changed by the end of the session when she rejoins our side of the field.

She’s still got me in a chokehold—including my ability to form words, apparently.

So much so that, when I grab my bag to leave, I release only a single word in her direction: “Goodbye.”

That’s all I got.

Nice fucking work, Connor.

If you never get a second chance to make a first impression, I’ve thoroughly blown mine.

A week later, I finally invite Rawley to a practice session with Del, my third since the Fourth of July. Surprise, I’m a football player…how uncharacteristically dramatic of me.

It turns out he’s not the only guest. For a second time, Eden’s hitched a ride with her dad to practice on the field too.

Despite my brother’s presence, I glance at her any time I think I can get away with it.

Her sun-kissed honey ponytail flies as she moves on the other side of the field, and she’s as breathtaking a player as I remember.

When I manage to sneak in a “nice to see you again” as we leave, her cheeks are rosy from her exertions, and those turquoise eyes look curiously at me.

I wish I could steal her away for that second chance at forming her opinion of me.

But, nope, with just a few days before I leave for New Jersey, the only person who’s grilling me for information is Rawley, once the practice is over.

“Connor, you secretive little shit, start talking.” His slam of the car door is accompanied by a raised brow. Guess I’m not the only one being dramatic today.

I fill in the backstory on our return trip to Landon’s. Still, while my brother learns one of my secrets today, I don’t say a thing to him about Eden.

I keep my attraction to her locked up tight. Just for me to know.

The intensity of my interest only fades a few days later, when the demanding hustle of life in Princeton takes over.