3. Connor
CONNOR
“Bro, you need to come to this party with me,” Shane says over the phone. He’s been a soccer friend for years. We came through the US Youth program together, and he now plays for the Tolliver men’s team. “Everyone who’s around for the summer will be there.”
I’m in Orlando myself for two months, as has become my routine, but my siblings are all off doing their own thing.
Landon’s in England for his girlfriend Rori’s Wimbledon matches, Grace is in LA for some meetings, and Rawley went to Miami, where his girlfriend Avery has a game for the Orlando Surge, our local WNBA team.
“Yeah, I’m in. Send me the address,” I tell Shane before we hang up.
I’m alone at Landon’s house, as a result of my siblings’ activities, on dog-sitting duty for his beagle, Grover. He and I have developed an understanding this summer—no sneaky behavior on my watch. No jumping on counters, stealing human food, or destroying furniture.
“I’m going to walk you, and then you’re going to be a good boy for as long as I’m gone,” I instruct him.
He takes on a serious look that only I seem to get, like he understands the command.
I appreciate the obedience and show him with a pat before slipping the leash on.
A party is a lot better than chilling here solo, and Shane had hinted last week that we’d hang out tonight, so I’d refused the invite to watch Avery’s game with Rawley.
Not that I don’t enjoy WNBA games, but driving over four hours each way when I already go to a ton of her home games didn’t sound appealing.
Shane’s nothing like my Princeton soccer friends—he’s low-key and simply looking for a good time when he’s not on the pitch. It’s a breath of fresh air to hang with someone who operates on base instincts and not a deeply thought-out plan.
The address he gives me is in a residential neighborhood about fifteen minutes away. According to Shane, it’s the family home of a Tolliver women’s soccer player, Bree, and her parents are away on business or something. Hence, the freedom to invite a bunch of people over for the holiday.
When I pull up to the house, Shane texts that he’s inside. An intriguing question lingers in my mind as I walk past the string of parked cars on my way to the door. Would the Tolliver women’s player I already know be here today?
Only one way to find out.
The front door is slightly ajar, so I just walk in.
“Hey, Connor,” Shane shouts from across the living room. He waves at me to come over and is standing next to two women, neither of whom I recognize.
As I head toward him, I subtly look around. There are maybe two dozen people here, so it’s easy to confirm that Eden is not one of them. My shoulders slump. Damn.
“Glad you could make it, bro,” Shane says as I reach them. “You want a beer?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Might as well make the most of the night, anyway.
After he hands me the drink, he gestures to one of the women, who has long, curly brown hair. “This is our hostess tonight, Bree.”
“Thanks for letting me crash your party,” I say to her.
She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s nice to have a new face, instead of only the Tolliver same-old-same. Shane says you play soccer at Princeton?”
“Actually—”
“Oh God, I did everything I could, but I couldn’t get this wine stain out in the bathroom,” says a new female voice.
I turn around and—it’s her.
Eden Larsson.
“Let me see what we have in the laundry room, come on,” Bree says to her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Eden says to our group. Her eyes lift toward me for the first time, then widen with recognition.“You. I know you.”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate, not feeling certain how I want to play this.
“You practiced with my dad last summer? Kicking?”
“Oh shit,” Shane interrupts. “Is that how you switched to football this year? With help from Eden’s dad?”
“Yes. He’s still giving me lessons this summer too.” He must not have mentioned it to Eden.
“I see you’re more talkative than last year,” she teases before turning to Shane. “When I went twice with my Dad to the fields while they practiced, I think this one spoke about ten words total to me.”
Seven, but I don’t correct her. I also fight the urge to defend myself, to explain I’m not that taciturn. It would mean admitting I was stunned into silence when I first saw her.
I haven’t seen Eden in a year, and if anything, she looks even more gorgeous than last summer. Her face is slightly softer, her body curvier, like she’s growing into it.
Something I’m familiar with now that I’ve reached—I think—my final height of six foot six.
“Well, Con is good people,” Shane offers in response to her. I appreciate him sticking up for me.
“Come on, I’m trying to be a proper host,” Bree says from the laundry room. “Bring yourself in here, girl, so we can fix you.”
“Yes, yes.” Eden disappears to try to save her shirt, as I attempt to salvage my concentration.
“The fireworks should be visible from the back deck,” Shane observes. “You want to go out there?”
I take a sip from my beer. “In a minute, sure.”
What I really want to do is wait for Eden to emerge from the laundry room. I hear running water, so there must be a sink in there.
Bree comes out barely a minute later, no Eden in sight. “I got a text that the pizza is here. You guys ready to eat?”
A bunch of the guests excitedly say yes as she hustles off.
Leaving me with an opening plain as day—because Eden is in the laundry room alone.
You don’t have anything to lose; go talk to her.
A logical thought. One I obey.
“Hey,” I say to her as I enter the little room. She’s sitting on the washing machine, rubbing a wet towel on the wine stain, still wearing the shirt.
She peers up at me. “Hey there, man of few words—at least you’re consistent.” She grins before refocusing on her efforts.
I flip through possible comebacks so we can move past this topic. “I’ll talk plenty now that your dad isn’t around.” After all, some of the reason I didn’t speak to her during the practices was his presence.
She looks up again, a twinkle in her eye. “Scared of my dad, huh?”
“More like, respectful.”
“You do have that Southern boy accent.” Like my siblings, I’ve never totally lost my Alabama twang.
But why does that matter? God, she’s almost too quick for me. “That doesn’t mean anything, though.”
“Don’t they teach you to follow the rules of being a gentleman and all that?”
Ah. “Maybe in times past. I wouldn’t say it’s a particular priority of mine.”
She cocks her head. “Now there’s a line.”
“I just meant I was being respectful of your dad’s offer to help. Of his time.”
“Okay,” she relents.
We’re both quiet for a beat before she glances back up at me. “Are those glasses new?”
I instinctively adjust them with one hand. “No, I wear contacts on the field.”
“I like them. They suit you.”
I blink. My first compliment from Eden. “Thanks.”
A couple more swipes of the stain follow.
“Dang it, this isn’t working,” she says in frustration, throwing the towel down.
“What are you using?”
“Just warm water.” She shows me the damp towel. Nah, that’s not the best plan for wine, and you’re definitely not supposed to rub it.
After looking at the supplies in the laundry room, my mind swiftly formulates a better one, and I whip off my shirt.
“Whoa,” she exclaims in response. Oh—I probably should have given her a warning.
“There’s a different method I think will actually work.”
Her eyes slide down my bare chest. “Okay.”
I’m proud of my body. Landon’s kicked my ass so many times during workouts over the years, not to mention my relentless hours of training for the national team and college. I’m currently rocking a six-pack thanks to some brutal sessions with my brothers this summer.
All in the name of my sporting goals, not for vanity’s sake. Though, I’ve never been so grateful as now, seeing the appreciation in Eden’s eyes.
“Here, put my shirt on, and then give me yours.”
“But—” She stops whatever objection she was going to make and takes the offering. After putting my T-shirt on, she wiggles off her own underneath it.
It takes over a minute, so it’s no surprise Bree comes and checks on us, craning her head through the half-open door.
“Any progress?” She looks me up and down. “Princeton boy, you’re helping by getting naked?”
Eden laughs. “He has a new strategy. Go ahead and take care of your other guests. I’ll let Connor give it a try.”
“Fine. Pizza’s waiting for you both when you’re done.”
When she disappears, Eden hands me her shirt. “What’s next?”
I grab the cleaning vinegar I see on the shelf, find an empty plastic container, and set up a soak for her shirt. Once I plop it in, I put the cover of the container over it.
“In about an hour, the pigment should be out.”
I tilt my head to hers, and she’s still intently watching me. There’s an unreadable look in her eye.
“How did you know what to do?” she asks.
“I spent the last two years of high school basically on my own. My siblings were all at college. I learned to fend for myself.”
“What about your parents?”
“Not much help in these matters. In anything that matters.” My voice is flat; I’m not trying to invite sympathy.
“Oh—” she exclaims, before stopping herself again. “Wait, you were cleaning wine stains out of clothes in high school? That was the drink of choice for teenage boys?”
I chuckle. “No, but fruit punch was, and I figured the same approach would work.”
“Good call.”
I briefly rake my eyes over her, trying to memorize the sight of her in my Princeton Soccer tee. Who knows if I’ll ever see her again.
“You stay in my shirt while this dries,” I instruct her. “You can keep it even.”
“Thanks.” She bites her lip.
“It’s fine, it’s just a cheap T-shirt.”
“Still. I just—”
“What?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just refreshing. To have someone else be able to handle this. To not figure it out for myself.”
“That’s unusual for you?”
“A little,” she says in a thoughtful tone. “Not because of my parents specifically. But being an only child shuttled between the coasts my whole life, I’m pretty self-reliant. Not to mention the whole ‘act like the leader you want to be’ thing for soccer.”
I’m fucking dying to explore everything she’s saying, but a laundry room at her friend’s house when I’m bare-chested doesn’t seem like the best setting.
She seems to have similar thoughts. “How long are you in Orlando?”
“I leave in five days.”
Her lower lip shifts, forming the barest hint of a pout. “Okay. I leave for a week-long soccer camp in Atlanta tomorrow.”
“Nice.” My tone makes it clear that it’s not.
Her expression smooths out, and she hops off the washing machine. “Well, thank you for the cleaning service, sir.”
Her feet hit the ground as she finishes the sentence, and suddenly there’s no room between our bodies.
My back immediately stiffens. So does something else. Fuck.
The memories of her from last year might have dulled, but now I get a new one I’m not sure I’ll ever let go of—Eden Larsson brushing against the front of my shorts.
There’s something about her calling me “sir” that makes me want to press against her even more. Pin her against this machine and…
Fuck. I don’t trust my ability to respond verbally right now. So I stay quiet.
“I’m going to get some pizza,” she says as she finally pushes past me. “You hungry?”
Screaming at my dick to calm down, I nod and follow.
For better or worse, the large group snacking on pizza in the kitchen helps my hard-on fade.
Within two minutes, Bree has gone and grabbed me a shirt from her father’s dresser, and as we reach the fireworks portion of the evening, I realize I could probably trade it with Eden so I get mine back.
But the vision of her in my tee, lit up by all the colors exploding in the sky, stops me from changing one damn thing about the situation.
An hour later, as I’m about to leave the party, I shake my head as she gestures like she’ll give it back to me.
I repeat the instruction from earlier. “Keep it.”
“Okay.” Her voice is resigned, like she knows not to fight me on it at this point.
I can’t think of anything else to say, so I resort to being boring. “Goodbye. Have a great time in Atlanta.”
She looks like she wants to say something more, but with the twenty-odd people floating around us, there aren’t many options.
“Thanks.”
TWO HOURS LATER ON INSTAGRAM
[Eden_Larsson followed you]
Five seconds later…
[You are now following Eden_Larsson]