CHAPTER 1
LOVE WASN’T THE GOAL: LOVE ON THE SIDELINES BOOK 2
AJ Saint-Pierre
S occer is like therapy for me. I know it’s significantly less healthy than actual therapy, but being out here alone on the field, kicking a ball as hard as I possibly can, is nothing if not cathartic. It’s just me, my anger, and the ball. With each ball that I strike, I win another fake argument against my parents.
I’m locked in tonight because my points in this fabricated disagreement are excellent–although I suppose it’s not entirely fabricated. Everything I’m imagining has been said at some point by my parents in regards to my life choices. They have strongly held opinions on every minute detail of my life–my college decision, my friends, my topic for the science fair in 6th grade, my coffee order, etc.
The current subject of their ire is my career path. I’m going to be a teacher, and they're still under the delusion that I’ll come back and work for my dad’s hedge fund. The mere thought of that stuffy, life-sucking office is enough to make me send a ball soaring into the upper level of bleachers. Oops.
The sticking points range from needing to honor my duty as the heir to the Saint-Pierre fortune to doubting my ability to stick it out in a profession as grueling as teaching. They’ve also resorted to telling me that kids aren’t fun to be around–a truth I remember well from their long trips away from home when I was a kid.
None of their lines of reasoning have worked, and they’re getting more desperate every time we speak.
But it simply can’t be helped. I was born to be a teacher. I’ve known it for a long time, and as much as I want their support, I’ll do it without them. I send another ball sailing and smile as I think about the class where I’m student teaching.
It’s a 7 th -grade class at the local middle school. Most people avoid this age group like I avoid my temperamental coach after a bad loss, but I’m thriving in it. The students are at an age where they’re just starting to find themselves, and although they’re often sassy and sarcastic, they’re also sweet, eager, and much smarter than they often get credit for. Getting to teach them for the last few months has given me a purpose like I’ve never known before.
Even in soccer.
Though I do still love this sport more than almost anything–would I be here at 8:00 pm on a Friday night if I didn’t?
Just as I’m starting to get into a flow, my headphones blasting throwback 2000s songs as I sprint up and down the field, a loud, deep voice cuts through the music and startles me.
“We’re taking half the field.”
I whip around, utterly shocked by the rudeness, to see two guys walking onto the turf carrying a football and cleats. They’re obviously football players, but I don’t think I recognize either of them from my 3.5 years here–I would’ve remembered someone who looks like the taller of the two. I mean, jacked and chiseled is every girl’s type.
The shorter guy is clearly a kicker–his scrawniness gives him away. No one’s trusting him to do anything involving contact. I’m pretty sure I could take him out if I wanted to.
I stride toward them confidently, welcoming the chance to escort them out. I’ve been winning a thousand fake arguments in my head—I might as well put my confrontational energy to good use. I’m currently in the middle of a full field drill, and this is my time. I’ve been coming here on Friday nights since my freshman year, terrified I’d get caught and reprimanded for being in the facility after hours. Now, though, I’ve earned the right to have this standing reservation and basically everyone knows I own these hours–although, I guess not everyone.
“Well, I’m not done yet, so you guys are going to have to wait.”
They both freeze, and the rude one finally turns to look at me. He’s scowling, the annoyance emphasizing his sharp jawline. His green eyes narrow as I continue to close the gap between us. I’m not intimidated by a pretty face–and boy, does he have a pretty face. As I get closer, I realize he towers over me. I’m still unfazed.
I stop in front of them, folding my arms and staring up at him, matching his intensity.
“Why do you need the field, anyway? No one’s ever here at this time. Except me, obviously.”
He pauses like he’s trying to decide if I even deserve an answer. The one he finally gives is basically as close to not answering as you can get.
“Extra practice.”
He’s really nailing the whole “dark, brooding stranger” bit–though his hair is more sandy than dark, not that it should matter. I glance at the kicker, who looks like he’s checking the stands for escape routes. Dang, he’s a small guy–I think he’s a freshman. I don’t follow our football team much, but I’m now remembering the big story about our starting kicker breaking his toe in a freak accident last week. This must be the backup.
Poor kid looks like he’s terrified, and this is an empty arena with no one watching. I can’t imagine him actually kicking in a game, but I hope he surprises me. I’d take pity on him if his friend wasn’t being such an abrasive jerk.
I lock my gaze back on the unpleasant one and once again find myself both annoyed and slightly flushed by the face peering back at me. In a raunchy romance novel, his green eyes would likely be compared to an evergreen tree or a lily pad or something–all I know is they are bright and piercing, and for a second, I almost lose my nerve.
Then I remember his rudeness, and I stand a little straighter as I respond.
“Hmm, yes, thank you for that wealth of information. I figured you were here to milk a goat, but now that I know you’re here for extra practice, everything’s become clearer.”
His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’ve rendered him speechless with my utter wit and charm. As much as I love leaving men dumbstruck, I love my private field time more, so I drop the sarcasm and spell it out for him.
“Duh, I know you’re here for extra practice. What I’m asking is, why are you here on a Friday night when I’ve been using the field on Friday nights for the last 3.5 years and no one else has ever wandered in?”
His jaw re-clenches like this question is causing him unique distress. Once again, with a jawline like that, I think he should be legally required to walk around with it clenched–it would be a service to society, and it’s clear that his personality isn’t providing a service to anyone, so this could make up for it.
His deep voice breaks through my ridiculous train of thought.
“We’re in the playoffs. Our NFL-caliber kicker is out with a toe injury and our backup hasn’t ever kicked in a college game–”
He gestures to the nervous-looking kid with him, who’s staring at the turf like it’s a calculus problem he won’t ever be able to solve.
“—so here we find ourselves on this Friday evening, trying to make sure our historic season doesn’t end tragically with a missed field goal.”
He then adds under his breath, “And take down our NFL prospects in the process.”
My eyes widen. Okay, so there’s a lot riding on this kid getting some practice—that part is obvious. As an athlete myself, I can empathize with the fear and anxiety of a season on the line. But I still have some questions I want answered before I’m willing to just hand over my sacred field time.
“Okay, so, who are you, then?”
He scoffs. “Don’t follow football much, do you?”
I fight the pink tinge of embarrassment flooding my cheeks as I glance away from his self-righteous expression. No, I don’t really follow our football team, but I bet he doesn’t follow the soccer team.
“Unfair. I bet you don’t know who I am.”
His arrogant smile tells me I walked right into his trap.
“Your name is AJ Saint-Pierre. You’re an All-American soccer player, and we came to Nebraska State as freshmen the same year. And now that I’ve proven my point, I’d appreciate it if you’d give us half the field and leave us alone.”
He’s really mastered the “I’m better than everyone” tone and word choice. It’s aggravating and he’s aggravating and I’m decidedly aggravated.
I need to sort through this whirlwind of emotions. I’m flattered that he knows who I am and utterly humiliated that I don’t recognize him and pissed that he’s being so rude. It’s a lethal combination. So obviously, I want revenge before I just roll over and give him what he wants.
“Fine. I’ll leave you guys alone. But first, you have to beat me in a field goal competition–farthest-made field goal wins.”
He exchanges a glance with the kicker, a mixture of cockiness and pity on their faces. His tone drips with condescension when he speaks.
“You realize he’s a D1 kicker, right? And I was a kicker in high school? Do you really want to do this?”
Underneath my smile, my blood is boiling. My fists are clenched, and I have to bite down all the words I want to scream. I just smile bigger and shrug.
“Sure. It’ll be fun, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
His face flickers in confusion at my suddenly cheery demeanor, but they both follow me out to the field. We start with a thirty-yard field goal, and they both make it easily.
But so do I.
I pretend not to notice their surprised expressions as we step back to make it a forty-yard field goal now. Their balls barely sneak in while mine soars in with room to spare. This time they don’t even hide their concerned glance as we walk back.
A fifty-yard field goal. I’ve actually never made one this far before, but I’m going to channel my anger. The adrenaline is pounding through my veins as I watch the new starting kicker step up and once again, appear absolutely petrified.
He gets the steps of his approach wrong and misses slightly short and wide left. Then the guy whose name I still don’t know steps up and glances my way .
I feel my stomach do a little flip as we hold eye contact. It’s weird—I’m feeling intense dislike, but it’s colliding with something else. Like, this guy is driving me crazy, but I also wouldn’t be mad if I got to feel his arms wrapped around me.
I shake my head, dispelling the daydream, and he immediately stares straight forward again. I might be imagining it, but he looks a little rattled too–his neck suddenly has some red splotches that weren’t there before.
Otherwise, though, he’s back to his stoic, borderline-irritated demeanor, which I’m beginning to realize might just be his natural state.
He sprints at the ball, muscles flexing with every step. As he makes solid contact, the ball soars through the air. It looks good, but as it nears the goalpost, it’s clear that it’s going to fall short. It smacks the bottom of the upright and drops, not crossing the plane in between the posts.
No good.
I can’t tell if I’m feeling more or less pressure now that they both missed. The rude and nameless one sits down by the scrawny kicker–I really need to learn these guys’ names–both looking defeated.
I set the ball down and back up. One deep breath. I visualize the ball sailing through the posts. I think about my dad’s pretentious attitude toward me and my life choices. He’s the reason I can kick field goals like a D1 kicker–he wanted a boy, and I was determined to keep him happy. I was kicking footballs long before I ever played soccer. I tried so hard to do everything right for him until one day I just snapped.
Exhaling slowly, I begin my approach, pure anger fueling the adrenaline. The second my foot makes contact, I know I have it. The ball sails in a perfect, straight rainbow arch. Slicing right through the middle of the goalposts, it hits the net covering the scoreboard and drops.
I win.
Physically restraining myself from celebrating, I casually turn around to see their stunned expressions. As badly as I want to rub it in Mr. Tall Jerk’s stupid, gorgeous face, I decide to play it cool. After all, I think I’ve made my point. Strolling past them toward my bag, I call back without turning around.
“You guys can have the field. Clearly you need the practice more than I do.”
Now that was cathartic.