Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Tristan
Wind sprints suck.
I used to think one day, when I’d made it as a professional soccer player, they’d be easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I suck in a breath, my side cramping and my calves starting to ache as the whistle blows and we take off again.
Turns out they are not easy peasy lemon squeezy, and the bar for the pace just keeps moving higher the longer I play. When Luke Wolfe was here, he was happy to tell us all that getting older just meant all this shit will keep sucking worse and worse.
Nobody likes delivering bad news as much as Luke Wolfe.
I finally reach the other side, my entire body on fucking fire. Doubling over, I put my hands on my knees and try to slow my heart rate.
I’ll never not give it my all, though.
I have a reputation to uphold, after all.
Goalies get shit on all the time; we don’t move as much as other players on the field, and I’m not about to let any of these guys say shit about the way I practice and play.
The whistle blows, and I take off again.
Five more sets of wind sprints have me rethinking every decision I’ve ever made that’s led to this moment.
“Fuck,” Enzo Marino huffs, wiping sweat from his brow. “I fucking hate conditioning days.”
“I like them,” Logan says, coming up behind us.
Marino and I share a look, and Logan claps a hand on each of our shoulders, pulling us in to him as we both grunt. “Just because you two are old men, doesn’t mean you can get out of what the rest of us have to do.”
“If Wolfe was here, he’d beat your ass for calling us old,” I tell Logan, a smile breaking at the mere thought of how Luke would react to that.
“I miss that bastard,” Marino says, shaking his head. “It’s not the same without him.”
“Are you trying to say you want Wolfe to beat my ass?” Logan asks, sounding injured.
“Yes,” Marino and I say at the same time.
“If anyone’s doing ass beating, it’s gonna be me,” Coach Garrett chimes in.
I hadn’t realized he was listening.
“Hey, Coach, did you hear about what we’re doing tomorrow morning before practice?” Logan asks him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as if he could go run fifty more wind sprints.
I’d hate him if he wasn’t so damn likable, like an annoying little brother.
“Do I want to know?” Garret’s expression turns pained.
“Michelle is bringing doughnuts and a show,” Marino explains.
I don’t like the way he says her name, with his fancy Italian accent. I don’t want him to say her name at all.
“A show?” Coach asks, clearly confused. “What does that even mean? We don’t need any more shit in the news—”
“Michelle would never do something like that,” I say aggressively, surprising both of us.
“Michelle?” Marino repeats, pushing open the door to the locker room. “When have you ever called her Michelle?”
“Enzo, Gold’s been trying to get that woman in his bed since he first saw her.” Joseph Jones, our best defender, grins at me from where he’s untying his cleats next to his locker.
I grit my teeth but just shake my head.
They’re not wrong. I just also hate that they’re not wrong.
“He’s never called her Michelle, though,” Jésus adds from where he’s toweling off his face beside Joseph.
“Since when do I call her anything?” I ask, trying to play it off with a laugh. “It’s not like I talk about her. And that’s not true, by the way,” I continue, belatedly noticing nearly the whole team staring at me. “I don’t want to get her in my bed,” I finally finish.
Someone throws a towel at me, Djimon Ford, I think, and I duck as our new center forward throws another one.
“Even I’ve heard you talk about her,” Connor Ford shouts, grinning.
“And my brother never lies,” Djimon adds seriously.
“You’re not brothers.” Coach Garrett shoots them both annoyed looks, then fixes me with a serious expression again.
“We are brothers on the field,” Djimon responds, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down Coach.
“Brothers in arms,” Connor agrees.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me there’s nothing stupid going down on Friday.”
“Gold’s woman is going to bring us doughnuts and talk about their date,” Djimon offers helpfully.
“She’s not my woman—and it wasn’t a date,” I say with a scowl.
“Sure, sure, not a date.” Wyatt looks up from his locker. “That’s what my wife said the first time I took her out, too.”
“My wife,” Logan yells in his best Borat impression.
“My wife,” Wesley agrees, using the same voice.
I sigh, yanking open my locker so hard the bag hanging on the hook inside nearly rockets to the floor.
“Why are you dating someone in the front office?” Coach Garrett asks, his eyes narrowing on me.
“I’m not dating her.” I pronounce each word slowly, getting more annoyed by the second. Fuck, Michelle does not need these assholes talking shit about her. Or anyone. “She needs help learning to relax.”
Coach’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “She needs what now?”
Laughter breaks out in earnest at his expression, and Connor elbows me. “I bet you are teaching her how to relax, am I right?”
I’m pulling back my fist before my brain’s caught up to the fact I’m moving, about to clock Connor. Logan grabs my elbow, and Marino’s arm wraps around my waist.
Time seems to stand still, the locker room gone deadly quiet.
Coach Garrett studies me in disapproving silence.
“I wouldn’t let you all talk about Heather like that, either,” Wyatt says conversationally. “Because she’s my wiiiiife.”
“Y’all are really showing how old you are,” Logan says, shaking his head. “That movie is ancient.”
I make myself crack a smile instead of Connor’s face. Djimon steps up, pulling Connor away from me.
“Gold, my office,” Coach says, jerking his head toward the door at the back of the locker room. “Now.”
He doesn’t leave any room for arguing, not that I’m inclined to.
Would I have really hit Connor?
That’s not like me. I never take anything seriously, especially not seriously enough to start a fight.
My cleats click against the concrete floor, audible thanks to the subdued noise of my teammates.
Coach holds open the door for me, and the sound it makes when he shuts it is loud enough to reverberate in my chest.
“What the fuck is going on with you?”
I glare at him, mutinous.
“You are the captain of this team. Now you’re going to punch our new center forward for making a joke—one of the tamest jokes I’ve ever heard, by the way—about a woman you’re not even admitting to dating?”
Well, when he fucking puts it like that.
“No.” I make myself say it.
“No, what?”
“No, I wasn’t going to punch him.” I totally might have.
“Is Michelle going to be a problem? We really don’t need any more shit in the press about this team.
” He takes off his baseball cap and rakes a hand through his brown hair, making it stand on end.
He circles around his desk, which is cluttered with paperwork and half-full coffee cups, and braces his hands on the back of his chair.
“With the media scrutiny thanks to the last fuckers…”
Garrett pauses, not even wanting to say our old owners’ names. I don’t blame him.
“…and that new IFF film that’s coming out, we need to keep a low profile.
Your focus should be on the fucking field.
” He gestures expansively to the direction of the pitch, then closes his eyes.
“We lost one of our star players, and we are only weeks away from the new season starting up without him. I need you to fucking lead this team, do you hear me? You need to be inspiring the rest of them, not threatening to punch them over some girl.”
She’s not just some girl.
I clench my teeth to keep the words from coming out.
“Understood?” Coach asks, looking more annoyed with me than I’ve ever seen him before.
I give him a jerk of a nod, still not trusting myself to answer, not with all the adrenaline floating around my body.
“I need a fucking answer, Gold. Jesus.”
“He prefers Jésus,” I tell him reflexively, referring to one of our defenders.
That earns me an eye roll and a sigh so heavy it makes me say something stupid.
“Should I worry about your blood pressure?”
“I’m forty, you asshole, not ancient,” he barks back, slamming his fist on the desk.
I raise my eyebrows meaningfully at where he’s punched the desk.
“My blood pressure wouldn’t be a factor if you weren’t trying to clock our newest starter, Gold.”
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I finally manage, mostly meaning it. Mostly, because I’m not sure I wouldn’t still punch Connor, but apologetic that Garrett’s punching furniture. “Maybe I can give you lessons on how to relax next.”
“It sounds like I’m going to get them secondhand anyway, since you’ve signed up the whole team for some kind of briefing on Fridays, without mentioning it to me.”
“The doughnut debrief,” I add, unable to help myself.
He glowers at me.
I hold up my hands in mock innocence. “I’m just trying to improve morale, as the team captain. Anything for the Aces.”
“You are such a smart-ass,” Garrett says, rubbing his temples. “I should have traded you along with fucking Wolfe.”
“You’d miss me too much.”
“Get the fuck out,” Garret snaps. “Apologize to Connor, and stop thinking with your dick.”
I can’t help chuckling to myself as I let myself out of the office.
Coach Garrett’s wrong, though.
If I was thinking with my dick, I don’t think I’d care if Connor said shit about Michelle.
The problem is, I like Michelle. Much, much more than is good for either of us.
I manage to catch up to Connor and Djimon as they’re walking to the team trainer’s office.
“Hey, Ford,” I say, and they both turn around, which make me snort.
Connor’s expression turns apprehensive, and guilt shoots through me. Djimon narrows his eyes at me, clearly wondering if I’m going to start a fight still.
“I shouldn’t have said that about her,” Connor tells me. “I don’t know you well enough to joke like that.”
“Yet,” I tell him. “And don’t apologize. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“You didn’t punch me,” Connor says.