3. Levi
Three
Levi
It’s been four days. Four days since I shook her hand.
Four days since she looked at me with her beautiful eyes and my entire brain went offline.
Four days since I heard her voice up close and nearly came in my pants in the fucking White House.
Four days, and I haven’t stopped thinking about her for a single goddamn second.
This is a problem.
I’m supposed to be focused. The World Cup starts in three days. This is the biggest tournament of my career, a home World Cup, the first time the US has hosted since ‘94, and I’m the guy responsible for twenty-three players and an entire country’s expectations.
I should be reviewing tactics. Watching film. Fine-tuning set pieces. Instead, I’m lying in my hotel bed at one in the morning, scrolling through photos of the President of the United States like a goddamn teenager.
Pathetic. You’re a pathetic loser, Hendricks.
But I can’t stop. There’s this one picture where she was at a state dinner last month.
Wearing an off-the-shoulder navy gown, showing off her collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts.
I stare at the curve of her neck and think about dragging my tongue along it.
Then lower, until I can nip into the round of her tits…
There’s another one where she’s meeting with foreign leaders. Wearing a power suit this time, her expression serious, looking like the boss lady she is. I think about what it would take to make her composure crack. Make her gasp. Moan. Scream my name.
In this last one, she’s laughing during a press conference, with her head thrown back, her gorgeous smile lighting up her whole damn face.
God, that smile.
I saw it. In person. Directed at me, and it hit me like a fucking punch to the chest. Fuck, eight years of watching her through screens, building her up in my head, and she still exceeded every expectation.
And she looked at me. With that look back before she left. Quick, subtle.
What does that mean?
Most likely nothing. She’s the president. She’s probably trained to make eye contact, to make everyone feel seen. It’s politics. It’s her job. But the way her face heated when I said I’m a fan of yours too… The way her breath caught, how she let me hold her hand for longer than I needed to…
Stop. You’re reading into things. She was just being polite.
I toss my phone on the nightstand and scrub my hands over my face.
I need to sleep. I need to focus. I need to stop obsessing over a woman who is so far out of my league, she might as well be on another planet.
She’s the President of the United States.
I’m a fucking soccer coach. We exist in completely different universes.
But she looked at me.
“Fuck,” I mutter to the empty room.
I grab my phone again.
* * *
Morning practice is brutal. I run my guys hard through conditioning, drills, and scrimmages. Partly because we need to be sharp. Mostly because I need the distraction. And it works. For about two hours.
Then we break for lunch, and I’m right back to thinking about Lina. The way she moved through the room. The way she smelled. How her voice wrapped around my name.
I want to hear my name in her mouth. Levi. I want to hear it whispered, moaned, screamed,
“Coach?”
I blink. Xavier, one of the younger players, is standing in front of me, eyebrows raised.
“You good? You’ve been staring at your sandwich for like two minutes.”
I frown at him. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because you’ve got this look on your face like…”
“I said I’m fine.”
He holds up his hands, backing off.
Great, your crazy is showing.
* * *
That night, I’m in my room reviewing game film when Danny barges in without knocking.
“Dude! You gotta see this!”
He’s waving his phone around like an excited kid.
“What?”
“President Kane is coming to the group stage opener.”
My heart stops.
She’s coming to the game.
“It’s standard protocol,” Danny continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. “Home World Cup, first match, president shows up. Good optics. But still, man!”
My voice sounds normal. I think. “Makes sense.”
“She’s gonna be in the VIP box. Probably come down after if we win, shake some hands, photo op. You know the drill.”
She’s going to be there. In the stadium. Watching the game. Watching me…
“Cool,” I manage.
Danny squints at me. “You okay? You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you’re about to either punch someone or propose to them. I can never tell.”
“Get out.”
He laughs, heading for the door. “Whatever, man. Just figured you’d want to know. Big game, big stakes. Don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the president, right?”
He waggles his eyebrows and disappears.
I sit very still for a long moment.
She’s coming to the game.
I’ll be on the sideline. She’ll be in the box.
Probably won’t even be able to see her from the field.
But if we win… if we win, she comes down.
Congratulates the team. And I’ll see her again.
Talk to her again. Maybe get another thirty-second interaction like the one I’ve been replaying in my head for days straight.
We have to win.
I grab my tablet and pull up the tactical breakdown for our first opponent. I’ve already watched this footage three times, but I’m going to watch it again. And again. And however many more times it takes. Because we’re going to win that game. And I’m going to see her.
* * *
The next three days are a blur. Training sessions, team meetings, press conferences. I’m in full head coach mode, focused, intense, demanding. My guys are ready. We’ve worked for years for this moment, and they know it.
But under all of it, there’s this hum in my blood. This constant buzz of anticipation that has nothing to do with soccer.
Lina’s going to be there.
I catch myself rehearsing what I’ll say to her. Practicing smooth lines, clever remarks, things that will make her smile, like a fucking teenager. Then I feel like an idiot and shove those thoughts away, only to find them creeping back an hour later.
I’m forty-five years old. I’ve been married and divorced. I’ve dated models, actresses. Women still throw themselves at me because I was a professional athlete and now a successful coach. None of them made me feel like this. Like a damn kid before his first date.
It’s not a date, dumbass. She’s the president. You’re going to shake her hand for five seconds, and that will be it.
But five seconds is more than nothing. And this time, I’ll be ready.
* * *
Game day arrives. The stadium is packed, ninety thousand people, a sea of red, white, and blue. The noise is deafening. The energy, electric. This is what I’ve worked my whole career for.
And somewhere up there, in the main VIP box, she’s watching.
I scan the crowd before kickoff, trying to spot which box is hers. It’s impossible; too many people, too far away, but I look anyway.
Focus, Hendricks. You have a game to win.
I tear my gaze away and turn to my players.
“Alright, boys. Let’s make history.”
The whistle blows.
And the only thought in my head, under all the tactics, adjustments and shouted instructions, is: Win this game. Then we see her again.