"You okay? You seem kinda...somewhere else today."
"I'm fine." I force a smile. "Just thinking about the game next week. You ready to crush Canyon Ridge?"
"Born ready." She grins, then jogs back to the scrimmage.
I blow my whistle and call out the next drill, but my mind is already wandering again.
Did he read it yet? Did his jaw clench the way it does when he's fighting for control? Did he have to adjust himself in those uniform pants?
My knee throbs, a sharp reminder that I've been working it too long in this cold weather. I've been pushing through practices all week without giving it proper rest. I shift my weight and ignore it.
The hour crawls by. I run the girls through passing drills, defensive formations, a final scrimmage that I barely pay attention to. My eyes keep cutting to the parking lot, and every time a car turns in, my heart does a stupid little flip.
Finally, I see the dark truck pulling into a spot near the bleachers. The driver's door opens, and Ike steps out.
Even from fifty yards away, he looks tense. Shoulders rigid. Like he hasn't been sleeping well, like something's been eating at him.
Hmm…
I blow the whistle to end practice. "Nice work today, ladies! Hydrate, stretch, and I'll see you tomorrow!"
The girls scatter toward the bleachers, grabbing bags and water bottles and phones. I start collecting equipment…cones, extra balls, the heavy mesh bag…but I'm really just buying time. Waiting for him to come to me.
I don't have to wait long.
“Sloane.”
His voice hits me right between the shoulder blades, and I have to school my expression before I turn around.
He looks rough. Not in a bad way—god,neverin a bad way—but there’s something there that wasn’t before…a tightness around his eyes. Like he's been wrestling with something.
I wonder what that something is. I wonder if it's written on simple white cardstock in my handwriting.
"Captain." I keep my tone light, teasing. "You should’ve seen your girl out there today. Kickin’ butt and takin’ names.”
"She gets that competitiveness from her dad." A ghost of a smile crosses his face, there and gone. "Wade was always the one who could read a play before it happened."
“And what about you?” I tilt my head, studying him. “You’re not competitive? Or into any sports?”
He shakes his head. "Nah, I was the loyal friend that supported Wade in whatever sport that caught his fancy that month." His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "And I was big enough to carry him home after he had too many beers at the bonfire game celebrations.”
I laugh, surprised by the glimpse of humor beneath all that stoic composure. "So you've always been the responsible one. The caretaker."
The amusement fades from his expression, replaced by something more guarded. "Someone has to be."
I take a deep breath. "Must be exhausting. Being the one everyone leans on."
His gaze sharpens, searching my face like he's looking for something. "You'd know something about that. Coaching isn't exactly a low-pressure gig."
"No," I admit. "But I get to yell at teenagers and call it 'motivation.' It’s highly therapeutic."
That almost-smile returns. "I'll have to remember that with my crew."
"Mm." I heft the mesh bag of soccer balls onto my shoulder and immediately regret it. My knee screams in protest, buckling slightly, and I stumble.
Ike moves faster than a man his size should be able to. One second he's three feet away, and the next his hand is on my elbow, steadying me, while his other hand grabs the bag and drops it to the ground.
"You're hurt," he rumbles.
