“No.”
I pout harder. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t need a needy girl clinging on my back.”
I slap his chest and he swats my ass. Then, “And because I’ve got something to say.”
At this, I completely sober up.
Arrow never has something to say.Never.
I’m the one with all the things to say.
So I frown and look into his eyes; they’re slightly amused. “You’ve got something to say?”
“Yeah.”
I lick my lips and his eyes take in the movement like they always do. He asked me what my lipstick was called as soon as I met him at his motorcycle. When I replied Good Bad Girl, he proceeded to wipe it off my lips with his mouth before spreading me open on his motorcycle and eating out my bad girl pussy.
I shiver at the memory but manage to control myself. “Well, what is it?”
He studies me a beat and I start to die with all the anticipation when he murmurs, “I think you should apply for the Galaxy’s youth program for next summer.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” He nods thoughtfully. “They pick people from high schools and colleges and train them to go pro. And they have summer camps every year. I played with them, back in high school one summer. They’re pretty good. Taught me a lot.”
I know he did.
He was a junior when he went. That entire summer I missed him like crazy. I didn’t feel the sunshine until he came back. As always, I wanted to run over to him but couldn’t. So I watched him from afar, while he greeted his mother and hugged my sister.
“You want me to go there,” I say.
“To the youth program, yes.”
I open and close my mouth for a second before I manage to ask, “Are you saying that I… I play soccer. Like for real. On a team.”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve never played soccer for real. I-I mean, I don’t even know how to play with a team. You said it yourself that first week. I’m not… I’m not good enough for that.”
I mean, I have improved.
I do play with the team now and try to gauge their plays and assist them. Plus Arrow trains me three times a week.
We do all kinds of drills and God, the way he makes me run. It’s only for an hour but I almost want to die by the end of it.
The other night, he taught me how to head the ball. He told me that you don’t really use your head. You use your shoulders and your upper body. You get the strength from there and balance from your legs and then you shoot from your head, all the while poking and prodding at my body and positioning me.
“What happens if I don’t follow these rules?” I asked, just to tease him because he was starting to look really serious.
He spun the ball on his finger before launching it in the air and kicking the shit out of it. It soared over the field and punched the net right in the center.
“Then you break your neck and you die. Or you break your neck and spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Now can we start?”
God, he’s so sexy and authoritative, isn’t he?
Plus we watch game tapes together. Well, when I’m not forcing him to watch chick flicks. He teaches me things from it. Like why he didn’t go for that shot or why he went for the one he did go for. And sometimes, I argue.
