“Hey.” I shove my teammate’s shoulder and Lucca stumbles backward, chittering out a laugh.
He nods and has the gall to look pleased. “There it is.”
With a slap to my back, I peer up at Zevulun Hayes—the biggest guy on the team and yet, unlike me, he’s never indanger of getting a red. “Lucca’s right, man. You’ve been off. Everything okay?”
“I had two assists on Tuesday. So … what’s the problem?”
“You just aren’t playing normal—for you,” Callum Whitaker says. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, man. I get it. There was a time?—”
I throw my hands up. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not off. And I’m not blowing games.” I glare at Callum. “I don’t need alucky charm. I’m playing clean soccer. Good soccer.”
“Ouch,” Callum says, his nose wrinkling. His losing streak is over—so I’m not sure why he’s taking the comment so personally.
“I have no idea why we’re having this conversation,” I grumble.
Why my teammates feel the need to attack me when all I’ve done is help us win the last three games is a mystery. Sure, I usually end games with a card—occasionally two. But clearly, I can play without that aggression just fine. And if it’s going to get me into my cabin and away from an apartment building full of Red Tails, then so be it.
“We’re just checking on you—” Zev says, his mouth still open as if he’s got more to say.
“I need to grab some tape from the trainer.” Then, standing, I part the sea of Red Tail players and storm right on through. That’s right. I’m Moses, and these Red Tails are in my way.
“Is that why he’s softening up?” I hear Lucca say. “His ankle? Did he hurt himself?”
I keep walking. I don’t respond to the outlandish accusation that I’ve played soft. Or that my ankle is weak. I don’t need any tape. I’m getting out.
I pass Coach just before I exit the locker room. “Warming up in twenty minutes,” he says, glancing at my one hand on the door.
“I’ll be back.” I pause before exiting though. “Last game of my two weeks, Coach.” I tilt my head in a knowing nod. “No cards.”
Jacobson groans out an exhale, giving me one curt nod. He made a deal. He’ll talk to Baxter, and before the end of the month, I’ll be out of that loud, overcrowded building and in the solitude of the woods.
I walk until I reach the concourse. Food vendors, restrooms, and fans.
So many fans.
And while I’m not in my jersey, I am in my warmup kit with the team logo on the chest. It’s going to get me noticed. I stop, nodding to Stan, the security guard posted there, not yet leaving the safety of this restricted tunnel to the main level just yet. I just need to walk. To clear my head. And the crowd of people at my right is much less busy than those to my left.
I lower my brows, screw up my face into a very unapproachable sneer, and dare my way right, into the smaller crowd. Head down, I march in the opposite direction of the team store. I pass the unfavored booth of overcooked, overpriced hot dogs toward the women’s restroom and the single-file line there.
So far, so good.
And then?—
“Roman?” a female voice yelps.
I’m not surprised at someone identifying me. Most, if not everyone here, is a fan of the Red Tails. Butthatvoice—and the familiar way she said my name. It’s not just someone recognizing me. This personknowsme.
I whip my head around to the line of women waiting to go into the bathroom.
A petite blonde in round glasses with wide green eyes and a hand slapped over her mouth stares at me.
I know those eyes.
I was punched in the arm by my best friend for commenting on how pretty those green eyes were once. My senior year—she had just gotten contacts, and for the first time, I could see her bright green eyes without the glare of her glasses. I spoke up about it, and Brice hit me so hard that my shoulder had a bruise for a week.
That girl from so long ago is all grown up. The woman standing before me hasevolved.
Stella Everly.
