“I’d rather you focus up and get carded than play with your head in the woods.”
“You mean the clouds, Coach?” Lucca says in his slightBrazilian accent. “It’s an American saying. Right? Head in the clouds.”
Jacobson swivels his unhappy gaze from me to Cruz. “Let’s all get our heads out of thecloudsand put one in the net. Yeah?”
Lucca grins like an idiot and claps his hands together. “Let’s do this.”
I’m the last man out of the locker room—Coach makes sure of it, nodding for me to stay put.
“Roman,” he says at the door. “Are you really so obsessed with this cabin? Do you want out of Lakeview so badly that you’d shift your play?”
“Shift?”
“Yes. I don’t want you reckless, but your aggression is what challenges the other team.” He plants a hand on my shoulder. “You pressure them into making quick decisions as well as mistakes, and we need that right now.”
It’s not an insult. It’s not a crack at my temper. It’s an actual compliment, a reason why he needs me to be me.
“I won’t let you down, Coach,” I say, like any distracted fool.
Famous last words.
I runout of the tunnel and onto the grass. The early November sun shines down with a brisk chill in the air. The seasons in Tesoro have turned. I peer up from the grass like a puppet with some distracted fool controlling its strings. I take two seconds to search the crowd.
And there she is.
First try.
Blonde hair. Rosy cheeks. Bright green eyes—too far away to see, but they’re there.
Stella.
And my body is on the field, my eyes and head are drawn to that lower tier, second section, mid row.
The whistle blows and someone—Zev, Callum, maybe Coach—roars my name. An Atlanta Rhino forward dribbles the ball, moving around me as if I were standing still. I might as well be.
Coach was right—I can’t alter myself. I mentally shake myself awake and attack. I throw myself into a slide, low to the ground, aiming for the ball, preparing to knock it to Zev.
And yet, blood pumping, pulse thumping, adrenaline coursing, I take that Rhino out. I don’t see his number, his face, or any physical feature on the guy. I move. I slide tackle. And in two beats, he’s on the ground. Rolling around as if I’ve injured him for life and he’ll never recover.
Pansy. Get up and play.
It wasn’tthatbad.
A whistle blows, the ref rushes us, and—card.
Crap.
He’s carding me. And it’s not just a yellow.
Nope, that’s a straight red.
A curse falls from my lips.
I’ve lost my cabinandI’m being removed from the game. My team will play a man down because I couldn’t decipher between taking out the ball and taking out the man.
“Get up,” I growl as I step around the world-class acting Rhino and make my way off the field.
I reach the sidelines, then the bench. Sitting, head in my hands, I huff out a breath.
