~HENDRIX~
Idrop down into a crouch, eyes locked on the ball. Mac, our striker, charges, her shot spot-on. But I dive, my fingers grazing the leather of the ball, redirecting it just enough so that it shoots wide of the post.
The whistle blows and Coach Watts, our head coach, barks what sounds like praise in my direction. I can barely hear him.
I get ready to reset but I can feel someone’s eyes on me. I glance up and down the sidelines, trying to figure out who might be eyeing me. I can feel the intensity of the stare.
Then I spot the source of my agitation. August is on the field.
Standing on the sidelines in tailored slacks and a team polo, talking to Coach Watts like he was one of the coaches. Like his presence on the field isn’t an intrusion. I push up from the turf, breathing in and out, my jaw tight.
Focus. He’s not here for you.
No one notices how many times I look in his direction. The way he affects me. I deflect it with anger constantly, because it’s the only weapon I have that hides the ache I feel when I look at him.
Coach gestures towards me, and August’s gaze flicks in my direction. Just for a second, but it feels like it lands a punch. Iturn away, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long sip. My hands are shaking.
Fuck.
I look back over at him and see he’s laughing at something that Watts is saying. That laugh—low, familiar, the kind that used to unravel me in private. I roll my shoulders, reset my stance and wait for Coach Andie to call the next shot. Once she sees I’m ready, she does.
The ball comes hard and fast. I catch it clean but my fingers sting.
Good, I think.Let it sting. Let it remind me I’m still here with a job to do. I need to focus on this, not him.
I steal a glance back at him; he’s observing me. He doesn’t move in my direction. Doesn’t wave, just stands there watching.
I hate how much I feel it.
Coach Watts blows another whistle from where he stands beside August. “Alright, ladies, that is a wrap!”
I drop to my knees on the turf, sweat sticking to my spine, and gloves heavy on the turf. My body is exhausted. But my mind is worse. Coach Watts worked us hard today. There was so much running, so many foot skill drills, and a lot of offensive drills where I was in the net. It’s all to get us ready for the final games before playoffs.
I peel off my gloves and stand, scanning the field. He’s still here. Leaning against the fence, arms crossed, watching me like he has something to say. Like he’s been waiting for me to finish up practice. His gaze finding me more often, his looks holding a bit of longing, ever since we got trapped in the elevator together.
I trudge off the field, refusing to slow my step as I make my way past him.
“Hendrix,” he calls, his voice low but clear.
I keep on walking.
“Can we talk?”
I reach the benches where Cassie and Mac are packing up their gear. “You guys hungry?” I ask them, loud enough for my voice to carry. “I need fries. And maybe a pitcher of something cold and foamy.”
Cassie looks over and says, “Hell, yes. Practice has left me needing some serious food!”
Mac grins. “I’m going to splurge on some mozzarella sticks.”
I turn and glance back at August. He hasn’t moved. Still standing there, still waiting.
I give him nothing, not a nod, not a word when I walk away.
Cassie and Mac follow me into the locker room, where we get ready to head out for some much-needed lunch.
“Nothing too much, though, remember we have a game tomorrow,” Mac says, her voice full of caution. She’s right, we have a match tomorrow against the Washington Spirit, and we have to bring our A game. Bingeing on fried fatty foods and beer will not help us.
“Don’t worry, I plan on getting that salad that has the fries on top. Plus, I’ll only drink one beer,” I throw over my shoulder.
