True. Stupid to say aloud.
I start after the ball before I can gauge her reaction, stopping just outside the center circle. Restlessness hums along my skin. I’m full of unspent energy, with annoyance about her date last night, with impatience about my injury, with frustration about everything I didn’t say then, which would be wildly unprofessional to say now.
Claire follows me onto the field. I pass the ball to her, and she traps it automatically, her expression unreadable as we face off.
“First to ten,” I tell her.
“You can’t play,” she states.
“Avoid my right shoulder, and I will be fine.”
There’s concern on Claire’s face. Worry for me, I realize, which burns in a potent mixture of pain and pleasure.
“I am cleared to ease into noncontact training, like running,” I add.
“Pretty sure that means jogging on a treadmill, not scrimmaging.”
“I am fine, Caldwell. Do you really think I would do anything to risk my football career?”
She knows what football means to me. I don’t think through why—how else those words could be interpreted—until her expression smooths to emotionless. I wish I could shove those words back in my mouth. But they’re out, hovering in the air between us.
“No,” she replies, her smile tight. “I know you wouldn’t.”
I clear my throat, fighting to keep my composure. A football field is normally the one place I can think, where the rest of the world fades away. All I can see is her.
“I will imitate how Sears played last match. Keep your eyes on the ball, not on me, when I gain possession.”
Claire nods, her smile tight-lipped. “Ifyou gain possession,” she says, then dribbles forward.
It’s been months since I played.
It’s been at least a decade since I played in such an informal setting—a ball and an empty field and a solitary opponent.
Muscle memory kicks in immediately. I shadow Claire, mirroring her movements based on a combination of subtle cues and what I’ve observed about her playing style.
It’s a dance. A balance of predicting her plan and altering my own, searching for an opening to steal.
A sense of peace—of relief—washes over me. For the first time since searing pain shot through my shoulder, I’m not bitter or afraid. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be feet from a womanwho’s haunted me more than I realized, if my injury hadn’t happened.
I missed football. This version of it—no cameras or screaming fans or expectations.
I missed her. The stranger who caught my attention the second I saw her and the determined athlete challenging me now.
I’m close enough to my end to attempt a shot. I aim, sooner than I should, wanting to test myself.
To my left, Claire lunges to block it. She barely misses the ball. She makes contact with me, ass grazing my crotch. It’s brief, a brush I wouldn’t think twice about with anyone else. But it’s her, so I freeze. Unexpectedly, so does Claire.
We’re completely still, watching the net flex and flatten as my kick hits the goal.
“One–nothing,” Claire says, stepping away and jogging after it.
While her back is turned, I drag a palm down my face. I’m almost thirty, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager. I should not be getting hard from that.
We restart from the center, Claire taking possession. We’re inside my defensive zone, but she can’t find a clear shot past me. I’m as close as I can be without fouling. Or accidentally touching her again. I’m also taller and broader than the women she’s accustomed to playing against.
She shuffles left, trying to find an opening.
I anticipate correctly, blocking her angle.
