Her eyes narrow as she spins, attempting a breakaway. I lunge, knocking the ball into the sweet spot on my foot before pivoting and heading in the opposite direction.
Claire catches up just past the center line. I can hear her heavy breathing, sense her frustration about the steal, as she shifts to guard me.
I can blame her being faster on my extra bulk, but she’s also in better shape than I am right now. For weeks, the extent of my training has been limited to various strengthening exercises for my shoulder, back, and arm muscles. Playing one-on-one wasn’t part of my routine prior to my shoulder injury either.
Claire’s a defender. She’s poised in her natural position, whereas I’m a long way from the goal.
I feint left, but she watches the ball like I told her to. She doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she edges forward, forcing me back, and I smile.
“Perfect, Caldwell.”
I catch the surprise as it flashes across her face. She was expecting criticism, not praise.
She scores next.
I pull ahead again less than a minute later.
We volley like that, matching each other steal for steal, breakaway for breakaway, rebound for rebound.
Goal for goal.
I don’t think she’s going easy on me, and I’m sure as hell not going easy on her.
We agree on a water break right after she scores her fifth goal into the empty net, evening the score yet again. I’m breathing hard, soaked with sweat and swimming with adrenaline. I lift my shirt to wipe my face, salty perspiration stinging my eyes. I need a haircut.
When I drop my shirt, Claire quickly averts her eyes. Meaning she was looking, and it makes me feel a little less guilty about repeatedly checking out her tits last night.
I unzip my equipment bag, pulling out my phone and setting it on the bench as I search the contents for my water bottle. I pull out a towel, too, using it to wipe my face before I swallow a large sip of water.
“I wouldn’t mind practicing some passing,” Claire says, capping her water bottle. “Sometimes, linking up, I’m sloppy on the counterattack. That’s what happened with most of the turnovers.”
I nod. “Change up your passes more. Accuracy matters as much as timing does. And keeping your weight over the ball will?—”
My phone begins vibrating on the bench. The metal makes the vibrations louder.
Claire glances toward the sound, then quickly away.
I reach for my phone, the screen flashing the caller’s name, then toss it in my bag.
“Keeping your weight over the ball will help avoid lifting it,” I say, ignoring the interruption.
She nods, setting her bottle down. “Great. You ready?”
I don’t reply right away. The sudden tension pulls tighter, like we each tugged at the end of a thread.
“Mila is my grandfather’s caretaker. He had hip surgery recently. That was the family emergency I flew back to Kluvberg for. He and I do not talk much. She calls to tell me how he is doing.”
I zip my bag, shoving it under the bench.
“How is your grandfather doing?”
“He is the same, with better mobility.” I hear the harsh edge to my voice, so I’m sure she does too.
“It’s his loss,” she tells me, understanding whatsamemeans.
I stand. “You have never met him.”
“Yeah, but I’ve met you.”
