I get slotted into the first group, which is perfect. Fresh legs and fresh eyes on me.
José ends up on my side.
“Underdogs stick together,” he says, smiling at me.
“Mysterious wildcards,” I remind him. He snorts, shaking his head. I hope we both get chosen for the same team, it would be fun to play with him more.
We line up, tension thick in the air, before it’s broken by the shrill blow of the whistle.
And suddenly it’s just soccer.
The noise fades, the scouts disappear, and the pressure turns into the familiar clarity I only feel out on the field.
I pass when I need to, hold when I should, and never stop moving, my gaze only on the ball. I even manage to help score a few points, the satisfaction of seeing the ball hit those crisp nets almost as good as Colten’s kisses.
All the practice, the early mornings, the endless drills—they’re all worth it, to do well and to not disappoint everyone who’s supported me.
It feels really good. I know I’m doing well, and I know Colten will be happy with it.
There’s a moment where I glance over to the sideline, my gaze traveling right to where I know Colten is watching.
Instead of the approving smile I hoped for, he’s stiff, arms crossed as a vaguely familiar man stands next to him.
Rick Ashton.
They’re talking, or at least, Rick is talking.
Colten looks uncomfortable and like he’d rather be anywhere else. I find myself stepping towards him, but then the whistle blows again, and I force myself back into the game.
I need to focus. Colten believes in me and has worked so hard to support me in this. I can’t let it go to waste.
So I give it everything I have, and then some. Anything to make Colten happy.
***
As soon as we rotate out, I jog straight to Colten. Rick is still standing beside him, both of them watching as I make my way over.
I stop in front of them, sweaty and breathing hard.
“Good session,” Rick says, not looking up from his tablet.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a water bottle and small towel from Colten.
Colten’s gaze flicks to me with a warning.Careful.
I resist saying‘Yes, Mom’,but it’s close.
Rick finally looks up with a bland, unimpressed expression on his bland, unimpressive face.
“You’re raw,” he drawls. “Your physicality and instincts are decent enough, but your positioning—” he taps his tablet “—it’s inconsistent and shoddy.”
“Got it,” I say easily. “I’ll work on that, thank you.”
His gaze glances up at me, a sharpness to it that has no place in a helpful critique.
Rick the dick continues, “You drift too wide during transitions, screwing over your teammates. Were you trying to make it harder for them to pass to you?”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” I say, very professionally.
