Page 86 of Lucky Shot

The man played ninety-plus minutes earlier today. He was full foot on the gas the entire game, never letting up, and yet here he is a few hours later, practicing diligently and clearly not cutting any corners.

I watch him. It’s unavoidable. He’s mesmerizing—his skill, his speed, his ability to turn on a dime and strike the ball with such pace that the net groans every time the ball hits the back of it.

And the ball hits the back of it on every single shot he takes.

If I ever wondered if he shanked the ball on purpose during the contest, watching him now would leave no question.

He pushes himself with each drill, running full speed, never letting up or going half-assed like most players would.

Then again, he’s not most players.

I don’t know how long I sit and watch him execute drill after drill. He doesn’t have an assistant coach there helping him shag balls or reset each drill, either. He does it himself like an amateur instead of the superstar he is. He shouts in frustration when he screws up and talks to himself when he does something right.

Watching him is a masterclass in dedication, and I feel privileged to have these few stolen moments without him knowing I’m there.

It’s evident his training session is over when he collapses on the field and lies back with his arms out at his sides and his chest heaving.

I give him some time to just be before I start clapping.

“I should probably be scared at whoever is there because you either broke in here or have keys, and I’m supposed to be the only person in here,” he says in panted breaths, “but I’m too damn tired to care.”

“Well, I don’t have keys,” I say and love watching the jolt of awareness hit his body as he realizes it’s me.

He chuckles and pushes himself up to a seated position and looks in the direction of my voice. “How’d you get in here?”

“You said you wanted me to see you on your turf.” I shrug and hop over the wall so that I’m now on the grass with him. “So here I am—on your turf.”

“I didn’t mean literally.” He laughs.

“I couldn’t take you up on the ticket offer to watch the game since it was an away game, so I thought the next best thing would be to welcome you home.”

His eyebrows lift, and I love watching the surprise flicker across his face. “The ticket offer is at every game—not just home ones.”

“Oh.” It’s my turn to be surprised—and flattered by the admission. “I didn’t know.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but it is. It’s a huge deal and I struggle with acknowledging it.

It’s just a game, Whitney. Not a lifelong commitment.

“Any tips on what I’m doing wrong out here?” he asks as he picks up his shirt and scrubs it over his face.

“I’m pretty sure you have it under control.” I take a few steps toward him, still struggling with the intensity of how much I want him.

“That’s the thing about coaches though. They always see things the player doesn’t. What is it you see, Coach?”

A man who looks at me like he wants to devour me in bed and put me on a pedestal simultaneously.

“A man who kicked ass today on the field.”

“You’re being soft on me.”

I smile. “I think you beat yourself up enough, demand perfection of yourself. My job as a coach is to recognize that and not add to it.”

“True.” He nods and holds his hands out to the stadium around us. “Maybe someday you’ll be coaching the women’s team here yourself.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why is it? I know people who can get your foot in the door—”