Page 21 of On the Breakaway

“You’re thinking too much. Stop thinking and move,” I add, stepping closer.

She nods, resetting.

I move between groups, making sure that everyone knows what they should be focusing on at each station. Everyone is nervous, even the ones who hide it well. I’ve been where they are, and I know that this type of environment is intimidating, so I hand out as much encouragement as I can to those who seem to need it the most.

After half an hour, we rotate again.

“Goalkeepers are with me,” I call, grabbing a handful of balls and heading toward the net.

They jog over, gloves already on, bouncing lightly on their toes like they’re trying to shake off nerves.

And then there’s Sloane. She hides her nerves almost completely. Her gloves are strapped tight, hands falling loosely at her sides. I’ve been around the woman for four days, and already know she’ll get picked up by someone. I’d kill to have her guarding the net for my team. Hopefully, Coach sees it, too.

She leans against the post like she owns it, rolling her shoulders once before stepping forward when she sees me approaching.

“Took you long enough,” she says with full confidence of someone who knows they’re good.

I snort, dropping the balls near the edge of the box. “Relax. No need to rush me when I’m about to embarrass you.”

She snorts and drops into her stance.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Always.”

I don’t give her time to settle further. My first shot is low and fast to the right corner.

She dives clean, gloves wrapping around the ball before it can slip past her. Then, just as quickly, she’s back on her feet, tossing it back toward me. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

She shifts out of the net, and another goalie steps into it. This time, my shot is higher, sailing straight into the back of the net.

Sloane would’ve stopped it.

I rotate through the goalies for the rest of camp. It’s way more action than most of them would get in a game, but that’s the intent. Coach wants to see who has the drive to keep going even when they’re bone tired.

When the final whistle blows, players start heading to the locker room. Coaches are clustered, reviewing their clipboards and murmuring to each other about what they saw today. But Sloane gets back in the net, smiling widely, silently signaling that she’s not done yet.

I nudge another ball into place. “You graduate next year, right?”

“Yeah. Twenty-one and almost free,” she says as if she’s been counting down the days.

“You planning on going pro?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Keep playing like that, and you’ve got a real chance.”

I fire a half-hearted shot, but it’s low and wide, forcing her to dive for it.

A slow clap echoes from somewhere behind us.

We both turn, and there he is.

Grayson.

He’s leaning casually against the fence with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets as if he’s been waiting a while.

I don’t even try to hide the look I shoot toward the stands. Harper’s still sitting there, watching.