“Coach,” I acknowledge when I reach her side. Our coach’s tenure with the Colton Bulls began three years ago and her touch is golden. The team reached two consecutive NCAA tournaments, and I’m hoping for number three this year.

“Jordan. I just wanted to remind you of your appointment with the nutritionist on Monday afternoon.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. She’s tugging a sheet of paper from her clipboard which she hands over. “Also, I know we’ve discussed putting you with a sports management firm at the end of the year. I put together a list of names. I want you to take the time to research them carefully. Talk to your team about recommendations.”

“Thanks, Coach.” I scan my eye down the list. I know I’ll eventually need to sign with an agent, but here in the States I’m a fish out of water. I don’t have any insider information on who’s good and who to avoid. Those who’ve talked to me in the past have been quick to advise the best way to get recognition in female sports is to strip down, oil up, and pose for men’s magazines. I’m not sure that’s the way I want to go in order to be recognized.

“I can help you narrow down your choices, Jordan, but you’ll need one by the end of your senior year. Seattle Reign is looking for someone young and fresh. Someone like you.”

I look up at my coach, seeing her excitement and sincerity. Seattle Reign is the best team in the National Women’s Soccer League. It would make my entire career.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “You’re a huge addition to our squad. We were lucky to get you. Eyes have been on you ever since you made your professional debut at seventeen. Australia’s W-League Young Player of the Year, and runner-up to Riley for Australian Female Football Player of the Year. You’d be in the NWSL right now if you weren’t so adamant about finishing college.”

Wrapping up the conversation, I jog back to the locker room, my grin wide. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I can hear water dripping from the showers and birds chirping from the trees that surround the back of the building, but inside is eerily deserted.

“Hello?” I call out.

Seconds later I hear shouts and squeals from behind me, and suddenly I’m doused in dark brown sludge. It pours down over my head like lava—sticky, warm, and oozing.

“Oh my god!” I shriek, making the mistake of opening my mouth. It dribbles inside and I start choking and spluttering, tasting chocolate syrup.

Gasps of laughter ring out. I wipe the goo from my eyes, flicking the excess off onto the floor. Paige stands in front of me and my teammates surround me, some of them holding the offending buckets. “Welcome to the Colton Bulls, Jordan!” she says with a perky grin I want to slap from her face.

I spit a brown glob on the floor and glare at her balefully. “Am I being hazed?”

“Yep,” I hear Leah choke out between laughs from somewhere on my left. Another bucket comes at me, shooting a white cloud of shredded coconut over my head. It settles over the sauce and sticks everywhere. “And what better way to make you feel at home then by turning you into a human lamington,” she adds, referring to the Australian dessert of cake, covered in chocolate sauce and coconut.

Glancing down, I see my soccer uniform is completely doused. The syrup has oozed over my shorts, down my legs, over and inside my shin guards, where I can now feel it pooling inside my cleats. In the grand scheme of things, it could’ve been much worse. Hazing can be horrific and all I’ve copped is a covering of chocolate sauce and coconut.

It’s when I’m dragged outside the locker room, flecks of brown coating the ground in my wake, that I realize it’s not over yet. Paige locks the door behind us all and plops the set of keys in her shoulder bag.

“What are you doing?” I cry out, and laughter follows the team as they head toward the parking lot carrying their sports bags.

Both Paige and Leah turn. “We’re all heading out to celebrate our victory. Don’t be too long. If you’re late for the party, there’ll be nothing left for you to drink but warm beer!”

My teammates leave in a group of giggles and sports bags, leaving me gob smacked. Am I supposed to drive home like this? The sauce has mixed in with my sweat, and standing here in the hot afternoon sun, I can feel myself baking like a week-old sundae from McDonalds.

I grab for Leah’s arm and she stutters to a halt, grimacing at the chocolate fingerprints I leave behind on her shirtsleeve. I take some satisfaction from that minor victory. “Leah, my keys are inside my bag which is inside the locker room.”

“No it’s not. Hayden drove your car home. All your stuff’s inside it.” Shrugging off my arm, Leah smirks and begins jogging backwards, out of my reach. “Enjoy your walk home. I hear the insects love this time of day and you smell sweeter than spring right now.”

“What?” I shout because she’s already running, catching up fast to the other girls like the coward she is. “You can’t do this!”

“Too late, Elliott!” she shouts back. “We already did!”

“Just for the record, you all suck!” Holding my arms up high, I flip them the bird with both hands. Leah’s response is to take a photo with her phone. With a final laugh, she disappears with the team, abandoning me to the humiliating fate of walking home in view of the entire Friday afternoon swarm of students.

Trudging my way outside the stadium, I garner laughs and a wide berth, and begin the walk home. It’s not fun, and it’s not pretty. The syrup begins drying on my skin, making me itch and chafe in uncomfortable places. Students yell slurs from their cars as they drive by, and I catch the attention of several bees, causing me to squeal and run while slapping them away. The only positive is that the lengthy walk allows me time to plot Leah’s murder.

I’m up to the part where she’s strapped to a Segway and I’m rolling her off a cliff when I arrive back at the apartment complex. Students stare at me, but I focus on my parked car, pretending indifference as I aim for it purposefully. I walk around the side of it and catch sight of my reflection in my window. I don’t recognize myself. After hearing one student comment that I look like the filling in a shit sandwich, I realize that maybe it was polite on his part because the reality is much worse.

Squaring my shoulders, I crouch down and peel away the small square of duct tape from the undercarriage. The spare key to the apartment is stuck to the back of it. I rip it away and make my way inside, dropping the mask of indifference. All I can bring myself to care about right now is a pounding hot shower, food, and having a really good crying jag.

But it’s not meant to be.

After squelching up the stairwell with aching legs, I emerge into the third floor hallway. Greeting me is a Greek god. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe of my apartment, and my pulse kicks up a notch as I take a moment to admire him.

His skin is golden, like warm sunshine that you could bask in and never get cold. Big, broad shoulders crowd the small hallway, and biceps thick with corded muscle peek out from beneath snug shirtsleeves. He looks strong and capable. The sort of person who could weather any storm and come out fighting.

His hair is the color of rich caramel and cropped short, but there’s a slight curl on the ends that won’t conform to any particular style. I catch a glimpse of white, even teeth as he bites down on his full bottom lip, dragging it inside his mouth while he taps away at his phone like he’s bored and waiting for someone.

I swallow a groan. The tutoring session.

He’s waiting for me.

Ignoring my out-of-control pulse, I clomp forward on syrup-coated cleats. I know the instant he notices me because he looks up and does a double take. With his coloring I’m expecting blue eyes, or a brilliant green, because they’re the eye colors of the gods, aren’t they? But his are neither. They’re brown, and they’re intense, and I watch them widen when he realizes I’m headed right for him like a badly guided missile.