Knowing I need to find empty space, I stop the ball with my boot before passing it backwards. Leah’s wide open and takes possession with ease. I signal her behind my back, indicating wide left is where I want it. With Paige having no choice but go hard at Leah, I run for open space.

Leah puts her boot behind the ball and punts it up the field. It flies up and over, landing a few meters ahead of me with perfect precision. I run straight into the bounce, using my knee to gain control before kicking off with my left boot to keep it moving. An opposing midfielder comes at me and I pass the ball, running forward to find more space. It’s passed back with a smooth roll, and I draw back my boot, sending it sailing. It screams passed the goalie and slams into the back corner pocket of the net.

“Whoooooooop! Elliott!” Leah shrieks. A body crashes into my back, and we go down in a flailing pile of limbs.

“Get off me!” I yell when more bodies land above me, crushing me into the ground. My voice is a muffled shriek thanks to the forearm wedged in front of my mouth. I’m tempted to bite it, but it’s the only thing between me and a face full of dirt.

Eventually I’m freed and flop onto my back, the late sun still packing enough heat to leave me gasping. I suck in a few deep breaths of air, ignoring the screaming twinge in my left ankle while everyone else regains their feet. It hurts more than it should, but I can’t afford to rest it.

The piercing squawk of a whistle cuts through laughs and team banter. I lift my head. Our assistant coach is waving us over. Paige stands above me, blocking the setting sun. She holds out a hand and I take it, letting her haul me to my feet. I get a hard slap on the back that makes me stumble forward.

“I’ll get you next time, Elliott.”

“You’ll have better luck catching a bullet with your teeth,” I retort.

“Har, har,” she replies, slinging an arm around my shoulder and jostling me as we walk off the field. I grimace, ducking my head as slivers of pain shoot up my leg. “You Aussies are so full of shit.”

Leah comes up on my left, and Paige cranes her neck to look at her. They share a meaningful glance, something I’m not privy to but get the feeling I’m about to be.

“So.” Paige’s gaze returns to me. “There’s a little something Leah and I need to know.”

“Oh?” I raise a questioning brow, but I have a good idea what’s coming and brace accordingly. “Need to know or want to know?”

“Need to know, of course,” Leah replies for the both of them.

Paige sniggers and while I’m rolling my eyes, she clears her throat pointedly. “We all know Brody Madden is a prime piece of real estate, right?”

Her logic is flawless. Every single inch of Brody is prime. I’m trying really hard not to notice. Actually that’s a lie. I don’t think I’m even trying. He keeps giving me glimpses of the man underneath the brash exterior, and it’s reeling me in like a hooked fish.

My response is a sigh. That’s all I’ve got.

Paige continues. “Well what we want to know is—”

“Need,” Leah interjects. “Need to know.”

“Right. What we need to know,” Paige corrects, “is just how prime he really is.”

“How prime?” I reply, my eyebrows high. “Really? That’s what you both need to know?”

“Stop holding out on us.” Paige grabs her crotch in an obscene gesture as we reach the edge of the field, joining the huddle of our teammates. “The junk, Jordan,” she says bluntly. “How prime is it?”

They break out in laughter and our assistant coach shoots us a glare.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter to Paige, because she’s the one making the most noise.

“She already has,” Leah replies, now in the throws of a choking fit.

“Oh good lord,” I mutter.

Coach Kerr blows her whistle. The ear splitting peal slices through the afternoon air and silence reigns instantly. When she pulls it from her lips, her nostrils are flared. “That was sloppy play! You need to sharpen up,” she snaps, chopping her hand against her open palm to emphasize her point. “Jordan scored that last goal because you had unmarked players. Unmarked players!” Coach is frustrated because it’s the one point where our team is falling down. “Mark. Your. Player. I want you on your opposing mark like a fly on shit. Don’t leave them open to score goals. Don’t let them breathe without you in their face. Make them work for it. Make them run hard. Wear them down while trying to find that goddamn empty space. They’ll make mistakes, and that’s when you strike.”

A collective expression of shame sweeps across our tired, sweaty faces.

“If you want a soccer career outside of college, you need to remember that every game counts. Every training session counts. Every pass of the ball counts. Every step you take on that field,” she points directly behind us, “counts.”

Coach Kerr is right. There’s no room for slacking off. I’ve left Nicky behind for this. It’s made me selfish, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Training is a priority. Games. Everything else has to fit in around it. Life, people, family, friends. They fall by the wayside in the push to the top. Being the best comes with sacrifice, but if you can live with giving up everything but the game, you’re in with a fighting chance.

“Breathe it,” Coach demands. “Sleep it. Dream it. Eat it. And yes, shit it. Tomorrow night is game night. Let’s show them that we are the team to beat.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes sweeping over her team with fire in her eyes. “Now get back out there. I want you running extra laps tonight.”

My stomach sinks. My ankle throbs. It’s taped up beneath the thick, knee-high socks we wear, but it’s swelling and needs elevation, not further punishment.

“How many?” Leah dares to ask.

“Until you either vomit or your legs give out.”

We’re dismissed and run out en masse to begin our laps. No one speaks. We’re too exhausted. Our energy stores are depleted and there’s nothing extra to give. I run the laps but my mind is begging and pleading for me to stop each time my left foot jolts into the ground. I run until the twinge in my ankle morphs into screaming pain. I run until I have nothing left.

When I’m home and showered, I burrow into my bed. Ibuprofen is now my best friend and I partake liberally. Rest tonight and tomorrow and I’ll be playing in Friday’s game. It just means keeping Leah in the dark. My ankle hasn’t healed like it should’ve by now, and if she finds out she’ll pitch an unholy tantrum.

Ten minutes later, after excessive banging of pots and pans, she’s rapping on my closed door. It’s her turn to cook, and my stomach is a growly lion because I didn’t have time for lunch.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Leah,” I call out, my voice groggy as I roll over. I stifle a groan when my ankle shrieks in protest.

The door clicks open and I burrow in further.

“Just ten more minutes,” I promise from beneath the safe haven of my sheets.

“Ten more minutes?” comes the distinctly amused male voice. “Just what are you doing under there? And can I join in?”

My heart is an instant jackhammer despite having done nothing but lie in bed. Oh no. No, no, no. That needs to stop. The little hitch in my breath? The screaming butterflies that tickle my stomach? Just … no.

The bed dips beside me. The sudden heavy weight on the mattress forces my body to roll sideways toward it. Damn you, gravity.

“I was sleeping,” I finally manage to mutter as I furtively check my watch. I haven’t been in bed ten minutes. The pain meds had me knocked out for an entire hour.

“Are you sure? I need proof.” My sheets are ripped away unceremoniously.

“Hey!” I cry out.

Bright light hits me, revealing Brody perched on the edge of my bed. He’s wearing sweatpants, a snug college tee shirt, and a teasing smile. His body is angled toward me, one hand planted flat on the bed near my left hip. My pulse thumps as I stare at it, mesmerized. Is there nothing sexier than football hands? I think not. His are big and tanned, boasting thick veins that pop over wide knuckles and trail up along the land of hopes and sexy dreams. Blinking, I drag my eyes upwards from thick muscled forearms.