“I think they’re actually going to have sex right here in the stadium,” Eddie says from somewhere very, very far away. “Is anyone filming this?”

“I’m on it,” Carter replies.

Brody’s hands on me gentle, but he doesn’t let go. He draws his mouth from mine and I’m a panting, trembling mess with legs made of jelly.

“Jordan,” he croaks, the first one to speak. He licks along his bottom lip, his eyes dark and disoriented as he stares at me, breathing hard.

I stare back, shock freezing me to the ground so I can’t move.

What in the freaking hell was that?

The sharp shrill of a whistle pierces my skull, jerking me from my stupor. With a quick glance of my surroundings, I’m reminded of our audience and the imminence of my soccer match, and I’m horrified.

“I have to go.” I extract myself from Brody’s hold. He doesn’t fight me and I’m thankful. I jog backwards for a moment, his eyes holding mine. I drag them away and turn, making my way toward Coach Kerr.

Damn, damn, damn, I chant in time with the rapid beat of my heart. I shouldn’t have done that. Now my mind is complete mush.

“You finished there?” Coach asks when I reach her side.

I clear my throat. “It was just a quick kiss for luck.”

Coach Kerr shutters the amusement in her eyes, keeping her expression stern. “Get out on the field, Elliott, or no amount of luck will help you when I bench you for not warming up properly.”

I do as she says, and after a long, sweaty match, we’re tied one all with twenty minutes left in the game. The opposition is relentless and unforgiving but struggles to breach our defense. Our plan from the beginning was to wear them down. It’s working. Exhaustion makes their passes sloppy and their play more chaotic. Another five minutes pass before I get my break and shoot for goal.

The air burns in my lungs and my ankle screams, but adrenaline is a powerful force that won’t be denied. Our team holds their collective breath as the ball tips off the goalie’s fingers in slow motion, reducing momentum. The entire stadium is silent for a single pin-dropping moment as the goalie falters, once, twice, and then loses the battle. The ball hits the back of the net before dropping inside the goal.

The stadium erupts and I’m tackled first by Paige and then the rest of the team. When I emerge from beneath a crushing, celebratory pile of sweaty limbs and excited hollers, I catch the football team doing another Mexican wave in the stands, this time Brody joining in and bringing his fingers to his lips, letting out a piercing whistle.

Jubilant, I give them a quick bow and begin a jog back to position. The opposing team’s defender is letting loose a litany of foul curses from beside me.

“Lucky shot,” she mutters somewhere in between, her tone disparaging.

“There was no luck about it,” I snap. I’m sick of her taunts. They’ve been constant, her sledging an effort to destroy my concentration through the entire match. “We’re a fitter, better team.”

With a sneering face and the referees focus elsewhere, she jabs her booted foot at my injured ankle. Her strike hits right in the tender part, and I crumple like a cheap suit, crying out as I hit the ground.

“Ref!” Paige’s shout rips across the field, signaling him with her arm thrown high as she jogs toward me.

I roll over and sit up, pain seizing hard and fast. My nostrils flare wide as I breathe through it in sharp, shallow pants. Loud shouts erupt from the bleachers. I barely hear it over the roar of blood in my ears.

“Bitch,” Paige growls and shoves the defender in the chest. A cheer goes up from the spectators when the girl stumbles backwards. “I saw what you did.”

The whistle blows, suspending play. The referee reaches me at the same time our team physician, Emilio, does. He runs a medical practice on the outskirts of Austin, and his fierce Italian temper is legendary. He keeps it leashed as he drops to a crouch in front of me, his eyes pinched in angry slits.

“What happened?” he asks, taking hold of my left foot with care.

“What happened?” Paige echoes with a shrill screech. She faces the ref while jabbing her finger at the number five center-back, her body a tense, quivering volcano ready to erupt. “That bitch just kicked Jordan in the ankle. You need to send her off, right now.”

That bitch smirks while Emilio prods at my tender ankle. It feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. I look away, hot tears pricking my eyes. I’m definitely benched now.

Paige emits a low growl from her throat. She sounds ready to morph into a beast and seek violent revenge. Leah joins her side, and half the team circles us.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” the referee barks at Paige. “I didn’t see the supposed altercation, so I can’t call it. Let’s resume play and watch your language, or you’ll be the one sent off.”

“Are you effing blind?” she shrieks. A huge argument blows up. Shouts break out. Paige pushes the defender again when she starts returning fire. More cheers erupt from the bleachers. The girl pushes back, fisting Paige’s jersey and shoving her.

“Come on. Let’s get you off this field,” Emilio says quickly when the confrontation escalates into chaos. “Can you walk?”

The idea of being carried off is not one I want to entertain. “I can walk.”

I yelp as I’m helped to my feet. The sound is drowned out by the argument in progress. It gains momentum when the referee holds up a yellow card.

“Oh this is bullshit!” Paige gripes.

I don’t hear the rest. My arm is looped around Emilio’s shoulder as he helps me limp from the field. The closer we get, the better I can hear Brody’s shout from the sidelines. My eyes find him. His body vibrates with anger. He redirects it from the sideline referee to my coach, who’s busy telling him to cool it or she’ll have him escorted from the stadium.

“Hell,” I mutter.

My cheeks heat. He’s making it worse. And when I reach the bench, claps break out as if I’m a war-torn hero returning victorious from battle. I duck my head and sit with an exhausted sigh of relief.

“This is the best shit I’ve seen in ages,” I hear Carter say when the applause dies off. “Chick fights are hot. Way to go, Jordan!” he yells in my direction, as if I masterminded the entire altercation just for their viewing benefit.

Eddie throws down his agreement. “We need to watch more women’s soccer.”

“I don’t know,” someone else pipes in. “I haven’t seen any jersey’s ripped off yet.”

Emilio kneels in front of me, shaking his head. Lifting my booted left foot, he rests it on his knee and begins undoing the laces. A shadow looms over us, blocking the bright glare of the stadium lights.

“Get off the field,” Emilio says to Brody without looking up and slowly begins removing my boot, taking care not to jostle my ankle.

I’m sucking in a hiss of pain when Brody crouches beside me. He looks up from beneath the brim of his cap, placing his palm on my right knee. There’s tenderness in his expression that melts me like butter. My eyes drop to his lips and my pulse thumps, reminded of how much damage he did to my heart with that kiss earlier. “You okay?”

“Look, bud,” Emilio pauses and tilts his head, giving Brody a firm glare. “I don’t care who you are. I’m the team physician and it’s my responsibility to take care of my girl here. So either get your ass off the field or I’ll call security.”

Brody’s nostrils flare. “So call security,” he bites out, his Texan drawl more defined with his anger. “I don’t care. Some bitch just jabbed my girl with a spiked cleat. I’m not going back to my seat.”

Emilio appraises Brody with his dark eyes. They must reach some kind of macho understanding because he gives Brody a brief nod. “Okay. You get Jordan’s cleat off. I’ll get a bandage and some ice.”