He hangs up and I join the gathering huddle for our pregame pep talk. Our head coach gains our attention with a shout and a clap of his hands. Silence descends. Pausing, he scans our faces.

“Do you know why you’re here? What you’re busting your ass out on that field for?” Coach doesn’t wait for an answer. He stares at each of us in turn with a hard glare in his eye. “That’s what you need to remember today, because this game is already over for you if you’re not out there for the right reasons. You know you’re the best team. You know this game belongs to you. It belongs to your teammate beside you. It belongs to everyone who helped get you here today. To every person you love who puts up with never seeing you. To every fan who looks up to you.” He draws in a deep breath of pride, his nostrils flaring and his finger jabbing to emphasize his words. “When you leave that field at the end of the game, win or lose, be sure you did everything you could and gave everything you had, because if you didn’t, you’ve let down everyone and everything this game belongs to.” His arm rises high. “Now get the hell out there, bust your ass, and prove just how good you are!” Our coach raises his voice and it echoes around each and every one of us. “Prove that you’re better than even you thought you could be!”

It’s a rousing speech. One that makes me pause. I do know why I’m here. For the love of the game. That’s all it comes down to. But my love for Brody is stronger than even this. It’s for him I’ll do everything I can, and give everything I have. He’s the reason why I signed a new contract with Houston Dash this morning. When I’m done with my FIFA tour, I’ll be heading home. It makes my heart sing.

Unzipping my jacket, I shove it in my locker and turn to follow the team just as my phone rings again. Shit. I glance around the emptying room. The hell with it. I palm the ringing device in a furtive maneuver and hit answer, whispering, “I literally have five seconds.”

“Then why are you answering your phone?” Brody asks, amused.

“Because I love you and I miss you, and I’m a selfish bitch because I’m wishing I didn’t tell you to go to Austin. I want you here.”

He laughs in the face of my misery. “You just want a fuck to pound all those pre-game nerves from your system.”

My face flames because he knows how hard I like it just before a match. It loosens tense muscles and clears my head. “You know me so well.”

His voice softens. “I do.”

Eddie shouts something at the television in the background. My brows pull together. “I thought you’d be in Austin by now.”

“No, we’re heading out for pizza with some of the guys from the team. I’ll leave from there.”

“You’ll be too tired to leave from there. You should go now.”

As if on cue, he lets out a loud yawn. “I know, but I want to catch your game on the TV. If I’m driving I’ll miss it.”

“Jordan!”

“Shit,” I mumble into the phone. “That’s my coach.”

“Go!” Brody booms. “Kick a goal for me.”

“Bye,” I whisper. Ending the call, I lose the phone and race out on the field with minutes to spare.

Just like he asked, I kick a goal for Brody. When it’s done, I press my index and middle finger to my lips and then hold them up high so he knows it’s for him.

Despite giving our hearts to the game, we lose. It doesn’t just sting either, it burns like a raging bonfire. My first season in a professional league has ended in heartache.

Brody rings me later that night. I’m stretched out in bed, declining consolatory team drinks. With no grand final ahead of us, I have a window of opportunity. I plan to use it wisely by flying to Austin in the morning to surprise Brody, and I want to get a good night’s rest.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers.

I stare up at the ceiling, wide awake. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Disappointment wells. “You can’t win them all.”

“Don’t give that bullshit line.” He’s right. It’s a standard one we all use to death and means nothing. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I feel like a failure.” My eyes burn. “I gave it everything, Brody. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. What if this is it? What if this is the best I’ll ever do?”

Verbalizing the fear doesn’t make it disappear. It makes it real, and it makes me shake. When you work your whole life toward one true goal, the last thing you want to believe is that you’ll never reach it.

“Don’t ever think that or you’ll choke,” his deep voice rumbles through the phone. “You’ll stop trying. You won’t push yourself that little bit harder, and you’ll turn your fear into reality. Besides,” he adds. “You’ve been selected to play for Australia in the World Cup. Does it get better than that?”

“Yes,” I reply stubbornly. “By winning it.”

He laughs and there’s a wealth of affection in the sound. “That’s my girl.”

“Brody …”

I open my mouth to tell him about signing with the new soccer team but change my mind. I’ll tell him in Austin tomorrow. I want to see the look on his face when he hears the news.

“Mmm?”

“I hope you sort something out with your parents tomorrow. I know your dad is a total asshole, but you and Annabelle were close. It’s not right for him to keep you from seeing her.”

I feel his tension ignite from thousands of miles away. “I hope so too. I don’t know what else I can do.”

The rattle of a pill bottle reaches my ears. My stomach clenches. “That’s not—”

He cuts me off, annoyed. “No. It’s an anti-inflammatory. My body’s sore as fuck.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just … I worry, Brody.” Painkillers are a way of life for athletes, but where is the line between necessity and addiction drawn? For Brody it’s already so blurred. “You promised me you’d stop taking all those pills. You have, haven’t you?” My hand tightens on the phone. I hate that I have to ask him, that I don’t trust him when it comes to taking medication, but I don’t know what else to do.

“I don’t take anything that doesn’t come from the team physician’s office.”

Brody’s response should placate me—the Wranglers team doctor wouldn’t hand out anything they shouldn’t be taking, or supply medications in dangerous doses—but it doesn’t.

When I don’t respond, he adds, “I’m not in the mood for an argument. I’m fucking tired.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I just—”

“Good.”

I huff. “Dammit, Brody.”

After a long pause, he says, “Goodnight, Jordan.”

His voice is curt. Ending a phone call with hateful words is unbearable, but there’s no talking to him when he’s like this.

I sigh. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” is all he says before ending the call, leaving my stomach in bigger knots than before he rang.

My sleep that night is fitful, and I’m grateful for the early morning flight to Austin. My goodbyes were said yesterday and my suitcase is packed. The majority of my Seattle possessions were shipped back home to Houston a week ago. My plan is to spend two days with Brody in Austin and fly out to Australia from there.

Arriving at the airport, my phone vibrates a message as I’m checking in.

BigBananaBoy: When does ur flight get in?

Jordan: Midday. Why?

BigBananaBoy: I’ll pick u up.

The man at the counter offers a practiced smile and hands over my ticket. “Have a good flight, Mrs. Madden.”

The use of my married name gives me such a thrill. I smile at him. “Thank you.”

Walking toward the coffee stand, a small carry-on over my shoulder, I type a reply.

Jordan: You don’t have to. I can get a cab.

BigBananaBoy: I want to talk to you about something.

That sounds ominous. After ordering a skinny chai latte, I hand money to the cashier and step aside to wait.

Jordan: As long as it’s nothing to do with your banana, then ok.

BigBananaBoy: You had ur chance at my banana. You blew it. And not in a sexy funtimes way :P