Page 11 of Romancing My Grumpy Goalie

I sigh. Why do people always assume the worst? It’s not like I’m diseased.

I clear my throat. “It’s cleaner than you are. I used it on my clean body.”

Her face goes through a rainbow of shades. First pale with worry, then purple with anger, like I’ve accused her of being filthy, and finally bright red, like the image of the strip of terrycloth being against my naked body being held against her—even fully clothed—was too much for her brain to handle.

I should walk away for her to figure it out, but I don’t. Because I can’t stand to do nothing when a woman is in trouble. “If you want to clean up at that spigot by the baseball field, I can get my towel from my car.” I point to where a covered pavilion stands next to it.

She squints at me. “This is the most talking I’ve ever heard from you.”

Great. Now she’s keeping score.

She heads toward the pavilion, and I go to my car, pulling the towel from my trunk. Being the hero is exhausting.

When I get back to her, she’s leaning over the spigot, rinsing out her hair. Her shirt is white and streaked with mud and see-through where the water has splattered it. I avert my eyes and hand her the towel so she can cover herself.

“Thank you.”

I nod in her direction and head back to the game. I settle in my chair so I can study what the boys are doing. Nolan is the goalie, and he’s showing natural reflexes but no proper technique.

After practice is over, Nolan comes over to where one of the moms has drinks and snacks set up on a table. He approaches me with a Gatorade and a protein bar. “Mr. Hensley, thank you for helping my mom with your towel.”

I pause mid-drink and nearly choke. Why does this kid have to look so genuinely grateful? I hadn’t stopped to think about how Nolan might have perceived all of this.

I shrug. “All I did was the bare minimum.” The last thing I need is for this kid to think I’ve gone soft on his mom. Which I haven’t. I step forward and hide a wince. Sitting for the last hour has my knee feeling stiff.

“I heard you play soccer, too,” Nolan says. “My mom signed me up for a soccer mentorship, and I just found out I got it.”

“Is that right?” I wonder . . .

Nolan takes a sip of his Gatorade before running off to talk to a few of his teammates.

Jace turns to me, the soccer ball under his arm. “He’s with Play It Forward. His mom emailed me about it last night. Apparently, he got the mentorship, but they haven’t found someone to match him with yet. My guess is they’re waiting on you.”

I turn to Jace. “Milo has been harassing me about making a final decision.”

Jace drops the ball and sets his foot on top of it. “What’s holding you back?”

“I won’t be here forever. You know I’m planning to leave Roanoke and go back to Atlanta.”

“And he could learn a lot from you in the meantime,” Jace pushes. “Nolan has a lot of raw talent, but he needs better technique. I’m doing my best with him, but our time together is limited. He needs some one-on-one training with a goalie who knows what he’s doing. Someone like you.” He runs a hand over his short, spikey, blond hair, so different from my long, wavy hair.

Anabelle is heading across the field toward us, freshly showered, having swapped that muddy disaster for a flowy sundress with blue flowers. Her hair is down and loose, and she’s wearing a straw hat like she belongs on a postcard or is about to chase me out of her garden.

I look away. Not my problem.

She smiles at me and waves, and I just stand there before turning away to get my bag. Time to leave.

“Did you get my email, Jace?” she says behind me.

“About the mentorship?” He glances sideways at me. Nope. Guilting me into helping this kid isn’t going to work.

“Nolan needs this opportunity. His dad was the one who got him into soccer, but he’s been pretty absent lately. I don’t wantto see Nolan lose that progress he was making from all the one-on-one time he had with his dad.”

The kid’s dad bailed on him? Oh, no. I won’t get involved. No way. But I know the sting of a dad leaving. Mine left when I was five.

Jace looks over at me again. “Come on, man. It’s only a few times a week.”

Anabelle looks between us. “What? Is Lucas thinking about mentoring?” Those pink lips turn downward like she’s eaten something rotten. She shakes her head. “I’m not so sure you’re the right fit for Nolan.”

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