Page 5 of Resilient Love

Coach was right. These ladies are the real deal. They train hard and play even harder. Their form and attention to detail is beautiful, and they’re so in sync that it’s like they share one mind.

On one hand, it's helpful that they don’t seem to need much coaching, but on the other, they’re highly competitive athletes with a new coach that they haven’t decided if they like, let alone trust. Working as one cohesive team with an outsider might be more of a challenge when therearethings we need to change, and if one of them decides to make my life hell, I’m confident they all will.

It’ll definitely be a new challenge for me, but I’m happy to face it if it means makingmycoach happy and securing my position taking over for him when he retires.

Well,happyisn’t quite the right word, but I’m not nearly as pissed about it as I imagined I’d be.

I’m trying to do something that’s extremely out of character for look on the bright side. It pains me to even think that sort of thing because it feels cliche andwrong, but the positives are the only things keeping me from totally spiralling down the dark hole where the ghosts of my past and self-loathing reside.

It certainly helps that these young women are fucking machines on the pitch, and that makes it a touch less painful to be here. Nearly a decade ago, I was in this same place for very different reasons.

I watch them closely silent glances, barely noticeable shifts in posture—signals that would fly under the radar for most, but not for me. I know this language, the one my team and I speak without words.

Every team has their own cues. It’s a part of what makes us work so harmoniously without having to shout at one another mid-game or give away our next moves, but these particular gestures? I know them well, and I have a hunch as to why that is.

“Auclair, come here for a minute,” I shout over to the dark-haired woman. Her head whips in my direction before she nods, jogging over to me.

It takes everything in me not to stare at her perky tits as they bounce over the top of her tight sports bra.Thisis going to be a problem. It’d be helpful if she were younger because there wouldn’t be any blurred lines. But I know from Coach celebrating her birthday that she’s twenty-one.

Which means she’s legal, but still every bit off limits. Even if I wasn’t technically her coach now, it would be in everyone’s best interest for me to steer clear.

Maybe if I refer to her as a girl in my head, my dick will get the memo.Nope, that won't work either because I fucking hate it when people, especiallymen,act as if young women are merely children.

These people out here are athletes. They're earning an education and working toward their dreams. They don't deserve to be thought of as less because my coach's daughter is too damn pretty for my own good.

She stops a couple feet away, standing tall and locking eyes with me. Her hands plant firmly on her hips, like she’s ready for whatever’s coming next. “What’s up?” She huffs, appraising me. My eyes catch on the small bead of sweat sliding down her neck, making its way to the centre of her breasts.

She chuckles humourlessly, drawing my attention back to her pale-blue eyes. They’re like glaciers, as chilling as her demeanour. She wears a smirk that tells me I’ve been caught. “Careful now or we’ll be downanothercoach for inappropriate behaviour.” Her quirked brow looks like a challenge, and I’m reminded of a version of myself from a decade ago, someone long gone who would’velovedto accept her provocation just to feel alive.

My nostrils flare at the insinuation, but she’s right. I need to get my shit together.

I ignore her comment and clear my throat before asking, “Who decided on those signals you use?”

“Me,” she deadpans.

No surprise there.

“Your dad teach you those?” Clearly he had. I’m not sure why I’m goading her as if she’s done something wrong. She’s merely using the resources she’s had available to her, and I’m only curious, but the words leave my throat like an accusation, leaving me bristling beneath her heavy glare.

A tight, forced smile pulls at her lips as she lets out a short, dismissive laugh, her eyes briefly glancing down at her feet before meeting mine with clear frustration. “No,Itaughthim,” she informs me.

I’m taken aback by this. My brows pinch together, and my head tilts as I appraise her. “Youtaughthim?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Yes. That’s what I said. You’re welcome, by the way. You should be thanking me for my creativity at the ripe age of seventeen.Really,I’m partially to thank for your team's success,” she says with a wink. The action has a knot buried deep in my chest tightening and burning from a frustrating combination of desire and annoyance. Neither of which have any business being there. Before I can get another word in, she turns on her heel and jogs back to the centre of the field to meet up with the rest of her teammates.

This is already going poorly, but it couldalwaysbe worse.

CHAPTER FOUR

FRIDAY, MARCH 21

The whistle cutsthrough the air, sharp and unforgiving. I bite back a groan. My legs ache, my lungs burn, but there’s no way I’m showing it. Not with Rafael prowling the sidelines like a disappointed predator. He hasn’t looked up from his damn clipboard all practice, but that hasn’t stopped him from barking orders like we’re pawns in some messed-up chess game.

“Elise! Quit wandering and stay in position,” he snaps, his voice dripping with irritation. I clench my teeth, my jaw tight enough to crack. Iamin position, but it’s not like he’d know; his eyes are glued to the paper in front of him. The rest of the team is just as drained, shuffling around with the kind of mutedresentment that comes from spending two hours being treated like we’re barely competent.

The ball lands at my feet, and instinct takes over. I flick it out to Ruby in the right midfield, threading it through two defenders like a needle through fabric. It’s a good pass, clean and sharp, and I hear Ruby shout, “Nice one, Elise!” as she takes off down the line. But before the satisfaction can settle in my chest, Rafael’s voice cuts in.

“Sloppy,” he says without even looking up. “That should’ve been quicker.”

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