Page 152 of Relationship Goals

“I have a question…” I narrow my eyes at her. “How are you going to make sure the club ends up in good hands?”

“I already shopped the club…and I sent the information packet I had on the former owners to them.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I wanted them to know who they would be working with and what they could expect if they decided to behave badly.”

“Nice,” I say in approval. “You little shark. I love it. Let’s go get dinner and talk about how you got to be so smart.”

“Food,” Michelle agrees.

I squeak as she stands, making a V with her arms.

“VICTORY!” she screams.

I blink.

“Too much?” she asks after a moment.

“Nope. I loved it.” I jump to my feet and do the same, until we’re both laughing tears.

And it feels fucking good.

Chapter Forty-four

Luke

There’s a weirdexcitement in the locker room before our match. The Miami Krakens are a good team, and the game will likely be a tough one, especially as it’s the first game of the National Cup Playoffs.

That’s not the energy, though—it’s not the usual nerves coming out as macho bravado. No, there’s a little of that, sure, but it’s happier, expectant maybe.

I catch more than a few of the guys talking in low whispers to each other, only to stop once I lock eyes with them.

I don’t have time for any bullshit, though, or energy to spare wondering what the hell they’re up to. I need to be on my fucking game today.

If I have any chance of a team even being interested in taking me, I’ve got to play the very best I’m capable of.

The pressure is on, and as one of the team physical therapists tapes up a few sore spots on my glutes, I hardly hear their chatter.

Anticipation and adrenaline race through my veins. My blood’s roaring in my ears, and I’m ready to leave it all on the fucking field.

Coach Garrett comes into the locker room as I finish tying up my cleats. The hot pink laces remind me of my mom, and it makes me smile as I tie them in her honor.

“Warm up!” he shouts at us, which is his equivalent of a pep talk.

“It’s early, Coach,” Logan says. “We still have twenty minutes until warm-up starts.”

The rest of us move as a unit, swiveling our attention to the clock on the painted cinder block wall.

“He’s right,” someone says.

“I said warm up,” he roars again, then stalks from the room.

“What the hell,” Logan mutters, looking mutinous.

“Fuck,” I murmur to myself, then louder: “You heard him. Get your boots on and get out there.”

Half the team straightens, doing as they’re told immediately. The other half share incredulous looks but reluctantly fall into line.

I bring up the rear, scowling at the few stragglers as I follow them all out. We jog out of the tunnel, and I close my eyes for a long moment, savoring this feeling of being on the field, my cleats digging into the turf, the sunshine on my skin.

This has to be the best job in the world.

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