Page 20 of Falling Offsides

Seeing her curled up with her iPad, smirking to herself every now and then. Sleep shirt barely covering her thighs…

That was my cue to tune out of the feed. I should’ve closed the laptop and walked away.

I didn’t.

Instead, I watched. Like the creep I told myself I wasn’t.

And now I’m out here. A goddamn lunatic. A man with no self-control and too many excuses.

On day two of knowing this girl. Not even knowing—meeting.

My phone buzzes in my pocket while I continue attempting to bore a hole through her door. Maybe Courtney isn’t as stubborn as I think. Maybe I’m wrong about her and this is all a self-inflicted guilt trip.

I pull my phone out and sigh when I see my dad’s name. He always comes to the rescue. This has to be the sign I need to tell myself it’s time to pick up my kitbag and head down to my car.

“Hey, paps.” I answer the call before it goes to voicemail.

“Auggie,” he says, soft and warm in that Québécois accent that always gets under my ribs.

It’s that feeling that stops me in my tracks as I pick up my kitbag and throw it over my shoulder. It’s that hollowed out sensation that takes me back to the conversation Courtney and I had on the drive home yesterday about her family, Coach. The sadness that sunk her eyes that keeps me frozen in place.

Still watching her door as Dad tells me, “Meant to call yesterday to check in. I got caught up at work and then figured you’d crash early. How did it go?”

“Ummm…” I glance down at the floor. “Great.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“It didn’t end the way I wanted.”

“The day or training?” Concern pitches his voice, making his accent more pronounced.

“Both,” I reply. Then my time with Courtney comes to mind and I find myself correcting my statement. “Training.”

“What happened?”

“I hit the new team photographer with a puck.”

He goes quiet. Then: “Bad?”

“I knocked her clean out, Dad. She needed seven stitches.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “Was it an accident?”

“Of course.” I rake a hand over my face before I start knotting and pulling at my hair.

“So what’s the problem? It’s what happens in hockey.”

“Courtney’s Coach Nilsson’s daughter.”

That earns a low whistle. “Ahhh…”

“Exactly.”

The line goes quiet. I find myself wishing he was as loud and obnoxious as the guys that spent their evening ribbing me.

“You alright, kid?” Dad asks, gentler now. “You sound off.”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Just feels heavy this year.”

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