Page 27 of Striking Heat
“Why did I agree to sit by you?” I tease her.
“You love me, and you know it.”
She’s right, I do. She’s my ride or die, and I’d probably be bored on this flight if not for her. It’s not a particularly long one. We’re not really even talking that much. I just like having her with me, sitting beside me. It’s calming in the reality that has become my life lately. I went from being a college graduate to playing for a newly created NWSL team. I still don’t go a day without pinching myself because I can’t believe that I’m actually here.
This was a dream that I had when I was a little girl playing travel soccer. In high school, I wrote in my senior yearbook that I would be on a NWSL team when I graduated college. I think some of my teammates believed it, but not all. And now I’ll be the subject of a news article because I kicked a soccer ball at the guy who’s writing the article.
It’s been a wild ride, and I think it’s only going to get wilder. I recline my seat just a touch more, looking back to see that Hendrix is passed out, so she won’t care that I reclined a bit more. Before shutting my eyes to get some much-needed sleep, I peek at my phone.
Danny:Don’t worry, I won’t go far. And I know that’s not what you meant, but you don’t really want to hurt me, and it shows.
I fight back a snicker and close my eyes, letting sleep take me. Thoughts of Danny, our upcoming game are filling my head, so it’s not very restful. But I’ll take what I can get.
Chapter Twelve
~DANNY~
Training seemed tough on them. The girls aren’t really all that chatty as they eat at a local pasta spot, fueling up for the game tomorrow. I was talking to August while watching their practice, and he told me where everyone was going to eat afterward and invited me along.
I walk up to the bar where August and some other men are sitting. They have beers in front of them and are watching ESPN highlights. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. I think he works with the team, but I’m not sure how.
“Evening, gentlemen.” I drag the barstool away from the bar, causing it to make that squeaky, metal-scraping sound. I cringe.
“Glad you could make it,” August says in a way of greeting. “This is Jase Ford. He’s the goalie coach. He needs a beer more than the rest of us after being yelled at by Hendrix for most of the day.”
Jase laughs and shakes his head. “She’s a tough one, but that’s what makes her such a good goalie,” he says in an English accent.
“She seems like she would be tough. She has to voluntarily spend her game time with balls flying at her at like, what, sixtymiles an hour?” I reply as the bartender comes over. “I’ll drink what they are, and I’d like to buy another round.”
He nods and leaves us.
“You’re that reporter,” Jase says.
“Yeah, I am,” I reply, waiting for him to say more.
“You bought me a pint, though, so I guess you’re alright.” He chuckles. “Hendrix isn’t crazy. She’s just dedicated to her sport and her position. She’s a hell of a goalie. I just wish sometimes I could tamp down that attitude a bit.” He chuckles again and shrugs.
“You’re a good man.” August slaps him on the back. “Don’t worry about Jase. He’d never call her a lunatic because he used to be a goalie in England. Once upon a time.”
“I may be older than you, pretty boy, but I’m notthatold, you wanker.” Jase waves a thank-you to the bartender, who deposits our drinks and leaves. “Are you the Danny Taylor who used to swim?”
I nod, a mile-wide smile crossing my face as I think back to my days in the water. The way I could so easily lose myself in the pool. How it made the whole world melt away along with my troubles.
“Injury sidelined you, huh?” Jase asks.
I nod again. I get the feeling they’ve been here for a bit and have sucked down more than one beer. Jase seems to be in the mood to just talk at me and not really have me add in too much to the conversation.
“I had the same issue. I tore a muscle in my groin and messed up my hips when a striker ran into me. Sidelined my game and made it impossible for me to keep playing. I’ve been out for a while. You were probably just a teenager when I played.”
I look past August to get a good look at him. He’s got some gray in his brown hair. I would gauge that he’s about ten years older than me.
“I’m sorry you were sidelined, but I get it,” I say, lifting my glass to cheers in solidarity.
We clink glasses and August’s phone lights up with the name Maria.
“While you ladies talk about the glory days, I’m going to go answer this,” he says, leaving the stool and heading toward the back of the restaurant.
“The world of sports is full of athletes who used to be able to play,” he says glumly. “Now we just coach—or in your case, write.”
