Page 29 of Striking Heat
“What are you doing here?” she asks me. The snark in her voice remains. She’s not looking to make this easy on me and just be friendly. I make a note to ask her sometime, why the wall went back, and she chose to be snarky rather than friendly.
“Making some new friends,” I tell her with a grin. It’s either the light buzz I have working from the beers or just the nearness of her.
“What about Nick? Isn’t he your friend?”
“I can have more than one friend. Clearly, you have many.” I gesture toward the rest of the team behind her. “How was practice?”
I push away a strand of hair that fell from her braid and was getting ready to fall into her eyes. Her hand came up to push it out of the way, but I was faster. I watch as goose bumps form at my touch, making her take a step back.
“It was alright. Harder than I thought it would be,” she admits with a shrug. Her eyes follow where her teammates have gathered, waiting for the vans to take them back to the hotel.
“Probably just a little jet-lagged from traveling. I’m sure you’ll pull it together for Friday.” I wink at her, and she laughs.
“Oh, we’re going to kick ass.”
“I know you will.” I grin wider at her by the second.
“You headed out with them?” She motions toward Jase and August, who are talking quietly with Nate, the head coach.
“Nah, I’m going to head back to the hotel, see if Nick is done catching up with family, and probably call it a night.”
She nods. “Yeah, me too. I’m going to stretch, shower, and hit the hay.”
“More practice tomorrow?”
“More practice tomorrow. But as you know, it’ll be lighter than today was.”
“Sweet dreams,” I tell her, bopping her on the nose and walking back to say good night to Jase and August. I don’t dare turn around. I like to think she’s watching me retreat, and for some reason that thought makes me so damn happy. Happier than it should.
Chapter Thirteen
~MAC~
The rain is coming down and has been since the sixty-fifth minute. I’ve never minded playing in the rain, but right now I hate it. The temperature seems to have dropped by twenty degrees. I grew up and played in Portland, so I should be used to the cold, but this chilly rain is bothering me.
It’s either the rain or the fact that we’re down by two goals. I sunk one and so has Kelsey, a strong right-winger. But it’s not enough—Chicago has four. Henny has been getting the crap pounded out of her, shot after shot going her way. She’s saved so many, but some have gone in. I’m sure it’s the ones that are going in that are killing her the most. I know it would bother me.
Coach has been screaming at us to push up, but I don’t know that it would help. They’re sending long balls through, and they’re on at the first touch. The defense isn’t getting back fast enough. Cassidy is tired. She may play the mid-field position, but she’s been working back so fast to help. It’s burning her out. We can’t keep up at this pace, especially since we’re only fifteen minutes into the second half.
There are no time-outs in soccer, but right now, I really wish there were. I want to call one and ask Coach to start looking atsome of the subs. We’re getting really tired fast, and there’s still so much game back.
Amelia works the right side of the field along with Carrie, who is the right-back, and they’re both getting tired too. They have been beaten more times than I can count.
As the striker, I hate that I have to stay at the top. I want to run back and help them. The action is happening on the defensive end of the field for us. I want to go and help. I look at Maria and it’s like she can read my mind, because she shakes her head. I sigh.
A Chicago Red Star is heading toward the goal, and she’s coming hard. Henny comes out so that she can cut her angle and make her shot less likely to go in the net, but it doesn’t work. She keeps on coming hard, so Hendrix has to adjust her stance. That’s where she gets her. The player plows into Henny and sends her flying. The goal goes flying into the net.
Hendrix lies there on the ground, and I take off running for my friend, along with the rest of the team, while Amelia has words with the player who took her out.
“That wasn’t clean!” she shouts. “Your ass should be carded!”
“Amelia, cool it!” I shout, hoping to keep her from getting a card. But the words continue between the two of them.
The ref pulls his cards out and holds one right in Amelia’s face. It’s a penalty, not one that has to take her out of the game, though. A yellow card is a warning. But he’ll be watching her closely. Any little misstep on her part, and he’ll be sure to give her a red card. The red card would take her out of this game and the next one. Amelia technically doesn’t have to leave the field, but she is.
She smiles proudly as the ref gives a red to the Chicago player, and I can’t help it, I feel vindicated. She has to leave the field as well. Her foul was definitely worse than Amelia’s. By giving her a red card, he’s sending a message to both teams that he won’t tolerate that type of behavior.
I make it to Hendrix and drop to my knees. “What hurts?” I ask her frantically.
