Page 33 of Playing the Field
Hunter
Okay,she may actually be trying to kill me.
It’s the only explanation for why Gracie stands in the kitchen wearing only a flimsy tank top and tiny shorts. Why is this what she sleeps in?
Sunlight streams through the window at that early morning angle, looking even brighter than the pale yellow should be. It’s almost blinding, bouncing off the gleaming stainless steel appliances in Kyler’s kitchen. But that’s not what has my focus.
The light has the effect of making Gracie’s outfit almost translucent, and I swear I can see every outline of her body in stark relief. The perky roundness of her ass. A narrow strip of pale skin peeking over the waistband. The generous curve of her breasts, which she hides under those baggy shirts… I’ll never be able to unsee what I’m staring at with my mouth agape right now.
And she’s swaying from side to side as she stirs her coffee,grooving to music on her headphones, I imagine, though I can’t see them through her mane of uncombed hair.
She turns, startled to find me there. Her arms instantly cross over her chest, and she takes a step backward, which traps her against the kitchen counter. Holding up a teaspoon in defense, she blinks at me like a cornered animal and pulls out one of her earbuds.
“You gonna murder me with that?” I ask, mirroring her stance with a smirk.
She looks at the spoon as though noticing it for the first time, and her hand falls. “Don’t think I couldn’t.”
“Death by stirring?”
Her features relax, but she doesn’t quite smile. “Exactly.”
“Sorry I startled you.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t hear you.” She points at the remaining earbud. “I like a little Taylor Swift in the morning.”
“Who doesn’t?”
I should leave and give her some space for her morning ritual. It certainly won’t kill me to wait ten minutes before making my protein smoothie, but I can’t make myself walk away.
Gracie solves the problem for me, grabbing her coffee cup and slipping past me. “Have a great day,” she says as I turn for one more glimpse of her tight ass under those shorts. But without the sunlight, all I get is a look at baggy gray shorts and the swish of hair trailing down her back.
I am a goddamn pervert, and I should be ashamed of myself for ogling her this way. Yet I feel oddly satisfied to have one more tiny shred of information she probably didn’t mean to give me.
But except for the few “would you rather” answers I managed to glean the other night, everything else about her is still a mystery.
It’s why I do the smart thing and head off to practice an hour early and take my frustrations out on some barbells.
A couple of hours later,the sun is hot and bright, and I should be focused on Dario Conner, our striker, who’s dribbling toward me with fire in his eyes. He’s as determined to get past me and take a shot as I am to take the ball away from him, preferably leaving him on his ass.
He and I work hardest in practice when our emotions run high. He gives me the best workouts and training to take on any striker in the league, so we spend a lot of time together. Off the field, less so, because he’s a single dad and focused on raising his five-year-old son. But he shows up ready to play, with his head in the game, every damn time.
It’s more than I can say for myself right now. He gets past me easily and sends our keeper diving at a shot straight into the corner.
Coach blows his whistle, and I know what he’ll say before he’s uttered a syllable. “Reyes, you lost focus.”
I nod, jogging back to the line of my teammates, warming up with the same drill. Defender pitted against offense, each of us matched in a one-on-one that shows exactly who’s bringing their A game. If this were closer to the regular season, my lack of focus, even for a few minutes, would be a big problem.
I raise a hand, signaling to my coach that I’m back on track. I have to be. Thinking about my roommate in a flimsy tank top is not going to get me there.
Our exhibition game against the San Francisco Strikers is coming up in a couple weeks, and it’s the team’s first matchup with them since the playoffs. The Devils social media feed has ramped up its postings, getting fans ready for the new season. There will be jersey giveaways and free donuts if we score a certain number of goals—all manner of incentives to get fans into the stadium.
And we need to do our jobs on the field.
It’s not lost on me that some of the fans will be happier to see me back than my own teammates seem to be. It makes me yearn to get back to the regular season, where I can prove that I’m more valuable than some of my teammates think I am.
My body feels overworked from the extra sessions after our regular training. Jimmy keeps warning me to take it easy, telling me my muscles need recovery time after being torn down by extra weight and reps. I keep telling him I’m fine.
The reality is that I need the energy release these days. It feels like the only way to keep my aggression at bay so I can show at least a tiny bit of restraint on the field.
