She rolls her eyes, then directs herself to Oliver. “Bergman, you are correct. The men didn’t qualify. But Hayes was there being classy with some of the guys from the men’s team, cheering on the women.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” I say through a clenched jaw.
She turns and looks at me. “Proceed.”
“Coach. I’ve been captain since I signed. You’re not honestly threatening me with loss of my captaincy, when this complication’s only arisen after this—”
She clears her throat. Raises her eyebrows. “Proceed with caution, Hayes.”
Oliver sits back and folds his arms across his chest, staring at me. Waiting for what I’m going to say.
“I’m simply pointing out…” I studiously avoid Oliver’s eyes. “If anyone should be on probation for this, it’s Bergman.”
Air rushes out of him. Like I’ve stunned him. Which just goes to show how naïve he is, how little he knows me and the desperation with which I cling to every moment I have left in this world. Because after this?
I’ve got nothing. Soccer is it for me. And when I’m too old for it, too broken too many ways, I honestly cannot say what life will hold, but I can tell you I’m not going to fucking like it. Oliver Bergman sure as shit isn’t coming between me and every remaining moment I get leading a team, starting each game, playing every fucking minute.
Coach stands, palms on her desk as she leans in. “Your captaincy is just as on the line as his, Hayes. It’s earned on an ongoing basis. Because being a captain is more than being an incredible player or charismatic or—typically, at least—in control.” Her gaze dances between us. “It’s about showing your team that you have their best interests at heart, that your every moment on that field is for them, that your love of the game and the club you represent is what guides your behavior on and off the field.”
I glance down, my gaze traveling the scars on my body from so many matches that ended in a new injury, a new source of pain. This game is everything to me. I’ve literally broken my body for it. It’s my life. Being lectured on this is acid poured in a gaping wound. It stings like hell.
“You two,” she says quietly, making me glance up. “You make better partners than you think, or you would, if you gave each other a chance. But you’ve got chips on your shoulders, both of you, and they’ve got to go. If they don’t, I don’t want to replace you, but I will.”
Oliver nods. “Understood, Coach.”
I don’t say a word. But I nod tightly.
“Excellent.” She straightens slowly, rubbing her lower back. “Well, at least you waited until we were winding down practice for this nonsense. Now go home, get some rest, and when you come back tomorrow, I expect to see nothing but complete professionalism.”
After throwing her bag on her shoulder, she opens the door and points toward the hallway. “Go. Shoo. I’m hangry, and you’re pissing me off.”
Oliver holds the door, gesturing for her to go first. “Please.”
Coach practically melts, throwing him a tired, grateful smile. “Thanks, Bergman.” She cuts me a narrow-eyed glare. “Hayes.”
I nod again and say pointedly, “Coach.”
We follow her on a lag in some mutually understood self-preservation instinct, giving Coach a wide berth to more or less waddle down the hallway and turn the corner, before proceeding that way ourselves. Oliver drags her door shut until it clicks closed and locks. That’s when something else clicks, too.
Unless I’m willing to endure a taxi—and I’m not—I need someone to drive me to pick up my car at the dive bar the poker guys dragged me to last night. I stroll into the locker room and glance around as I gather up my things. Everyone’s gone for the day. It’s just me. And Oliver.
Mother fuck.
“Well, Bergman,” I say, throwing my bag onto my shoulder. “If we’re going to play nice, why don’t we start with you giving me a ride?”
If I gave a shit about awkwardness, the car ride would be really awkward.
Thankfully, I don’t.
I don’t care that Oliver drives me in absolute silence to the tiki lounge, which, in the late afternoon daylight, looks even less likely to pass a health inspection than it did last night. I’m not bothered that he cracks not a single joke or pun about a place named The Leaky Tiki.
In fact, after Oliver pulls out the moment I exit his car, I’m completely beyond the weirdness of the day, from our unfortunate and never-to-be-repeated carpool-turned-coffee-run escapade to the fumbling hallway collision to losing my absolute shit on the field to the moment in the locker room when I was inches away from Oliver’s mouth, thinking very specific and inappropriate things about what I’d like to do to it.
By the time I pull in front of my house, I have one thing on my mind: a scalding-hot shower involving a fast and furious wank to the mental image of some faceless man who absolutely does not resemble Oliver, then going the fuck to sleep.
Then waking up tomorrow resolved to keep myself together for the next ten months while I have to co-captain with Oliver Bergman.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, slamming my car door shut. I glance up to the sight of Oliver on the phone, pacing outside his house next door. Yelling.
Not that it’s any of my business or concern that he’s doing something so abnormal. I’m just intrigued. I didn’t know he was capable of it.
Eyes on my feet as I walk toward the door, I try very hard—and fail completely—to ignore what he’s saying.
“I don’t care if you’re sorry!” he yells into the phone. “Being sorry doesn’t get me back in my house!”
He’s either too pissed to notice that I’m nearby or he’s ignoring me. Oliver turns and makes another turn in his circuit, stalking the length of his house toward the back entrance. “Yeah, well,” he hisses, “I know I did. But this is not a proportionate response, Viggo. I’m locked out of my house, and you’re in Escondido!”
I wince. Escondido’s a two-hour drive south, and that’s if traffic’s behaving. Stopping outside my front door, I check the mail, because it’s been a while since I last did, not because I’m eavesdropping on the oddity that is Oliver Bergman angry enough to actually yell. Even today on the field, he didn’t yell.
What does it take to provoke him into acting like this? Hand tangling in his hair, chest heaving, heat high on his cheeks, his voice loud and uninhibited.
“I want in my fucking house!” he yells into the phone, holding it away and squeezing so hard it just might crack. A man’s voice sounds from the phone faintly, before Oliver brings it to his ear. “You’re in for a world of pain!” he yells, before jabbing the “end call” button on his phone, turning, and hurling it into the grass.
I’m unreasonably delighted by this.
“Locked out?” I ask, leaning against the front of my house.
I watch Oliver shut his eyes slowly before opening them, as if summoning calm from a place deep inside himself. “Yes.”
“Lost your keys?”
He groans, scrubbing his face with both hands. “Not exactly. No offense, Hayes, but I really don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“Hmm.” Stepping off my porch, I start down the side of my house. I lift my chin toward the lock on his back door. “Too bad you don’t have a code program like mine; you’d be able to simply reset it from your phone.”
Oliver’s nostrils flare. His hands turn to fists as he lowers them from his face. “Yes. So helpful right now. Thank you.”
This is a new fascinating side of Oliver Bergman. Anger crackling off of him like ungrounded electricity. He looks like Thor, evening sun turning his hair liquid gold, his eyes the glowing color of cool morning light lancing across the sky. He’s impossible to look away from.
And now, I realize with a sinking feeling, he’s also going to be impossible to keep away from, too.
So far I’ve dealt with Oliver by avoiding him at all costs. But now that we’re co-captains, with Coach breathing down our necks to mend fences, what am I supposed to do? I can’t make friends with him, but I sure as shit can’t make hell with him either when my captaincy’s on the line.
“C’mon,” I tell him, jerking my head toward my house.
Oliver’s still breathing heavily. He blinks at me, like I’ve stunned him. “C’mon what?” he asks.
“Come inside, until your locksmith shows up, or whoever has a key.”
His jaw twitches. Turning, he searches the grass for his phone, scoops it up, and brushes it off. “I’ll just go…wait at my brother’s place. He’s close.”
I shrug, ignoring the odd sting that throbs through me in the wake of his brush-off. “Suit yourself.”
Opening my back door, I’m about to walk in when he says, “Wait!”
Can you be both relieved and filled with dread? I am.