“A very fancy breve,” he says after a beat, staring resolutely at the road.
I blink at him. “How the hell do you know I prefer breves?”
“Hayes, everyone on God’s green earth knows you drink a breve. Any time we’re in public, you order one.”
“What’s the GG stand for, then?” I ask.
Oliver flashes me one of those aggravating, dazzling smiles. “That’s between God, me, and Bhavna at Deja Brew.”
After holding seventeen specialty coffee drinks reeking of a stomach-twisting medley of flavored syrups including, but not limited to, hazelnut, strawberry, mint, and pumpkin, while Oliver hummed under his breath the rest of our drive, I’m on the verge of losing my ever-loving shit.
“Buenos días, Julio!” Oliver belts like we’re on fucking Broadway instead of in the lobby where we enter the sports complex.
Julio, who’s head of security—middle-aged, built like a house—smiles, a wide grin lighting up his face. “Qué tal, Oliver?” His brow furrows as Oliver extracts a to-go cup from the beverage tower he’s holding and hands it his way. “Oh, man, is that what I think it is?”
“Your Mocha Mexicana, and this time I triple-checked they didn’t forget the cayenne,” Oliver says, beaming as Julio pops off the lid and breathes in the aroma of his drink.
“Gracias, Oliver. This is just what I needed.”
“De nada. I’m glad,” Oliver says. “Have a great day, Julio! And you let me know how Paulina’s surgery goes next week, all right? I’ll be thinking about her.”
“Will do, man. Will do.”
Oliver turns back to me and hands me a beverage carrier. Then another. “Be helpful if you’re just gonna stand there looking grumpy.”
“I—”
“Hasta luego, Julio!” Oliver calls.
Gritting my teeth, I turn and give Julio a polite nod.
Julio lifts his coffee in greeting and smiles faintly, nothing like the wide, warm grin he had for Oliver. “Have a nice day, Mr. Hayes.”
“Gavin,” leaves me before I can stop it.
What the hell’s wrong with me? Someone’s hijacked my brain and mouth this morning. That’s the only explanation for why I willingly got into a car with Oliver Bergman, held his damn specialty coffee drinks, and am now making sure I’m on a first-name basis with Julio in security.
Maybe I concussed myself last night at the bar. Wouldn’t be my first head injury, and the doctors warned me I can’t afford too many more before they start worrying about long-term neurological impact.
Julio lifts his eyebrows. “Sorry?”
I clear my throat, glancing down at the beverage carrier and wedging a cup more securely in its holder. “Just call me Gavin. Unless you’d prefer to be called Señor Rodriguez.”
Julio’s deep chuckle starts in his barrel-sized chest. He looks a little surprised that I even know his last name. “Nah. First names is fine with me…Gavin.”
I nod, picking up my head and glancing after Oliver, who’s whistling his way down the hall. “Right. Well.” I jerk my head that way. “Beverage duty calls.”
Julio lifts his cup again in a salute, his smile wider, friendlier. “Chau.”
“Chau.”
My strides are long, if a little uneven, because my knee is still pulsing with pain that I’m deeply used to pushing through. Soon I’m close behind Oliver, who’s once again whistling merrily and making me wish I had a pair of earplugs.
I blame exhaustion, maybe even being a little drunk still, the weird spell that being forced into a morning with Fucking Ray of Songbird Sunshine Oliver Bergman has cast on me, for what I allow to happen:
I let myself look at him like I did in the car.
Like I absolutely shouldn’t.
Starting with his bright-yellow sneakers that have a cobalt-blue stripe, up the length of his legs, which are wrapped in snug-fitting blue joggers that hug his tight ass and sit low on his narrow hips.
Goddamn.
“Enjoying the view?” Oliver calls over his shoulder.
Shit. “More like wondering how you can breathe in pants that tight.”
“Considering my respiratory system is located beneath my ribs and not in my lower extremities, quite easily, Mr. Hayes.”
“Stop calling me that,” I growl.
Oliver comes to a halt so fast, I nearly bodycheck him. Instinctively, I grab his waist to steady him as I rotate away so we won’t fully collide. We knock shoulders, so close, I’m inundated by his scent. Fresh laundry, line dried by a sea breeze and sunshine. Soft and warm and clean.
I snatch my hand away, because it’s burning.
Oliver stands with his back to me, head bent over the beverage carriers as he steadies the cups. “Sorry about that,” he says, much quieter than normal, before clearing his throat. “Forgot my turn signal.”
I’m stunned, as if it’s a hit from behind—brutal, swift, blacking out the world around me. The feel of him, lean and hard beneath his clothes, the delectable scent of his body. My brain’s flooded with an image I can’t stop. Warm, sweaty, sun-gold skin. Crisp white bedding. My hands pinning down those hips as my mouth teases him, as he fists the sheets, gasps, begs—
“Good morning, Maria! Morning, Dan!” Oliver hollers as he enters the training room.
I exhale roughly, willing the heat that’s roared through my body to dissipate. Begging my body to cool down.
Fuck. Just…fuck.
Ignoring me, thank God, Oliver hands the next two beverages to our athletic trainers. Their conversation hovers outside my awareness.
This cannot be happening. I won’t let it.
Without another word, I set the beverage carriers I was holding on the desk right inside the room, nodding politely to both our trainers while Oliver prattles on with his back to me.
And then I leave.
Heading straight for the world’s coldest pre-practice shower.
4
OLIVER
Playlist: “Cuando Suena la Tambora,” Fernando Villalona & Johnny Ventura
Butter-yellow sun pours down on us. A crisp January wind whips across the field, carrying Santi’s beloved Banda music, which blasts from the speakers as we scrimmage. I’ve got everyone in the habit of taking turns playing their favorite upbeat tunes to keep the mood light, and boy, have we needed our mood lightened today.
There’s a lot of pressure when we first come back and try to get our legs under us. After a few months off, trades and new contracts, we’re a fresh group, rusty and a bit unused to each other. There’s a hold-your-breath phase when we pick up preseason training, a sense of pivotal importance. If we can’t get synched up and confident before the season starts, we’re likely in for a string of draws and losses until we find our rhythm.
Because soccer, more than any other game, is a collective effort, a truly collaborative game. The more attuned we are to each other, the more comfortable and connected, the better our play will be. We can field eleven elite athletes, but we’ll get our butts handed to us by less-skilled players if that team plays cohesively and we don’t. Soccer is as much of a team sport as you can get, and its victories rely on unity.
Which seems to be something Gavin’s forgotten. Because he’s huffing and stomping like a raging bull right now, yelling at the guys for minor mistakes, playing way harder than necessary when we’re just scrimmaging each other and getting back into the groove.
I glance at Coach, who stands on the sidelines, her gaze critical, razor-focused. Rico and Jas stand beside her in identical postures. Jas’s black hair is pulled back, revealing their shaved undercut, late afternoon sunlight bouncing off their polarized lenses and dark brown skin as they frown at the field. Rico frowns, too, arms bearing golden skin and colorful tattoos folded across his chest.
“Coach,” I mutter between gulps of water from the sidelines.
“Hmm?” She narrows her eyes on Ben, who sprawls after Santi fakes him out and cuts toward the goal.
“You, uh, gonna tell Hayes to simmer down before he breaks something?”
“Or someone,” Rico mutters.
Santi rips a shot low in the corner of the net, one that Amobi had no chance of saving, and dances in celebration across the field in rhythm to the music. Gavin glowers death at Ben.
Jas clears their throat, then says, “I concur, Coach. Hayes is in the danger zone.”
I lift my water bottle to them in salute. “Thank you.”
“Bergman,” Coach says.
I glance her way. “Yes, Coach.”
“How about I coach and you play?”
Ouch.
I exchange glances with Rico and Jas, but they’re unwaveringly faithful to her. They nod in agreement, trusting Coach to handle this however she’s planning to.
On a groan, I drop my water bottle and jog back out onto the field.
“Get your fucking ass up, Benjamin,” Gavin yells at Ben, who’s still sitting on the ground, head hung, after Santi beat him. “You forget which team you’re on today?” he barks.
Ben sighs as he stands.
I clap him encouragingly on the shoulder as I jog by. “Shake it off, B. Next time, you’ll get it.”