The End Game

  “Brody.” My name on her lips is breathy and her eyes on mine wide. Just that slight intimacy right out here in the middle of everyone is affecting her as much as me.

  I can’t believe how easy she makes me lose focus.

  My pulse is hammering.

  It’s not good.

  Not.

  Good.

  I force myself to back up a step.

  At the same time, Eddie hands Jordan her bag. She takes it, clutching it to her chest. It’s a barrier, warning me from getting too close.

  “I’ll see you tonight.” Jordan clears her throat. “For the tu— For the, you know. Tonight, okay?”

  I give her a brief, casual salute, already walking backwards. “Tonight.”

  Jordan

  Paige comes at me hard, putting on the pressure and forcing me to make a move. With half an hour left in our Thursday afternoon training session, Coach has split the team in half and set us loose in a short scrimmage. Our team captain is taking scrimmage seriously. Off the field, Paige is funny and likeable. On the field she’s a goddamn ninja. Before you can blink she’s in your face, her eyes narrowed in a murderous glare—like the ball’s her baby and you’re a homicidal kidnapper. It’s intentionally off-putting, but I just grin at her as I dribble the ball toward the goal, cocky and confident on the field. I was born with a soccer ball at my feet. I grew up with my brother and his friends coming at me, trying to steal it away in our backyard games. Nothing Paige can ever do will put me off.

  My ankle is strapped and Ibuprofen is busy taking care of the pain as I tap the soccer ball with the instep of my right foot, feinting left. It’s a classic move, but it’s one Paige anticipates. So when I actually go right, she comes with me like a buzzing mosquito out for blood.

  Knowing I need to find empty space, I stop the ball with my boot before passing it backwards. Leah’s wide open and takes possession with ease. I signal her behind my back, indicating wide left is where I want it. With Paige having no choice but go hard at Leah, I run for open space.

  Leah puts her boot behind the ball and punts it up the field. It flies up and over, landing a few meters ahead of me with perfect precision. I run straight into the bounce, using my knee to gain control before kicking off with my left boot to keep it moving. An opposing midfielder comes at me and I pass the ball, running forward to find more space. It’s passed back with a smooth roll, and I draw back my boot, sending it sailing. It screams passed the goalie and slams into the back corner pocket of the net.

  “Whoooooooop! Elliott!” Leah shrieks. A body crashes into my back, and we go down in a flailing pile of limbs.

  “Get off me!” I yell when more bodies land above me, crushing me into the ground. My voice is a muffled shriek thanks to the forearm wedged in front of my mouth. I’m tempted to bite it, but it’s the only thing between me and a face full of dirt.

  Eventually I’m freed and flop onto my back, the late sun still packing enough heat to leave me gasping. I suck in a few deep breaths of air, ignoring the screaming twinge in my left ankle while everyone else regains their feet. It hurts more than it should, but I can’t afford to rest it.

  The piercing squawk of a whistle cuts through laughs and team banter. I lift my head. Our assistant coach is waving us over. Paige stands above me, blocking the setting sun. She holds out a hand and I take it, letting her haul me to my feet. I get a hard slap on the back that makes me stumble forward.

  “I’ll get you next time, Elliott.”

  “You’ll have better luck catching a bullet with your teeth,” I retort.

  “Har, har,” she replies, slinging an arm around my shoulder and jostling me as we walk off the field. I grimace, ducking my head as slivers of pain shoot up my leg. “You Aussies are so full of shit.”

  Leah comes up on my left, and Paige cranes her neck to look at her. They share a meaningful glance, something I’m not privy to but get the feeling I’m about to be.

  “So.” Paige’s gaze returns to me. “There’s a little something Leah and I need to know.”

  “Oh?” I raise a questioning brow, but I have a good idea what’s coming and brace accordingly. “Need to know or want to know?”

  “Need to know, of course,” Leah replies for the both of them.

  Paige sniggers and while I’m rolling my eyes, she clears her throat pointedly. “We all know Brody Madden is a prime piece of real estate, right?”

  Her logic is flawless. Every single inch of Brody is prime. I’m trying really hard not to notice. Actually that’s a lie. I don’t think I’m even trying. He keeps giving me glimpses of the man underneath the brash exterior, and it’s reeling me in like a hooked fish.

  My response is a sigh. That’s all I’ve got.

  Paige continues. “Well what we want to know is—”

  “Need,” Leah interjects. “Need to know.”

  “Right. What we need to know,” Paige corrects, “is just how prime he really is.”

  “How prime?” I reply, my eyebrows high. “Really? That’s what you both need to know?”

  “Stop holding out on us.” Paige grabs her crotch in an obscene gesture as we reach the edge of the field, joining the huddle of our teammates. “The junk, Jordan,” she says bluntly. “How prime is it?”

  They break out in laughter and our assistant coach shoots us a glare.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter to Paige, because she’s the one making the most noise.

  “She already has,” Leah replies, now in the throws of a choking fit.

  “Oh good lord,” I mutter.

  Coach Kerr blows her whistle. The ear splitting peal slices through the afternoon air and silence reigns instantly. When she pulls it from her lips, her nostrils are flared. “That was sloppy play! You need to sharpen up,” she snaps, chopping her hand against her open palm to emphasize her point. “Jordan scored that last goal because you had unmarked players. Unmarked players!” Coach is frustrated because it’s the one point where our team is falling down. “Mark. Your. Player. I want you on your opposing mark like a fly on shit. Don’t leave them open to score goals. Don’t let them breathe without you in their face. Make them work for it. Make them run hard. Wear them down while trying to find that goddamn empty space. They’ll make mistakes, and that’s when you strike.”

  A collective expression of shame sweeps across our tired, sweaty faces.

  “If you want a soccer career outside of college, you need to remember that every game counts. Every training session counts. Every pass of the ball counts. Every step you take on that field,” she points directly behind us, “counts.”

  Coach Kerr is right. There’s no room for slacking off. I’ve left Nicky behind for this. It’s made me selfish, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Training is a priority. Games. Everything else has to fit in around it. Life, people, family, friends. They fall by the wayside in the push to the top. Being the best comes with sacrifice, but if you can live with giving up everything but the game, you’re in with a fighting chance.

  “Breathe it,” Coach demands. “Sleep it. Dream it. Eat it. And yes, shit it. Tomorrow night is game night. Let’s show them that we are the team to beat.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes sweeping over her team with fire in her eyes. “Now get back out there. I want you running extra laps tonight.”

  My stomach sinks. My ankle throbs. It’s taped up beneath the thick, knee-high socks we wear, but it’s swelling and needs elevation, not further punishment.

  “How many?” Leah dares to ask.

  “Until you either vomit or your legs give out.”

  We’re dismissed and run out en masse to begin our laps. No one speaks. We’re too exhausted. Our energy stores are depleted and there’s nothing extra to give. I run the laps but my mind is begging and pleading for me to stop each time my left foot jolts into the ground. I run until the twinge in my ankle morphs into screaming pain. I run until I have nothing left.

  When I’m home and showered, I burrow into my bed. Ibuprofen is
now my best friend and I partake liberally. Rest tonight and tomorrow and I’ll be playing in Friday’s game. It just means keeping Leah in the dark. My ankle hasn’t healed like it should’ve by now, and if she finds out she’ll pitch an unholy tantrum.

  Ten minutes later, after excessive banging of pots and pans, she’s rapping on my closed door. It’s her turn to cook, and my stomach is a growly lion because I didn’t have time for lunch.

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Leah,” I call out, my voice groggy as I roll over. I stifle a groan when my ankle shrieks in protest.

  The door clicks open and I burrow in further.

  “Just ten more minutes,” I promise from beneath the safe haven of my sheets.

  “Ten more minutes?” comes the distinctly amused male voice. “Just what are you doing under there? And can I join in?”

  My heart is an instant jackhammer despite having done nothing but lie in bed. Oh no. No, no, no. That needs to stop. The little hitch in my breath? The screaming butterflies that tickle my stomach? Just … no.

  The bed dips beside me. The sudden heavy weight on the mattress forces my body to roll sideways toward it. Damn you, gravity.

  “I was sleeping,” I finally manage to mutter as I furtively check my watch. I haven’t been in bed ten minutes. The pain meds had me knocked out for an entire hour.

  “Are you sure? I need proof.” My sheets are ripped away unceremoniously.

  “Hey!” I cry out.

  Bright light hits me, revealing Brody perched on the edge of my bed. He’s wearing sweatpants, a snug college tee shirt, and a teasing smile. His body is angled toward me, one hand planted flat on the bed near my left hip. My pulse thumps as I stare at it, mesmerized. Is there nothing sexier than football hands? I think not. His are big and tanned, boasting thick veins that pop over wide knuckles and trail up along the land of hopes and sexy dreams. Blinking, I drag my eyes upwards from thick muscled forearms.

  Brody’s watching me, his teasing smile morphing into heat and mischief. He cocks his head, dark brown eyes pinning me to the bed. He looks like the Big Bad Wolf, the kind of guy my brother always warned me away from.

  I scrub a hand over my face in a vain attempt to restore semblance to my chaotic insides. It doesn’t work. I can’t pull myself together when he’s looking at me like that. “Let me just go wash my face and we can start the tute. I need to wake up a little.”

  I go to move but Brody takes up a lot of room. His frame dwarfs my tiny bed. I pause and give him a look that says please move.

  He grins unapologetically.

  “Can you move?”

  Having to force those words past my lips is not a good thing.

  Thankfully Brody stands, backing away a little with his palms up. He jerks his head at the bedroom door. “So go.”

  I quickly swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “Sonofab—” I suck in a sharp breath.

  His teasing smile is gone in an instant, replaced with an expression of concern. “What the hell, Jordan?”

  My stomach rolls and I can’t hide the grimace.

  “Your ankle?” he asks.

  Not pausing for an answer, Brody slides one of those delicious hands down the bared length of my left leg. His palm scrapes smooth skin, and I can’t fight the shiver. My body erupts in goose bumps when he reaches the swollen joint, encasing it with his fingers.

  He presses down around the injured area. “How does that feel?”

  I grit my teeth, a light sweat breaking across my brow. “Hurts.”

  “Dammit, Jordan.” He fixes me with a scowl. It does nothing to lessen the ache pulsing between my legs. “You trained this afternoon on a rolled ankle? I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

  “Of course I trained,” I snap. “You think I want to miss a game? Coach would bench me with an injury like this.”

  “You deserve to get benched for doing something so …”

  “So, what? Stupid?”

  His lips press flat. “I hate that word.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, shamed at my insensitivity. “I won’t use it anymore.”

  Brody takes one of the pillows from behind me. Lifting my leg gently, he places it beneath my left foot. He sets my leg back down with care, but it still tears a pained moan from my throat. “You’re a liability to your team playing with an injured ankle, Jordan.”

  I let out a frustrated huff. “What, like you’ve never done it?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Anger radiates from Brody’s dark eyes as he stands, his jaw ticking. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve trained with injuries? How many games I’ve played with cracked ribs, strains, sprains, and concussions? I know what it means to be benched. There’s always another player there itching to take your place, prove their worth, prove they’re better than you.”

  “Then why are you so angry I trained with mine?”

  “Because you have a choice. I don’t!” His voice rises like thunder until it vibrates right through me, making me shake. “Football is all I have!”

  “I have a choice?” I burst out, my own frustration rising by the second. “I didn’t give up everything and come halfway across the world to get benched for an ankle sprain!”

  “You’re lucky, Jordan. You’ve got a brain.” His finger jabs at the photo on my corkboard that I tacked up only yesterday of me with my parents. It makes my gut clench to see us smiling happily at the camera, the snapshot a daily reminder of how easy it is to lose what you care for most. “You’ve got a fucking family. You’ve got the world at your feet. A smart girl with talent who looks like you? Scouts are gonna be busting down your door to get at you. You just … you … ” A frustrated groan slips from his lips. He grabs at his hair and stalks for the door.

  “Where are you going?” I demand when his hand circles the handle. I push up on my feet and pitch forward, my ankle giving out beneath me.

  Brody moves fast, grabbing underneath my armpits before I crumple to the floor. “Dammit, Jordan.”

  Anger has him breathing hard. I meet his eyes to find him staring down at me. It freezes me in place and desire slams me like a freight train.

  When he eventually speaks his voice is hoarse. “I wasn’t leaving. I was going to get you a first aid kit. You need some ice and a bandage.”

  Making sure I’m steady, Brody’s hands fall away and he leaves the room like Satan’s on his heels. I sink to the edge of the bed, brushing hair from my face with a shaky hand. When he returns, he’s carrying a first aid kit in his hand.

  He crouches at me feet.

  “I can do it,” I squawk, my voice like a crazed bird. In my defense, I have Brody sitting back on his heels, taking my leg in both hands and resting my foot on his knee.

  “Let me,” Brody says quietly, his head bowed as he takes a bandage from the kit by the floor on his left. Unwrapping it from the package, he begins winding it around my ankle. After a few turns, he looks up from beneath thick lashes. “Not too tight?”

  I clear my throat. “No. It’s good.”

  He returns to his task, extending the bandage up the length of my calf and back down as he speaks. “Are you worried about scouts, Jordan? Because you don’t need to be. If they see something they like, they’ll come back.”

  I’m tempted to throw out a cavalier comment and hide the fear. If I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist, right? I even go so far as to open my mouth before I snap it shut.

  Brody’s head is bent at his task, fingers nimble and brow furrowed in concentration. There’s sweetness beneath his cocky exterior. I don’t see him share that with anyone else, but for some reason I’m given peeks. Instead of turning away, I look, and now it’s all I can see.

  “Getting this international sports scholarship was like winning the lottery.” Brody pauses and stares up at me, his eyes dark and troubled in the waning light. “I’ve come from having nothing, and now I’m on the verge of having almost everything, and I know I’ll never get another chance like it.” Lik
e always, the thought overwhelms me. I turned my head away, staring blindly at the wall over Brody’s shoulder.

  Brody

  I set Jordan’s foot on the floor and push up on my knees. It brings my face in line with hers. Taking her chin in my hand, I drag her gaze back to mine. The searing blue in her eyes is dull and tired. “Is that what today was all about?”

  Jordan’s lips press tight for a moment. “I’m scared,” she says. “Sometimes the pressure gets too much, and I push myself too hard.” Her eyes search my face. She’s waiting for me to brush her fears off as trivial, but I don’t. How can I, when the same fear echoes inside my own heart? “I’m so scared I’m going to mess it up.”

  “Why?” I push, forcing her to give me more. “What’s gonna happen if you mess up?”

  Jordan hesitates so I take her hands in mine, linking our fingers and resting them on her thighs. She stares down at them as she speaks. “I don’t have it all. I have my brother and I have soccer, and that’s it. He gave up so much to get me here. I was the one with the talent and the drive to succeed. He went without so I could benefit, every decision revolving around my future. And he put me first because his belief in me is as sure as his belief in the sun rising and setting each day.”

  Jordan has someone who believes in her. Isn’t that half the battle? I swallow bittersweet emotion. My father can’t wait to see me fall. To say I told you so. I’ll never understand it, and yet I’ll do anything to prove him wrong. Whatever it takes. And sometimes that scares me more then failing does.

  Rather than offer up empty platitudes that help no one, I grab the neckline of my shirt. It musses my hair as I drag it over my head and toss it on the floor. Jordan’s gaze drops to the ink on my chest, the tattoo placed to the right of my heart where I see it in the mirror every day.

  I fight to win

  To conquer

  I will persevere

  and use my fear

  And with the grace of God

  I will triumph