Playing the Field ebook final draft

by Gray, Mackenzie

  “Hey, Mitch!”

  Three of my teammates are unpacking their stuff at the benches. We’ll need to start warming up as a team once coach arrives, but I have a few minutes to teach Rebecca some pointers. I wave to them before returning my attention to her.

  After explaining where the power in her leg should come from, during which she listens attentively, I stand back to watch her work. The first few shots go wide, but after a while she starts to get the hang of it. Eventually, she sinks one into the back of the net.

  “I did it!” She crows a laugh and claps her hands, bouncing on the balls of her feet in a ridiculous little dance.

  My smile is slow as it slides across my face. I know that feeling. I live for that feeling. Like you can swallow the world whole.

  “Good work,” I tell her. When she smiles at me, a touch shy, a little ball of heat jolts in my stomach.

  “Thanks.” Her chest rises and falls as she sucks in air. Beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, and a few strands of hair curl around her face. “You’re a good teacher.”

  The compliment makes my chest expand with happiness. And if my attention is once again focused on her mouth as she licks her lips, well, so be it. Rebecca may dress conservatively, but she’s still a woman, and she does have a nice smile when she lets it show.

  Coach blows his whistle and calls for us to line up on the goal line for some passing drills.

  “I guess that’s my cue,” she says, gesturing back to the bench. “See you after the game?”

  “Count on it.”

  Chapter 10

  rebecca

  It’s 2-1 with Duke in the lead. Less than ten minutes remain in the game, and the crowd is uproarious. The stands are bursting with fans stamping their feet and clapping their hands, the roar of sound rivaling the rumble of thunder in the distance. Sheets of rain pour from the churning sky. Normally this weather would send me straight indoors, but since there’s no lightning, play hasn’t stopped. The game must go on.

  I’m standing on the sidelines next to the benched players, which I guess is allowed when you’re “dating” the team captain. One of the guys lent me an umbrella. A nice gesture, but a bit pointless, since the chilled fabric of my dress is plastered to my body, my bun heavy with damp. I attempt to swipe droplets from my glasses’ lens, but it only smears the water further.

  Despite my shivering, I’m enjoying myself. It smells of fried food and pizza, and the energy in the air is electric. I’ve never been to a large sporting event before, but I can understand the allure. There’s a sense of togetherness. The sociologist in me wonders why sports push people to such fanatics. I’m sure there’ve been multiple studies done. I remind myself to look them up later.

  “He’s going for it.” Casey, who sits on the bench because he received a yellow flag for inappropriate contact, shoots to his feet, hands fisted. He’s tied his hair back into a ponytail. “Go, you mother fucker!”

  Squinting through the gray, I follow his line of sight. Mitchell is flying down the field, water spraying off his blue and black uniform, mud flinging from his cleats. Two defensemen give chase, and he skirts around them, doing some complicated footwork. Hurriedly, I swipe the water from my glasses. I don’t want to miss anything.

  He passes the ball to center. Stanford, the opposing team, closes in.

  The crowd’s screams hit me in a wave of sound. I can’t help but get swept up in it, the enthusiasm like a fever in my blood. My ears ring from the mounting chant that’s indistinguishable from the rumble of thunder: “Go, go, go, go!” It escalates, peaking into a cacophony of jeers. Victory is within reach.

  “Go,” I murmur to myself, watching mud and grass scatter as a hulkish guy rams his shoulder into Mitchell’s side. I gasp as he stumbles, my palm flying to my mouth as my thoughts plummet toward the possibility of another injury, but he catches his footing before going down and returns the favor, gaining back possession of the ball.

  He weaves around his opponents, feet so fast they blur. I never thought soccer would be an aggressive sport, but it is. They’re ramming into each other left and right. Mitchell manages to avoid the worst of it, passing the ball to one of his teammates briefly when he becomes overwhelmed by Stanford opponents. He sprints ahead as his teammate kicks the ball toward him.

  But Stanford intercepts the pass and sends the ball back down the field, to Duke’s side. It happens too quickly for me to see. The rain is coming down so thick it’s a gray haze.

  “What’s happening?” I ask Casey. He’s tall enough to see over the players teeming around Duke’s goal.

  The referee’s whistle cuts the air. Across the field, the Stanford players whoop with glee.

  Casey’s hands grip his head. “Shit.”

  They must have scored. Now we’re tied, 2-2.

  “How much time is left?” I ask, watching him pace. He’s restless. Wanting to return to the field. It must be a terrible feeling, being unable to help your teammates.

  “Two minutes.”

  That’s enough time to make a goal, right?

  The players line back up for the start. The whistle sounds, and since Duke has possession of the ball, they take it up field. Sometimes they pass it back to the mid-fielders and defensemen. With so little time remaining, the game speeds up. They pass so quickly I can’t keep track, never more than a second or two of dribbling before sending it to an open player. The way they move is easy, seamless. These players are a well-oiled machine.

  Duke sends it upfield. Mitchell is wide open, and he catches the ball on his inner thigh. He’s nearly to the goal.

  “Go, Mitchell!” My voice breaks from my forceful scream. I thought I’d feel self-conscious screaming at a sports match, but my voice blends into the roar that builds like a mammoth wave. I wonder if Mitchell can hear me above everyone else.

  Only a few more yards. The seconds tick down. Stanford swarms around him, and one player nearly snatches the ball when he rams his hip into his opponent, quickly dribbling away. Two guys block his path, but he passes it off, receiving it back when he swerves around them. He’s at the goal line.

  “Take the shot!” Casey crows, hands bracketing his mouth.

  He takes it. The ball is going, going—

  It slaps the back of the net.

  A scream shreds my throat as I jump up and down, my umbrella tossed aside. Somehow Casey and I end up hugging, drunk on victory. He lifts me into the air with a joyous whoop, and my laughter carries, vanishing into the misting rain. I’ve never felt this way before, like I’m a part of something greater than me. A team.

  Twenty seconds later, the whistle blows. The game is over.

  I’m grinning so wide my cheeks crack. While Casey leaves to shake hands with Stanford, I sit back down on the bench. Then I pop up again, too excited to sit still. Watching Mitchell play was exhilarating. I know how nervous he was prior to the game, so I’m really happy he was able to score a goal. The winning goal. The recruiters must be impressed.

  The coach pulls Mitchell off to the side to speak with him while the rest of the team returns to the bench, the feeling of elation swelling around them. Casey grabs a towel from his bag and swipes it across his face. The tension around his mouth has eased now that they secured the win.

  “Congratulations,” I tell him. “It must be an amazing feeling.”

  “It is. And it never gets old.” He drops the damp towel onto the equally damp bench. A few guys remove their sopping jerseys, and I try not to ogle their muscular forms. The abdominal muscles on soccer players is quite impressive. “Then again, we have an amazing coach. And Mitch keeps us motivated.”

  “He seems like a wonderful leader.”

  “Yeah.” He nods absently before sliding me a glance. “So. You and Mitch, huh?”

  “Yup!” I give him my broadest grin, hoping that’s all he’ll say. The rain is still falling. I feel like a drenched dog.

  His eyes narrow, as if he doesn’t quite believe that someone like Mitchell wo
uld take interest in someone like me. He wouldn’t be wrong. “How did you two meet?” he asks, his skepticism obvious.

  “You mean you didn’t know?” I blink at him, widening my eyes as much as I can behind my wet glasses. Punishment for Mitchell assuming his friends aren’t as nosy as he thinks. “We met at a BDSM meetup.”

  Casey, who tips his head back for a sip of water, chokes and spews it everywhere. I swipe spittle from my cheek as he beats a fist on his chest and gasps for air. The water bottle drops near his mud-spattered legs.

  “BDSM?” he croaks out.

  A solemn nod. Casey’s expression is a combination of horror and fascination. “Who would have thought Mitchell is into kink, right?” I lower my voice so the others don’t hear, making it seem like it’s our dirty secret.

  “Er.” He looks me up and down, lingering on the large, lopsided sunflower that’s sewn onto the front of my dress.

  Laughter tickles the back of my throat. I bite my lip hard to stop it from bursting free. Casey’s bewildered expression is so priceless I half-wish I could take a picture of it.

  “Hey, guys.” Mitchell places his palm on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze, just a natural display of affection he’d show his girlfriend. Without thinking about it, I place my hand on his lower back, then grimace and yank it away. He’s drenched.

  “Sorry,” he says with a grin. He looks so happy. His hair is plastered to his skull, dark with sweat and rain, but his eyes are bright from his winning goal. It’s impossible to overlook his love for the game. It’s contagious.

  “Nice shot,” I say, and a flicker of warmth flutters in my stomach as his smile deepens. Hm. I’ll have to store that bit of information away in my observation journal for later. I guess it’s not an entirely unwelcome response. I mean, let’s face it. Mitchell Burns is a gorgeous hunk of man. Especially when he’s flushed and sweaty and wearing black socks and shin guards that hug his calves beautifully.

  “Thanks.” He turns to Casey with a concerned frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  I quickly mask my laughter behind a cough.

  “Man, Burns. You think you know someone.” A red tinge darkens Casey’s golden skin. His dark eyes look Mitchell up and down before landing on me. “Good for you both. As long as it’s consensual, that’s the important thing, right?”

  Their coach blows his whistle, calling everyone over to the bench. Mitchell turns to me as Casey makes his escape, saying, “What the hell is he talking about?”

  “You know how you claimed no one would be interested in how we met?”

  He takes a gulp of Gatorade. “Yeah.”

  “Well, Casey was.”

  “Okay.” The long, drawn out word holds an undercurrent of unease. “I’m assuming you made something up then. What did you tell him?”

  My throat prickles with heat at the sudden image of Mitchell tying me up on a bed, a blindfold masking my sight as he touches me, firm callused hands sliding up my calves to my thighs, beneath my dress. It’s been too long since I’ve had sex. “If you’d just told me what to tell him beforehand—”

  “Rebecca.” Firm, commanding.

  The deepness of his voice makes my thighs clench together.

  “I, um, sort of told him we met at a BDSM meetup.”

  A slow blink. “Can you repeat that?”

  My nervous laughter bubbles up and spills free. Why am I feeling so hot all of a sudden? “Casey thinks you’re kinky.”

  “Casey thinks—” His coach blows the whistle again. Mitchell is the only person that’s not currently huddled with his teammates. “Kinky, huh?”

  My breath catches as his gaze slides down my body, and I wonder if he realizes what he’s doing. My nipples tighten in response. From the cold, I tell myself. But when his attention locks on my chest, I can’t help but look down.

  When I slipped on the dress in the bathroom earlier, I didn’t wear a bra because the upper bodice would otherwise be too tight to zip up. But now, with the fabric stuck to me like a second skin, the cotton slightly sheer, my nipples push against the green cotton. The tips tingle from the heat of his gaze, and I imagine the heat of his mouth locking onto them instead. “I can do kinky,” he says, voice low in his chest, a lick of desire in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

  I cross my arms over my chest and fight a shudder. Oh boy.

  “Burns!” his coach barks. “You have ten seconds to get your ass over here or you’re out next game, team captain or not.”

  Mitchell winks at me. “Be right back.”

  His absence allows me the opportunity to collapse onto the bench. I take a gulp of water to wash out the sudden dryness of my mouth. I need to be careful here. My research involves observing his reaction to me, but I need to keep things objective and unbiased. Imagining his hands and mouth on my skin is about as far from objective as one can get.

  I take a mental step back, reminding myself why I’m here. Not to support Mitchell. Not to make friends with Mitchell. To pay off my debt to the school. Nothing more.

  Once the team breaks, a man in a suit approaches Mitchell. A recruiter, possibly? They talk for a few minutes before the man shakes his hand and takes his leave. Then, across the field I hear, “Mitchell!”

  Mitchell turns as his father waves him over. From this distance, Mitchell’s reluctance is clear. I fight the urge to stand next to him in solidarity. I know I shouldn’t care. The relationship between him and his father is none of my business.

  But what if I want it to be?

  Chapter 11

  mitchell

  I’m about ten seconds away from punching my dad in the face.

  I don’t even know how it’s possible to go from such a high—shooting the winning goal of the game, beating my previous record of five shots scored—to such a low. A complicated tangle of disappointment, helplessness, and fury knot inside me. I shouldn’t even be surprised. When has my dad ever respected my time, especially when it comes to soccer?

  That’s right. Never.

  “Your father speaks highly of you,” the man I just shook hands with says. I’ve already forgotten his name, but I will say he’s sporting the most offensive-looking combover I’ve ever seen. “We could use someone with your skillset on our development team.”

  Skillset? What kind of bullshit has my dad been dishing to these men?

  As soon as I met my dad in the parking lot, he clamped his hand onto my shoulder, as if to say, Behave. I don’t really have much of a choice, do I? Every month we go through the same thing. Meetings with some high-level executives wanting me on their business team. For the most part, I manage to weasel my way out of them, but each time becomes increasingly more difficult.

  The second man nods enthusiastically after a cutting look from my father. I wonder how much he paid them. Poor fools.

  “Yes,” the man insists. “We’d be thrilled to have you.” He sports a pair of black wire frames that remind me a little bit of the glasses Rebecca wears, except more masculine.

  “That’s a very generous offer,” I say slowly, unease creeping along my spine at the odds of these men showing up at the same time as the recruiters. “But I’m still in school. I don’t have time for a full-time job.” Nor do I want to work for you.

  “It’s no problem. Our company would be happy to pay for the remainder of your schooling, and we’d work with you around your schedule. Starting salary is just below six figures. Full benefits: health insurance, dental and life insurance, 401k, retirement packages, paid vacation, sick leave.” He grins, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.

  Combover nods in agreement, perhaps too eagerly.

  My dad says, without looking at me, “Our dinner reservation is in forty minutes. We can discuss this over drinks.”

  I nod and step back. “Enjoy dinner. It was nice meeting you both.”

  My father’s gaze snaps to me. It’s weighted, like the touch of his hand against my skin. “You’re joining us.”

  Blood p
ulses at my temples, the first indication of a headache. I knew he’d pull something like this. “Sorry, but I have plans.” What I really want to say to him is, I don’t need this shit. It’s my life. Mine and mine alone. “I promised Coach I’d speak with the recruiters.”

  Sudden panic grips me, and I glance over my shoulder to make sure they haven’t left, that I haven’t ruined my chances. But no, they’re across the way, speaking with Coach.

  “You can do that some other time. George and Liam flew all the way from Seattle to meet with you. They’re only here for the night.”

  “You didn’t even ask me if I was free or not. You just assumed.”

  “Mitchell.” The warning in his voice digs deep, bringing me back to my childhood, when I did everything I could to please him and it still wasn’t enough.

  Breathing deeply through my nose, I look to see where Rebecca is. She’s standing under a shaded tree across the field, arms crossed over her chest. Mist floats like a halo around her hair, the puke green hue of her dress standing out starkly against the gray atmosphere.

  The image of her dark nipples causes my dick to stir. Rain has molded the sopping fabric to her body, outlining a slim waist, rounded hips, and the juncture between her thighs, which lead to long, shapely legs. Thanks to the black work pants she wore earlier, I now know the back is as desirable as the front. I wonder why she hides such a gorgeous figure under such shapeless clothes.

  As if aware of me watching her, she gives me a little wave. The gesture eases the tightness winding through my shoulders.

  Fuck. I don’t want to have dinner with a bunch of suits, but knowing my dad, he won’t drop the subject unless I join him.

  Sighing, I say, “I need to talk to Rebecca and change out of my uniform. Where’s the reservation?”