Going for the Goal

by Sara Rider

  Lainey closed her eyes, feeling like her guts had just been ripped out and put on display. It was the first time she’d seen the footage. The pain, the fear, the excruciating disappointment of missing the biggest moment of her career flooded back. This whole day was overwhelming. She belonged on the field, not in front of the cameras like some Hollywood actress.

  “Do you have any comments on Lainey’s goal?” Grace Mallery purred in Gabe’s direction, who looked perfectly relaxed, leaning back with his chair balanced on its hind legs like the cool kid in junior high.

  “I think the goal speaks for itself. It was the most beautiful sequence of soccer I’ve ever seen. Why don’t we get a photo of Lukas and me on the field instead?” he suggested with a wink. A symphony of cameras flashed in his direction. He rewarded them with his trademark grin. “What do you say, Lukas? Want to get your first feel for Chester Stadium?”

  Any chance of saying no was drowned out by the cajoling of the reporters urging her onto the field. She rose from the table, clenching her fists, and followed him offstage.

  Hometown Hero, my ass. More like Hometown Ego. This was her press conference, and now Gabe was stealing all the attention away from the Falcons. The Surge already had every advantage over her team: a five-man coaching staff, a full crew of physiotherapists and trainers, a salary cap a dozen times higher, and the adoration of tens of thousands of fans. But it wasn’t just about resources. Gabe had some sort of mystical power over the media and, if she was being honest, over her, too. If she had just a fraction of his charm, the Falcons might have secured a broadcast deal ages ago.

  She hobbled down the dark concrete corridor leading to the field, wishing that her first time walking through these hallowed halls was not in borrowed, too-small, three-inch heels. She heard a flash of cameras behind her. Discreetly, she reached her hand behind her to smooth her skirt.

  Yep. Butt sweat.

  With a deep breath, Lainey stepped out into the heart of Chester Stadium. The delicious smell of fresh grass filled her nose and wiped away her fears and doubts. The stands wrapped around the field like loving arms, goalposts rising mightily like David Beckham’s finely sculpted legs. So what if this wasn’t how she pictured her first time? There may not have been adoring fans packing the stands and screaming her name, but then again, that shit really only happened in bad sports movies. At least she was out of the pressroom, which would from here on out be referred to as the asshole of Chester Stadium.

  “Hey.” A hand pressed softly into her back. It was an innocent touch, but it was enough to send Lainey tumbling forward on her death stilts. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her upright before she kissed the dirt.

  Lainey clutched those arms—those nice, muscular arms—to steady herself. She twisted around, discovering that those arms were attached to an equally appealing chest. She inhaled the rich, male scent enveloping her and let her gaze travel up to his face to see if it matched the fantasy crafted in her mind.

  “You!” She tried to disentangle herself, but Gabe’s lazy smile said he was more than comfortable to hang on a little longer.

  “I thought you might like an excuse to get out of that pressroom.”

  She tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled his ear toward her lips. “I don’t need you to rescue me from anything. Got it?”

  Flash. Flash. Flash.

  Dozens of cameras captured the moment.

  A picture is worth a thousand lies, Lainey thought with dread. She righted herself and tried to project an aura of competence and respectability.

  “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. That’s media lesson one-oh-one,” Gabe whispered to her, standing uncomfortably close.

  “I am smiling,” she whispered back through gritted teeth.

  “That’s a snarl, not a smile. No need to be nervous; there’s only a dozen or so reporters here and none from any of the national networks. Just relax and enjoy it,” he added, striking a ridiculous pose for the cameras like he had just scored a goal. “Plus, we make a good-looking couple, don’t you think?”

  “Quit photo-bombing my press conference!” The only thing a photograph of Lainey in dress clothes next to a muddy, geared-up Gabe Havelak would accomplish is convincing the public that men were the real athletes. “I’m not here to look beautiful. I’m here to sell tickets, and no one is going to take me seriously dressed like a tax accountant when you’re all suited up in your practice gear.”

  “Waitress,” Gabe whispered back, making her realize her voice had elevated to a shout in her last tirade.

  “What?”

  “You look like a waitress, not a tax accountant. But a hot waitress.”

  Lainey grunted in frustration, pushed herself from his grip, and carefully stepped as far away from him as she could manage—which wasn’t very far at all considering her heels kept sinking into the grass. She said a silent prayer for redemption to the soccer gods. Destroying beautiful sod was as grave an offense as blowing a penalty shot over the crossbar.

  “Just remind them that the tickets for the women’s league are much cheaper than ours,” Gabe whispered earnestly as Lainey stumbled away, clenching her fists.

  2

  And what a field it is, folks. Twenty-six-thousand-seat capacity. John Chester was passionate about soccer, and it shows in this construction. Little-known fact: he played in England’s Football League Second Division in the 1940s before starting Chester Pharmacies. Unfortunately, John Chester passed away before the inaugural game in 1996.

  —Behind the Surge: A Documentary of Seattle’s First Professional Soccer Team

  Standing at the edge of the field, Gabe watched Lainey fidget uncomfortably in her button-up shirt. He’d never seen her out of uniform. And when she was on the field, it was hard to notice anything beyond her uncanny ability to find the back of the net from any angle. But even in the ill-fitting dress-up clothes she was a knockout. Mile-long legs and an impossibly cute girl-next-door face, complete with a smattering of freckles and warm brown eyes.

  A handful of Gabe’s teammates emerged from behind the crowd of reporters to join him on the field. None of them had been able to resist the opportunity earlier to sneak past the pressroom on their way to the showers to find out more about the women with whom they’d soon be sharing Chester Stadium.

  “So that’s your star player, Americano? Meh. In Brazil our athletes are sexy. Strong. Dynamic. She looks like a waitress,” his teammate Zazu said.

  “Yeah, but a pretty waitress. The kind that keeps you coming back every day even though the coffee’s weak and the food is stale.” Gabe had been a fan of Lukas’s since she first burst onto the scene out of nowhere during last year’s Women’s World Cup. It wasn’t just her looks that had him riveted. It was the passion that was blazing out of her, like an aura. It had been a long time since he could remember feeling that kind of fiery enthusiasm for the game. Lainey Lukas was without a doubt the most exciting female soccer player in recent history, but she might also be the world’s worst interviewee. He almost felt bad for her, but that little dig at the Surge’s prospects of winning this season had stung.

  “Pretty? Let me see. Damn, she could serve me all night long.” Gabe knocked Johnny Darling’s hand off his shoulder. The nineteen-year-old up-and-comer played with a finesse beyond his years, but he had the libido and maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. “You gonna tap that, Gabe? Send a little ‘Hometown Hero’ charm her way?”

  Gabe smacked Johnny on the back of the head but smiled inwardly. His reputation with the ladies was exaggerated, but he wasn’t about to correct anyone who thought otherwise. Not when that reputation fueled a series of lucrative promotional gigs.

  “Why does she keep touching her hair?” Zazu asked with curiosity.

  Gabe didn’t answer, but he knew. Years of cultivating his own media persona made him extra perceptive of people’s on-camera quirks and fidgets.
Every time she absentmindedly tucked a wayward brown lock behind her right ear, she quickly untucked it, letting it hang down in front of her eye. She was covering the infamous scar that the media was clamoring to get a close-up of. How could no one else but him understand what really happened that day? The entire soccer world had come to a standstill at that moment. No one cheered when the final whistle blew. The stadium was hauntingly quiet as everyone held their breath, wondering if the star of the tournament, who had just scored the most spectacular goal, would be okay. It was one of the darkest clouds to hover over an international sporting event, and now, more than six months later, it was still marring Lukas’s career.

  “Coach just told me the Falcons are taking over our practice time. The owner wants them to get a better feel for the pitch, so we’re being moved to Cricket Field next month when the season starts,” Johnny said.

  “What? Those chicks can’t take our practice space. Cricket Field’s a shit hole! It’s cursed!” Gabe exploded, drawing the crowd of reporters’ attention in his direction once again.

  Oh hell. Now he’d done it.

  Lainey sent him a fierce glare while mouthing the words “those chicks.” She looked ready to tear out his throat. This press conference was about to go from bad to worse, but Gabe wasn’t worried about that. Cricket Field was covered in Astroturf, not grass. Every time the Surge had practiced there, the team captain suffered a career-ending injury.

  “Any more questions about the Falcons?” Lainey called out to the press hounds.

  Mean Jim Green, Gabe’s least favorite reporter, stepped forward. “So, to clarify, Ms. Lukas, if you cannot promise the women’s league to be bloody or sexy, why the heck would sports fans in Seattle support the Falcons instead of watching real athletes play for the Surge?”

  “I guarantee fans will see the highest level of skill and excitement on the field. The top footballers in the world will be playing here.”

  “Top female players,” Green corrected with obvious derision.

  “Top female players who are every bit as fast, strong, and skilled as any male player,” Lainey shouted back, losing her composure once again.

  If she just had a ball . . . Gabe thought as he watched Lainey dig herself deeper and deeper. She could easily turn this press conference around. She just needed to learn how to work the cameras and generate a little excitement. It had been eight months since the World Cup, and the world was overdue for a reminder of just how stellar an athlete Lainey was. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the ball boy gathering up the last few balls from their practice.

  “Hey, Johnny,” he whispered to his teammate. “Grab a ball for me, will ya?”

  Like a little puppy eager to please his hero, Johnny ran after the ball boy and emerged with a beautiful, round ­size 5 Adidas bouncing skillfully on his forehead.

  “Whatever you’re gonna do, don’t do it. Trust me, man,” Joe Sheridan, the Surge’s goalie and voice of reason, cautioned. Gabe trusted his best friend, but he also never got anywhere in life by being cautious.

  He ran up to Johnny, gave him a little shove, and snatched the ball away.

  “Aww, I almost broke my record!” Johnny whined. “What did you want it for, anyway?”

  “This,” Gabe answered slyly, tossing the ball in his hands. “Hey, Lukas!”

  Lainey turned as she was announcing the date of next week’s preseason game, mouth forming an exaggerated O as the ball he just kicked flew toward her sternum. Like the true athlete she was, she braced her body instantly and cradled the ball in her chest, causing an eardrum-shattering thunk against her portable microphone. She cushioned the ball on her thigh, then instinctively trapped it beneath her heel.

  It took an agonizingly slow minute for Lainey to steady herself and for Gabe to realize he should probably have heeded Joe’s warning. The crowd of reporters was ominously still, mouths agape. Slowly a rumbling of faint laughter spread until it became an uproar.

  With a deer-in-headlights expression, Lainey scanned her clothing, biting her lip when she caught sight of the grass stain on her chest. Then she looked down at her feet.

  Her sharp stiletto heel had punctured the now flattened, sad-looking ball.

  “Look,” Johnny yelled out in between fits of hysterical giggles, “it’s Lainey ‘the Ballbuster’ Lukas!”

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  For the Win

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  Will Lainey’s snarky-but-lovable co-captain Jaime ever admit that she has a crush on the team’s physiotherapist? Or will she use her undeniable speed to keep running?

  Keeping Score

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  Acknowledgments

  I am so grateful for Marla Daniels for being the most wonderful editor I could ever imagine. Thank you for your endless patience with my inability to keep a timeline straight. I’m also incredibly thankful for the wonderful team at Pocket Star, especially the copy editors who have save me from myself more times than I can count. Finally, thank you to my husband and daughters for giving me the inspiration to follow my dreams and reminding me every day that happily ever after exists.

  About the Author

  Growing up, Sara Rider dreamed of becoming a professional soccer player. When that dream was squashed by her extreme dislike of running, she decided to do the next best thing: write about professional soccer players. By day, Sara spends her time working in the field of research ethics and daydreams about plotlines and character arcs. She spends far too much time at public libraries and never leaves the house without a paperback or an e-reader stuffed into her purse.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sara O’Shaughnessy

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  First Pocket Star Books ebook edition February 2017

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  ISBN 978-1-5011-3292-6

 

 

 
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