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“No. And you wouldn’t be either. You’re fearless.”
I shake my head. “I’m scared.”
His expression softens as he realizes I’m no longer talking about jumping out of a plane. Falling for him feels far more terrifying, and I’m fighting every urge to flee from it.
“I don’t want to go skydiving with you, Saylor. I want to be the person you rely on when you’re acting like you can do everything on your own.”
His words remind me of my dad’s, and I push back the same way I did at the wedding.
“I can do everything on my own,” I insist.
“There’s a difference between wanting to and having to.”
I swallow. “Relationships hardly ever last.”
“Which you know from the many you’ve been in?”
“I didn’t need to get nailed in the face with a soccer ball to know it was going to hurt,” I retort.
That earns me a wry smile. “You’re equating me swallowing my pride and flying almost four thousand miles to being on the receiving end of a wayward kick?”
We’re talking in circles, and I like to run straight. I sit up and then stand, brushing some stray grass off my shorts.
Beck sits up too, draping his elbows over his knees and watching me cautiously.
“Do you still want that rematch?” I ask. “I’ll let you pick the prize this time.”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “There’s no goalie.”
“So?”
“So, there won’t be a winner.”
I grin. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Beck is arguably the best soccer player in the world. Yet he’s never once made me feel inferior, treated me as any less because I haven’t signed a pro contract or because I’m a woman. It’s one of many attractive things about him.
He grumbles as he stands. “You’re not tired from practice?”
I shake my head. “You know me better than that.”
“I do know you.” His blue gaze is intense, burning right into me.
“I know,” I say.
“You told me you don’t do rematches,” he reminds me.
I swallow, holding his gaze. We’ve played soccer together since I said that. Had sex. Those moments have meant more with him than they ever have with anyone else. “I do a lot of things with you that I don’t do with anyone else.”
“Scott!” A male voice interrupts the intense moment. I smother a sigh, glancing over to see Kyle Andrews jogging this way. “Congrats on the win yesterday. Heard it was fucking epic—holy shit. That’s Adler Beck.” Kyle glances between me and Beck—twice. “This is Adler Beck.”
If I were in a lighter mood, I would laugh.
“You’re—I mean, man. I’m a huge fan! We always watch the Kluvberg games. I can’t believe—I wish…” Kyle glances around like he’s waiting for someone to appear with a camera to commemorate the moment. Hopefully he won’t pull his phone out for a selfie.
I take pity on him. “Beck, this is Kyle. He’s on the men’s soccer team.”
“I’m the captain, actually.” Kyle gives me an affronted look.
