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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: Sandra Dee, One Love Editing
This book is intended for an 18+ audience.
For content warnings, please visit www.kistephens.com.
BLURB
When collegiate soccer player, Callum, reconnects with his childhood friend, Lila, he discovers that the only thing that rivals his passion for the game is his feelings for her.
As they navigate the transition from strangers to friends to lovers, both must decide if they're willing to risk their lifelong bond for a chance at something more.
CHAPTERONE
CALLUM
THEN
“Hey, Cal? Do you think that when we’re older, we’ll still be friends like we are now?”
My best and oldest friend, Lila Tate, sits beside me at our favorite park, plucking at the grass, staring at me with those curious eyes of hers.
“No.”
“That’s so mean!” She pouts, big and overdramatic, the way she’s always been. “Why would you say that?”
Leaning back on my hands, I look up at the sky, then train my gaze back on her. “Because, Li, I think we’ll probably be married.”
NOW
The roar of the stadium wraps around me, a living, breathing entity of adrenaline. My pulse matches the rhythm of the chants, each beat a drum of war as I navigate the field. The floodlights are harsh and unforgiving, spotlighting the stage where today’s battle will be fought—win or lose.
“Galloway, on your six!” my captain barks, snapping me back into the moment. My cleats tear into the turf as I spin to intercept an opposing forward barreling down the field.
The ball’s a comet, streaking across the night sky, and I’m its steadfast guardian. I move with practiced ease, a dance of athleticism honed by years of training. With a well-timed lunge, I steal possession, the crowd’s cheers cresting, filling the stadium with the kind of noise only found on nights like this.
But amidst the racket, a distinct chant rises, a ghostly echo of a time less complicated, less heavy with expectation. It’s the chant of my childhood, of the dead-end street I grew up on, of dusty knees and sun-soaked afternoons.
It’s the chant my best friend, Lila, used to sing from the sidelines of our local park, her voice bright and clear, her words meant only for me.
The stadium blurs, and I’m no longer a college athlete; I’m ten again, my greatest worry being whether I’ll be home in time for dinner. Lila’s there, her hair in those braids she hated but kept because the Walsh kid thought they were cute.
I can almost see her, a water bottle in one hand, her other arm waving wildly as she cheers me on.
“There’s my girl,” I whisper, a smile tugging at my lips. The sound of my own voice snaps me back, and I shake my head, willing the nostalgia away. Now’s not the time, surely not the place.
My legs pump harder, propelling me forward. I call for the ball, my voice rising over the din. A pass comes rocketing toward me. I meet it with a thunderous crack, sending it sailing back up the field. My teammates pick up the play, weaving toward the goal in a series of swift, precise movements.
For a moment, I allow myself to believe that Lila’s out there somewhere in the crowd, that she’s come to see me play again. But as quickly as the thought comes, I dismiss it. She has her own life now, one filled with new friends, with drafting tables, with late nights doing who knows what.
I surely don’t. Not anymore.
The referee’s whistle pierces the air, signaling halftime. The score is deadlocked, and I jog to the sidelines, my chest heaving, my mind still a roaring sea of plays and memories. I grab a water bottle, taking a long swig before pouring the rest over my head, the coolness doing little to quell the warmth in my chest.
“Great half, Galloway.” Coach Martinez claps me on the back, his eyes glinting with that competitive fire. “Keep the focus.”
I nod, but my gaze wanders to the stands, scanning unconsciously for a face I know I won’t—can’t—find.
