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Overexposure. That was her answer for why she hated soccer. I found it amusing then, and I’m even more entertained by it now. Having Adler Beck as your brother would mean lots of exposure to the sport, I guess. I didn’t extend my research to any details about his family. I didn’t even know he had a sister. But most of what I read included some reference to his—their—parents playing. To a Beck family legacy. To them being football royalty.
I wonder if Sophia ever played.
Add it to the growing list of questions I want to ask her.
Questions I won’t ask her.
I should tell her to have a nice night and walk away. I’ve always been good at doing the opposite of what I should. But that’s the attention-seeker and the shit-stirrer in me. It’s rarely because I want to do the thing I shouldn’t.
I want to keep talking to Sophia Beck very badly. Almost as badly as I want those long legs wrapped around my waist as I thrust inside of her.
But only one of those actions will end my soccer career.
Words are harmless, so I reach out to pick up her glass. Give it a hearty sniff. “Tequila?”
Sophia shrugs a delicate shoulder at me. The straps of her dress are thin, barely hanging on to her smooth skin. They’d be so easy to tear.
“This was supposed to be a fun night. I had a crappy day.”
I hum. “Another bad date?”
She rolls her eyes. “School stuff.”
“You’re still in school?”
“My last year of university.”
I would have guessed she was older. She looks it, composed and worldly.
“And how fun has your night been?” I ask.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I try to pin down her tone, and it’s like a shifting kaleidoscope. She’s younger than me, but I’m not sure by how much. Her features are delicate but proud. Her expression cautious but compelling. I can’t tell if she’s oblivious to her allure or a practiced seductress. If she frequents spots like this or if it’s a crappy day exception.
And I shouldn’t care about any of it.
I hum again in response, buying time before I walk away. Studying her the way I assess opponents on the field, trying to satisfy a burning interest with a final glimpse. I’ll forget about her. I always do. The only woman I could name from the fun nights of my past is Cassandra Owens—and not for any flattering reason.
The bartender sets down my drink. I slide him my card, opting not to keep the tab open.
I justified coming here as a social outing to get to know my new teammates better. But a quick glance back at where I left Otto reveals he’s got a woman in his lap. Olivier has moved to the dance floor. Fritz is nowhere to be seen. We won’t be bonding tonight. I’m better off heading out and getting a decent night’s sleep before practice tomorrow.
When I look back at the bar, Sophia is copying my earlier move, lifting the drink and smelling it. “You’re not drinking?”
“Not tonight.”
“Does it get you in trouble?”
I smile at the taunt in her tone. And the revelation that she recalls our conversation. Appreciate knowing my crude summary of how I’d ended up here didn’t scare her away and also kind of wish that I’d never known that. I’m interested in her enough already. I don’t need to wonder why she looks like a fairy-tale princess but is bold enough to remind me that I mentioned my cock in our first conversation.
“Sometimes.”
“Have you decided how long you’ll stay?” she asks.
The season is on the tip of my tongue. I’m accustomed to women who want to screw a professional athlete, not someone who views my career choice with the same detachment my family does. It should be more of a turnoff than it is. So, I lie because it’s easier. Because I know the dynamic will shift as soon as she knows I’m on the team. That I play the sport she loathes.
“Nope.” I pop the P, then swallow some soda. “You didn’t use my number.”
