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A Bayern Söhn player approaches the small huddle around me, calling out, “Ich fühl mich furchtbar. Es tut mir so Leid.”
He’s the guy who took the shot, I’m assuming.
I reply, accepting his apology, and manage a smile too, because he looks so dismayed. It wasn’t his fault. Or Braun’s, who’s also standing nearby, wearing a concerned expression. Just an unfortunate angle.
Will doesn’t move from my side, even after the other players walk away. And, God, does it burn at my insides the same way seeing him interact with my family last night did.
Because he had picked football. He told me nothing could ever happen between us because of football. But he’s here, in the middle of a football game. I didn’t get hit in the middle of an empty parking lot. There are other people all around, plenty of them helping me. But he’s still here instead of taking a water break or talking to a trainer, like the rest of the players are probably doing during the delay of the game.
I can’t handle him looking at me like this. Like he cares.
He ran over here.
He cares—at least a little.
And I wish he didn’t. It would make this all a lot easier if he didn’t.
“Go back to the game, Will,” I tell him.
Alex clears his throat and then looks away, something in my tone saying this is a private moment.
“Sophia…”
“I’m fine. There’s no reason for you to be over here. Go back to the game, Will.” I don’t leave any room for argument in my voice.
His jaw works as he stares at me for what feels like forever. Then he finally nods and stands, backing away. I close my eyes. Exhale.
The team doctor arrives a few seconds later, taking Will’s empty spot and crouching down beside me. There are whistles on the field, but I can’t see what’s happening. A bunch of the other photographers have formed a loose standing circle around me. Blocking me from the view of the spectators and limiting my sight of the field. Protecting me.
I answer all the doctor’s questions, and he determines me fit to stand up at least. I follow him off the field, Alex right behind me, carrying my camera.
Fighting an urge to look back at the field each step I take.
TWENTY-THREE
WILL
The mood in the locker room is euphoric. We beat Bayern Söhn three to one. And one of those goals was mine, which means I should be euphoric.
One more mark for me instead of against me. Another goal to add to what’s been a disappointing tally this season.
Instead of thrilled, I’m anxious. I’m replaying the horrific second I realized the ball was headed straight for Sophia. The terrifying moment I realized it was going to hit Sophia. I don’t know if the thud of contact was as loud in reality as it was when it echoed in my head, and it doesn’t really matter. The sound will haunt me either way.
I’m tugging a clean T-shirt over my head when I hear, “Stay the hell away from her, Aster.”
I exhale before turning to face Beck, having a good idea what this is about.
Guys have always groaned about how girls they know act differently around me. About the hair tosses and the fluttering eyelashes and the coy smiles.
This isn’t the first time a guy—or teammate—has said that sentence to me because of jealousy or protectiveness.
But it is the first time I haven’t replied, Tell her that.
Because as conceited as it sounds, that’s always been the case. Their sisters or girlfriends or cousins or friends chased me, and I guess that partially applies to Sophia.
The difference is, I would care if she avoided me. I care that she’s been avoiding me, which has never been the case before. And I would rather Beck punch me than tell Sophia I said she should leave me alone.
My shoulders square. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
