What if, indeed…
I type back: ‘Win your game, Coach.’
‘That a yes?’
‘It’s a ‘we’ll see.’’
‘I’ll take it.’
I smile at my phone like a damn idiot.
‘Goodnight, Levi.’
‘Goodnight, sweetheart. Dream about me.’
‘Presumptuous.’
‘Nope, hopeful!’
I set my phone down, laughing softly.
Dream about me.Like I could do anything else.
Seven
Levi
We’ve been texting for two weeks. Two weeks of messages that started innocent and now… less innocent. Two weeks of falling asleep with my phone in my hand, waiting for Lina’s replies. Two weeks of walking around with a permanent semi because the President of the United States told me what she’s wearing to bed.
Spoiler: it’s not much.
And now I’m standing on the sideline of a World Cup quarterfinal, surrounded by ninety thousand screaming fans, trying to focus on the biggest game of my career. And failing…
She’s here.
I can’t see her box from the field; too far, too many people, but Iknowshe’s up there. Watching.
We haven’t seen each other since the state dinner. Two weeks of texts, a few late-night phone calls where her voice got soft and sleepy and I had to rub myself raw after…
But tonight, all that will change.If we win.
“Coach? You good?”
Danny’s looking at me with concern. Right. The game. The actual reason we’re here.
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”
The whistle blows. The first half is brutal. Our opponents are good, fast, technical, and pressing us hard. We’re scrambling to defend, barely stringing two passes together. By halftime, it’s 0-0 and I’m hoarse from yelling. I give my halftime talk, make some tactical adjustments, formation tweaks, the usual, but my mind keeps drifting.
Is she watching? Is she nervous? Is she biting her fucking delicious lower lip when things get tense?
Focus, dumbass. You have a game to win!
The second half is better. We find our rhythm. And in the 67th minute, we score, a beautiful attack, three passes, and boom, ball in the net!
1-0.
The stadium explodes. I pump my fist, hug the first guy standing next to me, fucking finally!
