I click again. Malik Thompson, midfielder. The wordvolatileis bolded at the top of his notes. Known for going head-to-head with coaches, storming off the field, and ignoring strategy in favor of showing off. Rumors of deep-seated authority issues dating back to his academy days. Definitely one to watch.
I scroll down further, pulse ticking up a notch when I hit the next name: Luca Chidubem, center back.
Ah.Thecute one. The reason the Atlanta Strikers suddenly have a spike in female fans. Social media’s been having a field day with him—#CaptainChidubem trending more often than not.
I glance at his profile photo and can’t help but smirk. The resemblance is uncanny—he’s giving seriousAaron Pierre meets Michael Ealy energy. Smoldering eyes, chiseled jaw, the kind of grin that’s equal parts charming and dangerous.
But charm won’t keep him on the field.
I figure, since he’s from Europe, he probably calls it thepitch—something I only know because I bingedTed Lassowhile cramming for my new job.
He’s poised to become team captain, a role he should excel in, given his leadership instincts and natural presence on the field. But the file tells another story. Focus issues started surfacing after a team trip to Vegas a few months ago. Since then, he’s been makingsolotrips back—sometimes flying out between matches for what most assume are all-night parties and drinking binges. “Lacks discipline” is flagged multiple times in bold.
I blow out a breath and click to the next file: Croix London, goalkeeper.
Class clown. Resident prankster. The notes practically read like a rap sheet. Multiple minor arrests for stunts that went too far—one involving spray-painting an opposing team’s bus, another ending with him zip-tying a teammate to a goalpost.
Charismatic and well-liked, but with zero impulse control. He’s labeled as botha team asset and a potential liability.
I lean back in my chair, letting it all sink in.
No pressure,I think wryly, Marlow’s words echoing in my head. The world will definitely be watching. And from the looks of it, I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Chapter seven
Caffeine & Conversations
Eslin
It’s Thursday morning, and somehow, I’ve almost survived my first week as the new therapist and performance coach for the Atlanta Strikers.Almost.
The week’s been a blur of HR meetings, sexual harassment trainings, insurance enrollment forms—basically all the fun stuff that screamsWelcome to Corporate America, now sign here, here, and here.
Oh, and the reporters. Can’t forget them. A couple nosy ones cornered me in the hallway yesterday, asking what agirlwas doing tellingmenhow to play soccer. Because clearly that’s what a performance coach does. I smiled sweetly and told them I had about as much business doing that as I did telling their wives that sizeisn’t everything when they come to me complaining about their husbands’shortcomings.
That shut them up.
Across from the building where I live, there’s a coffee bar called HollyDates. It’s known for celebrating every holiday—all year round. I’m told it really comes alive during the big ones, but even today, the place looks like a greeting card exploded inside.
I push open the door, and it feels like I’ve walked intoMerryHallowKwanza Day. Christmas lights, Halloween pumpkins, Fourth of July bunting, and about ten other holidays are all represented in some chaotic harmony.
“Happy Holidays! Welcome to HollyDates!”
“Hey, Holly!” I call.
“Hey, girl!” she calls back from behind the counter.
Holly’s the owner—and my new caffeine dealer. We’re friends now, mostly because she keeps me supplied with coffee.
Sometimes twice a day. She also insists on calling megirl, which I let slide. Coffee buys a lot of tolerance.
“So how’s your morning been so far?” she asks, pulling out a cup.
“Better once you make me a Frosted Candy Cane Macchiato,” I say, grinning.
Holiday-themed drinks are also served year round here.
“Coming right up!”
