I get the sense that she’s not just talking about football. Her honesty surprises me. There’s no spin. No sarcasm.
There’s something about her when she’s not playing on the defensive, when she’s not trying to spin or control the room. It’s almost endearing.
I hate that too.
“Okay,” I say, tapping the board with my marker. “Try again. Here’s your striker.”
“Yes,” she says, pointing at my stick figure with a grin. “He scores all the goals.”
“Notallof them,” I correct her. “He does score a lot of them, though.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling. “The striker scoresa lotof goals.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Now, this line here? That’s the last defender. If your striker runs past him before the ball is passed—that’s offside.”
She stares at the board like it’s moving, like it’s trying to trick her. “So… what you’re saying is, they can’t be ahead of the last guy?”
“Exactly,” I say proudly, happy she’sfinallyfucking got it. I can’t even hide my smugness.
“But what if the ball already left the guy’s foot?”
Bloody hell. We were so close.
I sigh, pressing the marker to my mouth to stall me from saying the rude words crawling up my throat. “If he was already behind the defender when the ball left his foot, he’s fine. If not, still offside.”
She sighs, rolling her eyes. “This isa lot.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But there’s so many little rules to football. I mean, your goalkeeper is expected to save penalties, but if he steps off the line too soon to try, the kicker gets to retake it? He’s supposed to save it, and then you penalize him for trying to? That’s madness. And don’t get me started on this offside business.”
“I promise it will make sense once you watch the match.” I say, leaning against the whiteboard. “Besides, you’ve already stopped calling it ‘soccer.’ That counts for something.”
She lets out a breath. “I’m trying, okay? I feel like I need a little British-to-American dictionary to keep in my pocket. There’s so many words. Gaffer? Kit? Pitch? Shit, I called it a field the other day and Luke looked at me like I insulted his mom.”
“Mum,” I correct her, smirking.
“Right,” she says. I laugh—actually laugh—and for a second, I’m not annoyed with her. She doesn’t seem annoyed with me. For a second, I forget that I don’t want her here.
She stares at the board again, like she’s trying to decode some riddle. Her posture suddenly straightens.
“Wait,” she says, pointing to another sad stick figure. “So, if the striker isin linewith the last defender when the ball is passed, it’s okay. He just can’t be past the defenderbeforethe ball is kicked?”
“Exactly,” I say, blinking with surprise. “You’ve finally got it.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, grinning like she scored a goal herself. It’s ridiculously charming. And then she turns to me, still smiling, but softer. “Thank you, Oliver. Seriously.”
The way she says that—soft, genuine—catches me off guard. There’s no sarcasm. It’s just her.
I clear my throat and look away, scratching at the back of my neck. “Well, Gaffer said to help you out.”
Internally, I cringe.Real smooth, mate.Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy this. Don’t act like some small part of you did this because youwantedto.
She snorts. “Right. Mandatory kindness. Charming.”
I roll my eyes, already heading out of the locker room. “You’re exhausting.”
She points a marker at me, still grinning. “And you’re bossy.”
